The Mudhutter

The Mudhutter February 2009

2008-12-19T03:44:00.001-08:00

EDITOR’S LETTER
The next ezine will go online around about 18th February 2009 - so if we say 11th February 2009 for deadlines

As usual anything and everything will do. Needless to say we pay fuck all, 99% of Wigan ignores it but it's had over 6000 individual hits in the last two months so somebody out there is reading it.

cheers

info@mudhutsmedia.co.uk
vaughanie@mudhutsmedia.co.uk

Happy new year?

2008-12-19T03:32:00.000-08:00

It’s what everyone will be saying soon isn’t it? If Gordon Brown happens to address the UK population in this manner at any point over the next couple of weeks though, my foot is going through the telly. I would hate to be seen as the harbinger of doom on an already cynic weary website, but what has happened over the past few months is merely the tip of the iceberg for the shit that is yet to come. I am not a politician and only an apprentice economist but I can foresee a bleak 2009 and it’s all thanks to those clueless bastards in power. Not that those buffoons in the Tory are any better mind you.

They say that when the US sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold and I suspect 2009 is going to see the UK go down with full on manflu. It would be easy to blame the bankers but the supposed regulators and auditors who let them get away with nothing more than intricate pyramid scheme investments for so long should also be held to account. And what do we do to our failing banks? We throw more money at them! And when I say ‘we’, I mean we, every single taxpayer will be paying for it.
Want a better NHS? Forget it!

A pay increase for those brave fireman? No chance!

Reduction in school classroom sizes for your offspring? There’ll be none of that.
Nope, the Government has decided to give those taxes straight back to the banks, so that they can loan it back to companies and individuals at higher rates so that the economy doesn’t grind to a halt. You’ve fucked up the economy and paid yourselves handsomely for doing it and guess what here’s a big chunk of public money for you to go and spunk up the wall and make the same mistakes as last time.

Unfortunately, we can’t live without banks as they are the prime distributors and collectors of cash, if not to you then the company you work for. Without them the whole system falls down and as the banks will continue to lend on their terms, which are now roughly in line with what they should have been in the first place, companies and individuals will struggle financially while the bankers get away with their fraudulent crimes scot free, with you and me paying their salaries to boot.
But this rampant nationalisation may start to branch out into key industries in 2009, following the trends of 2008 with the US car makers going cap in hand to the White House. Already Jaguar, like the Corus steel group, owned by Indian conglomerate Tata have got the begging bowl out to the government – who then raise money that money via me and you by increasing the public debt, which will only be recovered by increasing tax or cutting future public spending. Preserving jobs is indeed for the public good but seeing as Tata are owned by an Indian billionaire and he doesn’t want to put any cash in (despite paying a small fortune to sponsor Ferrari in F1 next season) and neither you would presume do the financial markets so Brown’s government are now borrowing off me and you and giving it to foreign investors who are savvy enough to take it with a grin whilst realising that the loss of a large number of manufacturing jobs in this country could be the catalyst to another depressing wave of bad news after bad news.

This is all very admirable but it seems that if you’re going to preserve your job you will be at the mercy of untrustworthy, corrupt politicians and bureaucrats and we will be left with some grand scale Dragons’ Den where the Government are left with the decision to inject funding or pull down the shutters. Traditional (outdated) wholesome British retailers like Woolies are dead meat. If your firm is in a marginal constituency or wants to spend their last few bob giving the local MP a well paid Non Executive position on their board, or alternatively an old fashioned back hander, then you might just be in a position to ride the recession. So expect bugger all in Wigan as Smith & McCartney will shrug their shoulders as per usual when there’s a genuine crisis to deal with knowing full well that Wiganers will continue to vote them in.

Expect dozens of other traditionally British owned companies now owned by foreign parent companies to follow suit – they aren’t stupid and can see easy money when it’s there to be made. For my money, the government should buy up our factories under threat lock and stock and get them producing something the public wants that will be manufactured here and used here. We might not be able to make cars or tellies as cheap as the Japanese or Koreans but that is exactly why we got in this mess in the first place. The Germans seem to be advocating manufacturing as a way out but how many industries do we actually own in our country any more? Well there’s financial services I suppose.......

Whatever happened to those ‘Buy British’ stickers you used to see everywhere?

And the Government’s teasing incentives offered in the form of interest rate cuts and VAT reduction are hardly going to tempt anyone into a shopping spree whilst the threat of losing their job hangs over them.

There is even talk of attempting a last ditch printing of money, which always sounds fantastic in principle but will make the pound even more worthless than it is already. You can fool the country Gordon but you can’t fool the world. However, at least you’ve saved those people who will still be able to afford a holiday abroad the effort of having to work out the conversion rates from pounds to euros as any day now they will be at parity. Which means – by the way – don’t even think about leaving the country for good because thanks to Labour’s economic policy, your saved up pound notes aren’t going to buy you very much at all let alone earn you any interest if you keep it where it is.

Where will it all end? The real thinkers are predicting forthcoming depression, famine and war to follow the more mundane episodes we are seeing at the moment of recession, write downs, write offs, close downs and bail outs. A good riot always blows the cobwebs off the country but this recession will not hit specific industries and social classes, it’s going to hurt every fucker. If the trend of late 2008 continues we will end up with some kind of socialist capitalist hybrid society where the government, using our money will pay for car factories to build cars no-one wants to protect unemployment, and continue to weaken our trade deficit by subsidising their foreign paymasters who will continue to take home any profits should the whole thing work. Our taxes have been misappropriated and our pension funds have been decimated yet still the decision makers are still decision making on our behalf.

What money we have may soon ceases to be a familiar currency, like the lottery winner who falls on hard times, the pound is an ailing hobo of a currency and it seems the Eurozone might be waiting in the soup kitchen with a tin of warmed up Oxtail. We have bemoaned for years that our EU membership has given us little benefit yet passed millions back to other member states, so maybe it’s now the time to collect our debts? Given that the Blair policy of hanging onto the American’s coat tails has blown up badly it seems that both the US and UK’s days as world powers are about to come to an end, and it’s all brought about by greedy bankers and self –interested politicians who have been rewarded and will continue to be rewarded handsomely for bringing it all about. At least someone will have a Happy New Year!

In the meantime

Don’t trust anyone
Don’t buy anything
Don’t sign anything
Keep your head down
Tighten your belt
And good luck

Whatever happened to Christmas boozing?

2008-12-19T03:05:00.000-08:00

When I was in my mid twenties me and a mate sometime mid-November decided for a laugh that we would go out on the piss every day in December. We had plenty of money, no bird and a penchant for the good life so we did it. We were already accustomed to the old turn out Thursday come back home Sunday routine week on week and this seemed like the natural progression of festivities given our standard levels of alcoholic intake. Darts & Doms down the local Monday, Tuesday night football, Wednesday night at the Pier, Thursday night at Maximes, Friday night in the Springfield Triangle, all day Saturday and all day Sunday in town punctuated by the odd game of football. Great Stuff! Of course some nights are bigger than others, and during my youth as a drinker these are what they meant to me:

Mad Friday

The day that someone started calling it ‘Mad’ was the day it stopped becoming so. I think I started off as a student thing and of course a student dropout/doleite thing of which I was much more familiar, then all the Wigan based office dweebs and counter assistants got in on the act, before you know it Sharon from Credit Control is puking her ring up behind the Bees Knees at 4pm while wearing a Santa hat. When I got my first proper job in Wigan, I was in Steppes with the bosses of the firm, talking football and having a few beers when one of my mates came in giving me the thumbs up and grinning away ‘I’ve just shagged a bird outside, fucking give it to her doggy style over the bins round the back of Parker Franks’ while I stood there horrified looking into my Coors. It was 5.30pm.

Christmas Eve

Chrimbo Eve used to be all about ‘doing the Lane’ and used to be a big Goon Squad/Wiggin Park lads thing for many a year. There was one year in particular I recall United were playing Liverpool at midday and I walked into the Bellingham and there must have been 100+ lads there and tables full of beer, when Sky telly was still something of a novelty. Of course it all ended in tears later that day when one of them got turned away from the recently opened Bellablu wine bar and proceeded to engage in a spot of pugilism with the Iraqi bouncers followed by some air conditioning of the establishment’s windows with a litter bin

Boxing Day

It took me till I was 30 that I realised that they only do this in Wigan, I thought it went on everywhere. Like most things though it’s 90% shite and 10% genius. For genius read Beany dressed as Chubby Brown, Teletubbies directing traffic, Surfboarders rolling about in the snow with nowt but a thong on when its six inch deep in snow and some twat with a Bo Selecta Craig David mask. Plenty amusing sights but prepare to spend your evening queuing for hours and paying through the nose to get in everywhere as the whole idea of a pub CRAWL is defeated. What was original became commercial and now drags them in from far afield. It’s also a crock of shite.

New Years Eve

Me and a few of my drinking buddies used to always spend NYE in the Turnkey (or wherever) with a large JD in our hands toasting each other – no matter what birds were on the scene, they were always told to do one at 12, cos mates are mates innit? And then came the Millennium, where I was unfortunate enough to find myself in Surfers Paradise. At 20 to 12 I went to the bar to get our drinks in, and at 10 to 12with the bar now 3 deep instead of 6, the triple-time bar staff all fucked off onto the stage to celebrate in the New Year leaving behind one solitary bouncer to serve 50 people in no particular rush. My empty glass was symbolic as many others then saw the light and going out on New Years Eve now is an exception rather than the rule, with local boozers tending to get the custom rather than greedy club owners and serves them bloody right!

As for the rest. Well if you are like me, you will spend your works do trying to glug as much free ale as possible and when it dries up piss off and find your real mates and you will have one day (usually a Sunday) where you get absolutely paralytic and need to be put in a taxi at seven bells and then it’s straight back on it the next day

Binge drinking = big and clever (if under 30)

Trees, tinsel and scrotum sacks

2008-12-17T07:29:00.000-08:00

I spent many an happy hour as a kid watching my mother bring the decorations down from the cubbyhole in her room.Each year I'd watch as she would wrap a small waste paper bin in Christmas paper before asking my Dad to fill it with sand. Then out she came!! The most fantastic white tinsel tree you have ever seen.All 6 foot of her. My Dad then wrestled for about 50 minutes trying to get it balanced in the sand. Trying not to knock the fairy off which he had placed on the top. Ever year the fairy looked like it had spongolitis in its neck as the ceiling was just an inch too low. Not the tree being too high my Dad said.

Then my Dad spent about 4 hours trying to get the lights to work. Some of the lights had like a spider's web effect thing round them and only about 4 of them were missing on our set. Then my Mam put the balls on. Loads of different ones we had, some were even like those balls you get in nightclubs only smaller. It always worked out that we had too many balls and not enough connectors to hang them from the tree. Usually we put these round the back and just forced them on the end of the branches. Looked like we had them all over then. She always put blue bunting round the tree and usually yellow tinsel. If I could manage to rob one of those small nativity ornaments from school we'd put that underneath.

Every year my Mum would buy those streamer like paper tissue style decorations. She would then go from each corner of the room and link one to the light in the middle. Then to make it look really posh she would stick a drawing pin in the centre of each one and pin it to the ceiling. This formed a sort of W effect. Then we'd spend an hour blowing balloons up and tying about 5 of them together with cotton and hanging them in each corner of the ceiling between the decorations. By the time the 1st January arrived you had about 5 balloons on the celing that looked like scrotum sacks.

Other lantern style things where then added to the ceiling. The crowning glory was 2 pieces of string over the fireplace. These were then filled with cards from neighbours and family. Ended up each year with about 3 layers of cards all over the fireplace. The mirror on one wall had tinsel around it that made it look like it had pig-tails.

Oh and another thing. There was only one other house on Norley besides ours that had one of those garland things on the front door.

Orrible Ives

The Death of Christmas

2008-12-17T07:28:00.000-08:00

You just can’t keep the man down eh? In this latest feeble offering of “The Death of. . . . . . . . . ” Dirrrrtyoldman whinges and moans like a prisoner on death row protests his innocence. This time it’s about how things aren’t quite how they used to be when he was a lad. Let’s hope that one day he has a premonition and writes his own name in the title.

Well it’s nearly here isn’t it? Not quite, at the point of writing this it’s a full week before Halloween let alone Christmas. Thankfully though at least the supermarkets have plenty of those scary masks and costumes left to dress up and celebrate our traditional 31st October revelry. I was expecting that they would have sold out already, having already been in the shops since the end of September.

Another self inflicted bastardisation from the good ol’ U.S. of A that denigrates our once proud nation. At least we’ve got Bonfire night. Although no-one has officially unveiled it as a month long celebration I’m sure it must be. Otherwise why would the fireworks be flying past my window every night from early October?

Anyway I digress. If you’re reading this before, or on the big day, may I wish you a merry Christmas. If it’s between Christmas and New Year I hope you had a lovely time. And if it’s already the New Year then don’t worry as you can make a head start on planning for Christmas, as it’s nearly here isn’t it? And that my dear friends is what gets right on my tits. For all intents and purposes Christmas might as well be all year round. The elongated build up and the never-ending guilt and pressure heaped onto Mums and Dads everywhere to buy their young Master Park-Bench Beckham the exact gifts he wants. Well it’s fucking intolerable!! What happened to an apple and an orange, a pack of playing cards, a pea-shooter and some marbles in a stocking?

Now I’m not saying I didn’t get anything for Christmas, but at least my Mum and Dad made me sweat a bit wondering if I would get what I wanted. Not only that, but up until the age of 11yrs old I thought it was Father Christmas who was judge and jury when it came to dishing out the presents. When my Mum told me, “Only good girls and boys get Santa’s toys” I fucking well believed her. I was even more afraid of making an arse of things when she told me, “he’s watching you, so behave”. It was bad enough having Catholic guilt about having the odd (well once a day) crafty wank. But to think that there was God and now Santa watching my every move and seeing me making my bald man cry (sometimes twice a day) was far too much to deal with.

Where was child-line when I needed it? In fact where was buck toothed child saver Esther Rantzen? Probably getting roasted by two elderly white bearded gentlemen knowing my luck. Another bonus about being a Catholic at Christmas was trying to remember and then repent for the sins of the last year. It’s funny how the confessionals were always packed in the weeks leading up to Christmas and every eye was reverently bone dry. I know all three of mine were.

Whilst on the subject of sweating (see paragraph 4, line 2, 3rd word in) at Christmas, my Dad sweated much more than me. He sweated like a pig at the best of times, but a lifetime on the booze does that to a man. I can always remember him nervously eyeing up the Christmas shop. Sat there, calculating if there was going to be enough change from the silverskin pickles and quality street to see him right for a few jars down the Earlestown Labour Club. It was no mean feat for a man whose eyes were like permanent piss holes in the snow and whose numerical skills ended at 3. Well he’d never had more than 3 pints when my Mum asked him how much he had drank, although I’ve never before or since seen a man in such a state off so little booze. The panic visibly drained from his face, and his demeanour dramatically improved, when he realised there was enough of his hard earned dole cheque left to see Christmas in, in style.

All of this reminiscing got me wondering though. What happened to Christmas? What happened to wide eyed innocence and excitement? What happened to the two bearded gentlemen and which one was the biological Father to Rantzen’s child? Oh for Jeremy Kyle back in 1981.

No-one believes anything anymore or is it that there is nothing left to believe in? God, the tooth fairy, the easter bunny and even Father Christmas himself. We don’t even believe in each other.

Last Christmas, as I do every Christmas, I helped my lad write a letter to tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas. With the letter tightly clutched in his tiny hand we skipped off down to the postbox and posted it, jobs a good un! Later as I picked him up from school I got talking to some of the other parents and asked them had their little Johnnies and Jane’s wrote to Santa. You’d have thought I had been speaking a foreign language the way some of them reacted. Whilst some gazed in amazement as If I’d discovered the world was round.

I bet these are the same set of miserable bastards who don’t even bother to take the time on Christmas Eve to chew the carrot up, drink the milk and Whiskey, and leave just the right amount of mess and crumbs to make the big mans arrival look complete. They just don’t bother at all. Too much like hard work and definitely too much effort in the imagination department. Even too much effort to be bothered to see their own offspring with that look on their face when they see the tell tale signs that “he’s been”. No matter what class you are or whether you’ve got two pennies to rub together, that look on a kids face can’t be bought at any price. And it costs fuck all to do.

This year my lad is holding on to the last remnants of his belief in the myth. To be honest I didn’t think we would get this far, he’s 9 next February. No doubt in the near future he’ll be telling me that I have lied to him and that he is filing for divorce from me and his Mum. He’ll cite a breach of his Human Rights and irreconcilable differences for the split. The lawyer that represents him will accuse me of causing mass feelings of indignity within the minorities, before holding me directly responsible for Lambeth Councils 2005 decision not to rename their Christmas lights, “winter lights”.

Well you know what? Fuck ‘em, because I’m sure there’s still enough of us about to enjoy it, no matter what the merchants of doom and gloom are prophesising.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Dirrrrtyoldman

Dedicated to me Mam who bought me a BSA Javelin bike for Christmas in 1981 and spent the next 24 months paying for it.

Naked Ives

2008-12-17T07:26:00.001-08:00

"Hello i`m Orrible Oliver & welcome to a special Christmas Eve edition of Naked Ives.Tonight is going to be a show with a festive feel as i attempt to recreate a typical WN5 Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.Fuckin pukka eh ? I must point out that under no circumstances will i be cooking a Christmas cake or plum duff because not only are they wank but they also take about 3 months to make.Fuck that for a game of old soldiers ! Now as in true WN5 style all the cooking of the meat & the preperation of vegetables will take place today so i`m going to hop on my trusty scooter & pop round to Slaters Fruit & Veg shop on Norley to pick up some groceries.Hopefuly i`ll not get called a wanker by Shaun Brethy & the street urchins don`t knick me Vespa.Nor will Eric Slater stroke my hand in a more than friendly fashion when giving me my change.That would be fucking pukka

Right i`ve just bought & large cabbage,2 small caullies,5lb carrots & turnips,5lb sprouts & 2 onions.The heavily bearded Dennis Slater has offered to drop the sack of spuds off at my house in 30 minutes.Now i`m going to head up Pem to Kens Greens for a bit asparagus.Then i`ll nip behind The Dog & Partidge & meet a fella who`s sorted my turkey.I`d better call in Bradys Off Licence on the way up & sort out the Christmas booze.I do hope his wife`s not wearing sunglasses again this year due to her falling down the stairs pissed up & landing on Billys clenched fist.Then it`s off to meet a fella on St Thomas` car park to pick up a leg of pork,leg of lamb & a large piece of silverside.Fuckin pukka tucka.

Right,back home in the kitchen were i feel at my best.All that`s needed now is for me to crank up "Dancing In The Moonlight" by Toploader,dance around like a fucking lemon for a few minutes then get on with the preparation & cooking.Oh before i forget,i MUST put my Man About The House pinny on complete with stockings & suspenders.Right first thing is to get the dried peas into soak for 24 hours.Just pour the packet into a pan full of warm water & bung a white tablet (not ecstacy) on top.Piece of piss eh.Could teach a monkey to do that.Then we move onto peeling the veg.We`ll start with the spuds as we`ll be doing four diferent kinds,namely "mash" "boiled" "roasters done in the oven" & "roasters done in the chip pan".Personally i`ve always prefered roasters done in the chip pan rather than those crusty cornered sacks of shit that came out the oven.Once we`ve peeled the spuds don`t bother getting the eyes or grubs out.Just bung them in the fucking pan because as my Gran always says "They`re good for ya".Now i prefer to boil the spuds rather than put them in a pressure cooker although me Mam did once have a pressure cooker but the lid was fucked so she just used it as a large pan.Fucking kosher eh.Then we do the carrots & turnips.Again bung them in the pan along with plenty of salt & pepper.Same with the caullie,cabbage, sprouts & asparagus.As you may notice i don`t have an Aga oven to work with but don`t worry as some of the pans will fit on top of the toaster until a flame is available.While i`m peeling the vegetables i must mention how peaceful it is to be cooking in an empty house for once as my wife Jules is currently having her IVF treatment this morning before her appointment with her anorexic counselor.Also my son is out for the day at the Westward Labour Club Christmas Party were no doubt he will get bullied off the bigger boys & have his money stolen from him before going onto the stage & sitting on some pissed up drunks knee dressed as Father Christmas who is probably a paedophile.Fucking pukka days eh.

That`s the veg` sorted now onto the poultry & meat.I`ll start with the turkey.A large roasting tray (No Kapo & Henri not that kind) is needed.First we take out the jiblets by shoving your arm straight up its Arris.Some people use these as part of the gravy but personally i like to think of myself more than a fucking caveman.Then we pack the cavity with some Paxo.As i`m ramming the Paxo up there i must tell you a little story that always happened at Christmas with my Great Grandad.He was the person who introduced me to Wigan Athletic & was quite simply the Grandad of Worsley Hall.But he was my real Grandad.Every year Tom would come up to my house & all his Grandkids would be there.Chocolate would be being eaten by the kids & Tom would sit there in his chair looking at them playing with their toys.Little did the babies know what was going to happen to them soon.You see Tom had this shall we say "habit" which entailed him picking the babies up who were covered in chocolate & licking their faces clean ! Proud as fuck he was.Didn`t care a shite.Also due to him having a leg missing he used to piss in the sink (not when cooking Christmas dinner i might add) but when he couldn`t walk upstairs due to his false Dolly Peg. Anywa..Once the turkey is stuffed throw it in the oven wrapped in foil for about 6 hours & don`t forget to "baste" it.We then wrap the leg of pork in some foil,same with the lamb & silverside.Then wait until the turkey is done before banging them in the oven.Once you`ve taken the turkey out do NOT leave it on the kitchenette & then go out on the piss like Tony Ball did.This will cause you to return to your house with a turkey carcas on the floor & a very full Bull Mastiff sat in it`s bed looking rather contented.That`s not fucking pukka.

Now the important part.The gravy.Big tub of Bisto is needed & if you really fancy being posh add a couple of OXO.For thickening we need some corn flour too.Fry your onion in the pan,then add the water from each of the simmering pans & the roasting trays.The gravy must taste of all the meat & veg that you have cooked.Then throw the Bisto & OXO in until you get that "spreadable with a knife" thickness.Gravy without skin is not fuckin pukka tucka.Once the gravy is done it`s time to serve.Make sure you get your best plates out & cover the dinning table with a plastic Chritmasy sheet.Make sure that the Uncle who turns up once a year just for his dinner & a free piss up is sat at one end of the table with a plate filled with more vegetables than Rose Hill School.Christmas crackers must be placed sparingly around the table & the shop bought Yule log complete with cardboard holly must take pride of place in the centre.The sign of a good Christmas dinner is when people are still eating the turkey on New Years Day.

Finally to give your dinner that "Look how fucking posh we are" feel get the tin of Rover biscuits out & pass them round.After Eights are acceptable but Rover always edge it in the posh stakes due to them having TWO layers.Top this off with a box of Cadburys Fingers,a dozen Mr Kiplings mince pies,a large packet of lemon & pink coconut Jamborees & a box of shortbread & there you have it...................A WN5 Happy Christmas.

Fucking pukka !

Toys of Yesterday

2008-12-17T07:25:00.001-08:00

Hey kids its Christmas! And if you have all been good boys and girls this year then you just might get that toy that you wished for… what? You don’t want a toy? You want a mobile phone? Gee whiz kids what happened to wishing for cap firing guns, dolls in prams, pedal cars, post office shops, games compendiums, corgi cars, castles & soldiers, airfix kits, football boots, annuals, board games, selection boxes in the shape of a stocking, a fish net stocking at that! Etch a sketch, Give a show projectors etc etc.

Come along with me, I’m the ghost of Christmas past and I will show you what kids wished for over 40yrs ago. We will start with the first ever toy of the year award in 1965 the magnificent James Bond Aston Martin. It was launched just before the release of the film Thunderball though the more pedantic amongst you will know that the car first appeared in Goldfinger. The model car had an ejector seat, flip up roof and hidden machine guns. Corgi sold 7 million of these little beauties. Also out this year; Dr Who & the Daleks and the Gonks an ugly family of dolls.

The following year and the winner was a controversial doll for boys, Action Man produced by Hasbro. The little man was an immediate hit and he is still selling well today, not bad for a 42yr old soldier. Pedigree brought out their own version called Tommy Gunn and you can just imagine the tantrums on Christmas morning if a kid got this version instead of the real thing. Other hits included Tiny Tears a crying doll with real tears, well you had to fill her with water first and the back breaking contortion game Twister where you had the dubious pleasure of someone farting in your face.

1967 saw Spirograph crowned the king of toys. Manufactured by Kenner it enabled kids to draw the most elaborate geometric designs. One of the toys that fell into the “educational” slot it was supposed to get kids interested in graphics and maths. I just loved drawing pretty patterns and I ended up making spades for a living, maybe I was just one of the unlucky ones. This original version would give the Health & Safety police palpitations today. It came with a plethora of pins that you used to attach the plastic shapes to a board. The safety brigade would have been delighted with Triang Toys though as they became the first to fit a safety belt to a pedal car.

Pedigree may have been the poor relations with Tommy Gunn but in 1968 they hit back with Sindy sweeping the board at the awards. Billed as the doll you love to dress she had more outfits than a footballer’s wag . In later years she got a boyfriend, Paul and a sister Patch. Some of her outfits were designed by the top names in the fashion world including Mary Quant, Hardy Amies, Emanuels and Vivienne Westwood.

For the boys Joe 90 was popular along with Batman toys including a utility belt. This gives me the opportunity to tell you some of my favourite Batman lines from the TV series “Holy strawberries Batman, were in a jam!” –Robin, “Never rub another mans rhubarb” –The Joker, “Planting a time bomb in a local library is a felony”-Batman, “It's sometimes difficult to think clearly when you're strapped to a printing press” – Batman.

1969 and every boy wanted Hot Wheels left in his stocking, the fastest model cars on earth. Build your loop the loop race tracks and race them side by side, and err… that was it really, the fun was all over in seconds. Story of my life. Could have been worse I suppose, you could have got the rather unfortunately named Tic Tac Tosser for Xmas.

All these toys are worth a small fortune today, maybe that new mobile phone will be a much sought after item in 40yrs time, then again maybe not…

.... and on the seventh day God created.....

2008-12-17T07:24:00.001-08:00

. . . . . the North West of England. There, I’ve said it, and I’m fucked if I’m going to apologise for it.

Do we, or do we not live in the greatest region on the planet? Of course we fucking do, there really is nowhere like it. Yeah of course it pisses down 364 days a year but that’s just a minor set back. If it’s a bit of colour you’re after you can always book yourself in for a session on one of those sunbeds. And if the grey skies are leaving you feeling a bit flat then why not invest in one of those daft fucking lamps to stare at. How anyone can say they suffer from that SAD (Seasonal Adjustment Disorder) when they live here is beyond me. Where is the adjustment living in the North West, it rains, then it rains and then it rains some more.

Anyway, if the lamp doesn’t work then get down to your local pound shop and buy a job lot of lighters and candles to illuminate your mind. Failing that get a job lot of paracetamol and do away with yourself, basking in the glory of a cheap North West of England death.

In this region of ours we have two of Britain’s, in fact the worlds, greatest cities. Liverpool and Manchester have everything and are ably assisted by the surrounding satellite towns and suburbs. We’ve two of the most successful football clubs in Europe, who play in the Premiership with five other North West clubs, making the region the most represented part of England in the most exciting league in the world.

Musically we’ve produced some of the biggest/best bands ever to record or grace stages all over the globe, go on I’ll say it, The Beatles. From the telly there’s just too much to choose from. But for the purposes of balance I give you Coronation St and Brookside. The former being the first soap to ever have women cast in the lead roles (Ena Sharples, Annie Walker and Elsie Tanner), not exactly conforming to the stereotypical northern monkey image. And all written by a script writer from Swinton, Tony Warren.

We’ve got great artists from yesteryear like L.S Lowry to contemporary names such as Wigan’s own Darren Almond. There’s poets like Mike Duff and the comedians are coming out of the floorboards with geniuses like Eric Sykes, Les Dawson, the list goes on and on.

It’s the difference between blonde and brunette. Years ago when I was a nipper I’d go into Liverpool regularly. Whilst there I’d watch the break-dancers and body poppers outside of St Johns Market and then piss about on the ferry for hours on end cadging cigs and drinking tea. One thing that always struck me was how stunningly beautiful the women were, all with long dark hair and bright red lips. Sultry looking and self assured, and always out of my reach. Women like these demanded that you get to know them before anything happened, and even then nothing was guaranteed. However, if you were lucky enough to get the nod you knew you were spending time
in the company of class. This is the North West.

Whereas on the other hand, the blonde bimbos were easy pickings and everyone could have a go. On first inspection they looked great, all tits and teeth. But after the dirty deed was done there was nothing left but smudged foundation and rotten skin. No conversation, no views on anything in life and an almost uncontrollable urge of the blonde bint to check her appearance at every opportunity. This is London. All glamour and glitz but with no substance.

Anyway I’ve going off track again. I’m not here to give you an A-Z of every aspect of North West culture, mainly because I can’t. a more cultured writer than I could have expanded this piece and really drove the point home, but I’m not him/her, so fuck it. I just merely want to point out that the place has more than most, if not all. So next time you start fucking moaning then take a step back and have a look around. There really is nowhere better.

And we’ve got Blackpool, who could want for more?

Dirrrrty “born, live & die the North West” Oldman

.

The Temptations

2008-12-17T07:22:00.000-08:00

A strange night all in all, anyone who knows my musical preferences knows of my love and passion for all things Temptation.

This was the fourth time I've seen the group since 2003, this rated somewhere near the bottom not due to the group but a truly terrible concert going crowd at the Apollo.

Over the last decade The Temptations have performed on the same bill as The Four Tops as part of the T&T tours and usually to packed arenas i.e. The MEN, Sheffield Arena, NIC etc.

This year The Tempts are here on their own and doing smaller more intimate gigs. Nearly every date on the tour is currently sold out or close to selling out, their date in Liverpool on Saturday has been sold out for three months and tickets are like gold dust yet the Manchester date was no-where near selling out.

So up we trudged to The Apollo, The Tempts came on stage around 8.45 to a sadly half- empty venue. Now I'm under no illusions we all know that the classic line up of The Temptations - David Ruffin, Melvin Franklin, Paul Williams, Eddie Kendricks - are long gone and with Dennis Edwards now performing with his own review in the states The Temptations are somewhat of a novelty.

I'll always support this line up and they really are a talented group. Ron Tyson who wrote and produced for the group when they were on Atlantic Records now joins Otis Williams the last surviving member of the group in chronological order.

Terry Weeks who was a roadie for the group until standing in on their 1997 UK tour he's been with the group eleven years.

Joe Herndon was bass singer for Doo-Wop group The Spaniels up until 2003 when he joined The Temptations, and Bruce Williamson a lead singer in the mould of Dennis Edwards and Ali Ollie Woodson rolled into one.
A beast of a man who can hold a note.

This current incarnation is still doing the business and it’s always a pleasure to see them, as it was the first night of the tour on Tuesday I'm willing to forgive them for a lack of a buzz.

Apparently they attended Levi Stubbs funeral in Detroit on Monday, left Chicago Monday afternoon, arrived at Heathrow performed on This Morning and then travelled up for the concert in Manchester.

They began with a track from their 2006 album Reflections Marvin Gaye's How Sweet It Is, before entering into The Way You Do The Things You Do, Get Ready, Ball Of Confusion, Papa Was A Rolling Stone, (An acapella rendition of You Are Necessary), Treat Her Like A Lady, The Girls Alright With Me, Since I Lost My Baby, I Cant Get Next To You, My Girl, Can I Get A Witness, Ain’t To Proud To Beg...

I'm a connoisseur of music if you will, I've been raised on watching acts in the rare soul environment of the Northern and Modern Soul scenes were everyone is tuned in and only interested in the act in front of you.

So I find it mightily irritating when the rest of the crowd spend the night pissed up, going back and forth to the bar and generally talking all the way through. In the bigger arenas the sound usually wipes this out and you can put up with it but on Tuesday the sound at the Apollo was so poor these tossers drowned out the group. Add to that around 40 minutes into the act people began to leave ...

The Temptations sensed this and cut the set short by around 20 minutes. So a massive thank you to the concertgoers of Manchester you really enhanced the experience of seeing my favourite group for possibly the final time.

I hope the tour picks up for them and they don't have to face a crowd like that again, and for that matter I don't have to sit with such music philistines ever again.

I'm frantically searching around for tickets at Liverpool on Saturday night....

What a difference a few nights can make, after the poor showing at the opening night in an empty Manchester Apollo I decided to not let that sour my love for the group and travelled across to Sheffield for a Halloween appearance of the group.

We arrived at the wonderful City Hall at around 7pm and in enough time to catch the wonderful Yolanda Brown, a nu Jazz Saxophonist, a stunning and extremely talented girl, who has a new album out.

Definitely one to look out for in the future, as she finished her set at around 8.30 the City Hall had completely filled up in contrast with the empty and souless feel of the Apollo on Wednesday night. At 8.45 The Temptations came on stage and immediately launched into How Sweet It Is, The Way You Do The Things You Do, Aint To Proud To Beg, Get Ready before even taking breath.

The show was absolutely electric and was possibly the finest performance I have witnessed from the group.

The set was extended from Wednesday's dismal showing at The Apollo and we were treated to an extra 25 minutes and another four songs namely 1997's grammy award-winning Stay, Run Away Child, Cloud Nine, Pyschadelic Shack.

The show finished all too soon but after 90 minutes The Tempts had made the £26 ticket price more than worthwhile, an excellent performance and I'm pleased that I didn't allow the appearance at The Apollo to sour my experiences of this group.

SEAN LIVESEY

http://www.myspace.com/djlivesey87

My heart lies in old West Virginia

2008-12-17T07:21:00.001-08:00

“Well I said goodbye to Rosie Rooke this morning,
I'm gonna miss her bloodshot alcoholic eyes,
She wore her Sunday hat so she'd impress me,
I'm gonna carry her memory 'til the day I die.

Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

I’m in the pavement looking up at the stars. Except there aren’t any stars as it’s still sunny. My shoes are sticking to the tarmac and I’m smiling and I’m singing.

Soho never looks better than when you’re wasted on the pavement. And I’m singing and I’m laughing and out of the corner of my eye I see Guzzling spark out. The Salford national anthem is playing and the pigs will be here in a minute.

Out my right eye I see the trashed ice cream van and remember that Guzzling has only gone and tipped it over. He kept asking for a flake for his Guinness and then there was a crash and a bang and a wallop and I fell over. Marty ran. I tried to run but just kept singing and sticking to the tarmac and Guzzling collapsed.

The filth is here – never when you want one, eh?

The landlord of the French House - who is actually French - has identified Guzzling as the culprit and they are currently trying to pick him up in all senses of the word.

Shocked into action I check my pocket and roll the bottle of poppers under the ice cream van. Whizzed up and popped Guzzling is for it.

I somehow raise my feet from the ground and haul myself up. I walk in a circle and stumble into a table and chair but I manage to compose myself somehow. Guzzling appears comatose and I walk past him and start to make my way to the Cambridge singing quietly:

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

“Oh move along you fucking pissed-up wanker else you’ll be joining this waster here”, says PC Cunt

“Sure sir.”

And then I hear it.

Guzzling, quietly at first and then louder and then full blast.

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

Oh no!

“Oh yes”, says PC Cunt as I feel the steel on my wrists and they tighten the cuffs just that bit too tight and then comes the dig in the ribs. Always the ribs, and always the same response from me:

“Is that the best you can do?” and it is, as the second never hurts as much.

“I’ve got your number hit me in the face.”

But they never do.

It seems an age before Guzzling joins me in the back of the van.

“Vine Street it is then, Guzzling.”

Vine Street it is then, Rich.”

And we laugh and then we start singing softly:

"They'll move me up to Muswell Hill tomorrow,
Photographs and souvenirs are all I've got,
They're gonna try and make me change my way of living,
But they'll never make me something that I'm not.
Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

Lyrics: R.D.Davies

stealin your best mates wife by mike duff

2008-12-17T07:19:00.000-08:00

ever heard "the beautiful tennessee waltz"?.....the man in that steals his best mate's wife in the space of a three minute dance....it demeans women as if a woman could be won over in that short space of time.....unless of course he had a massive hard on propped against her belly for the whole three minutes that they danced an she thought "i wunt mind a bit a that".....no you steal yer best mate's wife bit by bit...you go round an yer smoke a weed...an it makes him dopey but it makes you an her giggly an you become the life an soul an interestin an you an her get the munchies an yer mate falls asleep....an things happen....so i give to you....from the perspective of the husband

The Beautiful Openshaw Weed

i was smokin with my darlin
a beautiful openshaw weed
an while we were smokin
my best mate i happened to see
an i passed him the lit ganja
an while we were smokin
my best mate stole my wife from me
yes i remember the night on the openshaw weed
only i know how much i have lost
cos i lost my darlin wife
the night we were smokin
a beautiful openshaw weed
an i sit in the house alone an cryin
inside i am fallin apart
an it's deeper than depression
an sadder than sorrow
the darkness they've left in my heart
an i remember the night on the openshaw weed
only i know how much i have lost
yes i lost my darlin wife
the night we were smokin
a beautiful openshaw weed
an i think about the no good bastards
as i crush tablets into a bowl
an it's beyond any pain
an it's beyond any sunshine
the sickness they've left in my soul
but i remember the night on the openshaw weed
only i know how much i have lost
cos i lost my darlin wife
the night we were smokin
a beautiful openshaw weed

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
mike duff

Sonnets of Wigan No 2 - Platt Bridge

2008-12-17T06:48:00.000-08:00

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Wigan’s Hindley Green?
And was the holy Richard Ashcroft
On Wigan's pleasant pastures seen?

And did Victoria Wines
Shine forth upon dog shit hills?
And was Platt Bridge builded here
On a diet of powder and pills?

Bring me my bag of smack!
Bring me my syringe of desire!
Bring me my spoon! O acid and crack!
Colin Wellands chariots of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my cock sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Platt Bridge
In Wigan's green and pleasant land.

The Bard of Wigan

2008 in Music

2008-12-17T06:46:00.000-08:00

It’s been a pretty strange period for music in Wigan this year with gig attendances dropping, venues closing down, lack of new talent coming through and established bands splitting up or being dropped.

Things have been in decline for a couple of years now. The DIY scene that sprung up around the rise of the Libertines in 2002 created an amazing buzz around town with new gig and club nights starting up, which in turn led to musicians getting together creating bands that were reacting against the stagnant musical period of the few years previous. Things hit a peak mid 2006 and we’ve been in a steady decline ever since.

It’s the same old cycle that we last saw in the mid 90’s with Oasis. A big scene blows up but then you eventually get to the point where the type of music is so popular that everyone thinks they can do it and they form bands, regardless of if they’ve got talent or not.

As we have this time with bands such as the Kooks, The Killers, the Frattellis et al. They followed on the coat tails of the Libertines and The Strokes but managed to make that crossover to the mainstream. You then get the 3rd rate bands that follow the 2nd wave, the Twang, Reverend & The Makers etc. This leads to new young bands emulating these types and the quality really suffers, along with the live scene. The crossover of indie now is more obvious than ever. You can go down any King Street and hear indie tracks in any of the pubs or clubs, something unheard of 5 years ago. Back in the early 2000’s you’d search out your vintage leather jacket by scouring charity shops or travelling down to Camden market. Now you can pick up them up mass produced in Top Man. The indie scene is no longer ‘cool’ so the old gig goers have disappeared. All you get in the venues for most gigs nowadays are friends and family of the bands who are playing, which obviously changes from week to week meaning there are no regulars, thus a new scene can’t get off the ground.

Despite this, the live scene has still plodded along in Wigan over the past year. Yeti made their return back in January followed by The Von Bondies in February, who pulled in a good crowd. Chris Helme from the Seahorses played the Tavern in June and Rhys Ifans brought some of the Super Furry Animals with him in October to play a gig to a packed Club Nirvana. Some of the best of the upcoming indie acts from around the country have also played, to varied reactions, including Detroit Social Club, Esser, Elle S’apelle, Screaming Lights and Buen Chico. Shaun Ryder came up too for a one off DJ set in November but that shambles is probably best off forgotten!

A few local bands meanwhile have had quite a bit of success throughout the year. Ashton’s The Troubadours played support on the Enemy tour before jetting off to festivals in Japan alongside the likes of Paul Weller and the Verve. Mon Ouisch played festivals slots in the UK, whilst the Victorian Dad Band got themselves a deal. The Suzukis album release with Deltasonic was pushed back further but they headed over to New York earlier this year to record it and it’s now due early next year. Solo acts Nancy Elizabeth and John Fairhurst both gained rave reviews for their albums throughout the year and played festivals around Europe. Finally Matthew Hallsall has had great success on the Jazz scene including sessions on Giles Petersons BBC Radio 1 show.

The Tavern closed down twice, as did the Waiting Room and several other gig nights ceased to be. One new night though that has been consistent and become ever more popular is TWATS or ‘The Wonderful Arty Types Show’. Consisting of live music, film and poetry, it takes place at the Tudor on the last Thursday of every month.

2009 looks to be more promising for the local scene. A couple of clued up lads (Mike and Neil) have just taken over booking for the Collective which from next year will take place every Friday at the Tudor, with free entry. They’ve been getting some quality acts in lately and this will hopefully continue into next year. The Tavern has just reopened, now owned by the people behind Fuzzbox Recording studios. They’re all passionate about music and will hopefully restore the pub to a top quality mid sized gig venue. They’ve got Sham 69 playing in September so that should get it off to a good start. There’s the odd decent young band coming through but this will hopefully increase as more kids start to react against the bad couple of years passed. The national scene has seen some great new bands with debut albums released this year; Vampire Weekend, MGMT, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes, Johnny Flynn; so hopefully the local scene can follow suit.

I finish on a sad note with a mention for Rob Partridge who died last month. Rob was the manager of Wigan band Witness, as well as looking after The Verve and was truly one of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet in the entire music industry. He had an amazing CV, having looked after Bob Marley, Tom Waits, Burning Spear, Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and many more but always stayed completely grounded. He did a lot to help me set myself up in the business when a person in his position could have quite easily ignored me or passed me onto someone else. He always had time to return a phone call, send you an email or call you down to his office in London for a chat. In an industry which is full of self centred egotistical wankers, it was refreshing to know someone who would go out of their way to help other people rather than themselves.

For a proper obituary, check out the Guardian site: http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2008/dec/02/obituary-rob-partridge-music-publicist

Dylan Harris

Miss Mudhutter - come on it's Christmas and we like Courtney....

2008-12-13T06:59:00.000-08:00

Breakfast in Bed

2008-12-12T04:02:00.000-08:00

“This is going out to the whole wide Westside
you know what I'm saying,
yeah break it down for me
steady mob, rock, rock on

I was just a young boy, livin in the hub city-Eastside Compton G
Back in the days when Ice Cube and Eazy had every Nigga
Talking 'bout boy you can't fuck with me
Remember Ice T had da power, hearing gunshots lickin' by the hour
When Too Short bumped in every supersport
And taught us all how to ride for the West Coast…”

And so begins Westside by TQ and every so often I put on this exquisite piece of rap and think it’s the best song in the entire world. The best thing that has ever been put on vinyl or cd or download or whatever this week’s format is.

But why do I love it? It has nothing to do with my life. Never been to the west side and never will. Love Motown and Stax. Love reggae ‘n all and I’ve never been there. Any of those places. But I have…

See music takes you to places where nothing else can. Television doesn’t take you to those places. Neither does film. Yet those two media are visual.

And I put Life Goes On by Tupac Shakur and drinking Hennessy saying “goodbye at the cemetery.” And Life Goes On is the greatest song in the entire world. And I shuffle the ipod and I’m in North London in 1971 listening to tales of Rosie Rooke and the Muswell Hillbillies with Raymond Douglas Davies of the Kinks. And then I’m back across the ocean and I’m by that mighty ocean and “I got a job and tried to put my money away, But I got debts that no honest man can pay” and I’m away with Bruce on that mighty highway, drinking Bushmills and talking about Kerouac with Tom Waits and the ghost of Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley. And it’s Sunday morning coming down. Then back home on a sweaty dancefloor with Brenda Holloway and Major Lance and at the Old Vic with Dexy’s and I’m back in 1972 having Breakfast in Bed with Lorna Bennett and my mind is ten years on and I’m having breakfast in bed with another beautiful girl called Lorna… and I’m in love with the world for just that moment

Walk the line...

2008-12-11T02:08:00.001-08:00

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. That’s why I run and I walk and I push myself at football and rugby and I walk to work. And like the man in black I keep my eyes wide open all the time. It takes an hour or so from Muswell Hill to the west end but if you keep your eyes open you’ll see the world even though normally I just see pockets of broken men from the Emerald isle.

Even at seven thirty in the morning. And that’s what I like. On days like this when the sun is peeking through the hills of Alexandra. Through the palace and touching the Archway Road. Under Suicide Bridge past the Whittington. Irish labourers await their lifts. In their wedding suits and boots awaiting Mr Murphy. Away from Cork and Limerick and just six hours after staggering out of the Archway Tavern. And The Woodman and any one of the pubs on Holloway Road they are ready for digging the dirt on these streets of North London before commencing their evening shift of Guinness and lager.

They will spend Saturday night in the Forum and the Gresham. Johnny Doran – who lives in the bedsit directly below me - drums with Davey Boy and the Playboys. They have a residency at one of these joints. Keeps asking my mates and me to go and see them but it’s not our style. Johnny’s a cracking lad as is Bernie - that has the bedsit next to mine and awakes me most nights as he stumbles in shit-faced. But it just ain’t for us. I don’t dig that republican shit. Not interested and I’m sure sixty per cent of the people in there aren’t. It’s the forty per cent I’m bothered about. I’ll drink with any man and fuck any girl. I’m not bothered where they come from but I hold no truck with human beings that blow other human beings up. Don’t get it.

Our kid’s in the navy. I tell him the same but… well we argue all night about it and it’s best unsaid I suppose. As I say I’ll have a drink with any man and I always have a drink with our kid. Got to look after him like. He’s my mum’s favourite. Will always be “little Alan”. Even if he wants to blow people up for a living. She says that he’d have joined the army if that was the case and that he just wants to see the world. Hey good luck to him. Girl in every port and all that but I’ll stick with a girl in north, west, east and south London, thank you.

There are gangs of Irish men throughout my journey. From Archway to Tufnell Park to Kentish and Camden Town before I get to Mornington Crescent and the final stretch to Tottenham Court Road. Pick up a crusty cheese roll and nip into Glen House. Home of Global Holidays. My workplace. A fucking laugh it is as well.

Yakum

2008-12-10T06:36:00.000-08:00

Heaven scent, the smell of pines,
snake like ways our love entwines.
Acquiesce to shackles shed,
freedom chimed for silent heads.

Dusty sun scorched paths that lead,
a brief respite, sweet dreams to feed.
Across the slip road paradise,
searing heat that melts the ice.

A momentary time as one,
apart for life, a life undone.
The memories and might have beens
of loss and unrequited dreams.

For one last chance to hold you near,
through older eyes that see it clear.
Heaven scent, the smell of pines,
too soon we both ran out of time.

Dirrrrtyoldman

Ho Ho Ho Merry Humbug

2008-12-10T06:04:00.000-08:00

They say that “things aren’t what they used to be” a thought that sometimes I believe in, and others I dismiss totally. But as far Christmas is concerned it is certainly true. It just isn’t the same anymore. When you finally grow up and reach adulthood, something must just click in your head and say “Its Christmas and you officially hate it.” Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t particularly hate it but it just isn’t the same. Ok so the excitement of opening toys of course goes as you get older (more of that later…) but its whole thing. It just isn’t the same.
When you were at school there was the build up, I suppose finishing a week or so before the big day (sic) helped, now you just work up til Christmas Eve and then have to battle in the traffic to get home at dinner as everyone else has been given an early dart. When you get home, it isn’t the same either. When you were a kid, your parents made an effort for you, decorations everywhere, streamers from one corner of the ceiling to the other and lights all round the window. And you couldn’t wait to get the tree up, always a real one, with dropping needles that went from floor to ceiling. Nowadays it’s just a small water feature on the coffee table and one of those fibre optic trees that change colour every twenty seconds. Like I say, not the same.

And then we get to the gifts and toys themselves. These days it’s all Playstations and Xboxes and Ipods. Gone are the days of the street being full, by 10am, of kids riding their new Raleigh Grifters (or in my case the Grifter XL, always been a step ahead) wearing the new cowboy or astronaut outfit their favourite Auntie and Uncle have bought for them. These days you could fire a cannon down most streets on Christmas Day and not hit anyone.

In the past the tele companies used to make an effort. We all know about the Morecambe and Wise specials and the size of audiences they used to get, and of course you would have the blockbuster film as well as festive specials of all the top TV shows. Nowadays all we get is the soaps building up to either a death, birth or marriage, there must be so many anniversaries in Walford, Weatherfield and Beckindale on Dec 25th, I don’t know how they keep track. The only specials you get these days are repeats of ones you have seen over and over (I hope Miami Twice isn’t on again or I swear I will kill someone) a Bond film that was probably on at Easter and a convoluted Top of the Pops that probably won’t show all the No 1’s of the year as it used to. In fact the only thing that will be worth watching will be the Dr Who special as usual. The week between Christmas and New Year used to always be a TV highlight as well, with stuff such as The Monkees, Snoopy and Woodstock and episodes of Wait till you Father gets Home, now all you get are repeats of The Great Escape and that bloody giant Digby dog.

For some reason, it seems these days that the weather isn’t as good as it just to be. Now I certainly don’t remember any Bing style white Christmases, but I remember Christmas Day being bright and crisp, these days, it just seems dull and damp. Or are we back to the tele again there.

And the parties aren’t the same. In the past, it was having the odd can that your old man used to let you have, usually a Skol or Lancashire Bitter (15p a can from Fine Fare), now you can buy what you want and sup it anytime you wish. In fact do people have get togethers anymore? I used to always look forward to long lost relatives and friends coming round, bringing cheap ale and presents, now it’s a flick through Sky to see if there are any repeats of the Les Dennis and Dustin Gee Christmas Madhouse on some obscure channel with a bowl of Bombay mix and a bottle of Becks.

Writing this has turned me into a broken man, I want my Christmas back, I want Morecambe and Wise, though I appreciate that maybe difficult, I want my cans of Skol and most of all I want my cowboy outfit, it’s just not fair.

Steve Wood
http://www.tripsonglue.co.uk/

Christmas at Nirvana

2008-12-10T05:51:00.000-08:00

“Have you been writing in that Radio Times…?”

2008-12-09T06:13:00.000-08:00

Imagine the scene. It’s mid December, the late 70’s. John Noakes is crudely fashioning tinsel & coat hangers. Shep is left of camera, sniffing Petra's arse. Suddenly, there’s a thud on the doormat. Is that Brucie & Anthea in full Victorian splendour? But...but..that can only mean two things?

1) The paper bill has finally been paid.
2) The Christmas Radio & TV Times (double editions) have arrived.

With an eye for detail. a big felt tip & a curious yearning for those days when there wasn’t 163 channels called UK Bollocks pumping out programmes called “Hitler’s arse” or “When good fridges go bad”, lets take a look at what would constitute a perfect Christmas Day’s telly schedule in Wigan.

Please note: Timings, durations & content may be liable to total fabrication, whimsy & flights of fancy.

9:00 - The Snowman
Real tear in the eye when we’re “Walking in the Air” & at the end. It melts. Briggs, you callous bastard. Worth it for Bowie’s scarf & jumper combo at the beginning. What did C4 show before they bought this?

9:30 - Circus – Either Billy Smart’s or Chipperfields.
3 basic rules of any good circus :
1) Clowns must look like they’re on a register somewhere, ride tiny bicycles & have cars that fall to pieces. A bit like Marsh Green….
2) Trapeze acts must be all incestuous family affairs from Romania.
3) Chimps must wear the mask of terror that tells of less orthodox training techniques still legal in parts of Albania.

10:00 – Noel Edmonds
Usually visiting relatives so a safe first outing of the day for the sanctimonious cock, hopefully minus helicopters & helicopter related tragedies. Ideally, he’d be stuck him up post office towers doing video links to Australia that no one cared about, including those involved. For the optimum Edmonds experience, offensive sweaters, immaculate beard, regional links to jaded presenters, The Krankies ( minus swinging allegations ) & Feargal Sharkey miming badly aboard jets must all be witnessed.

12:00 – Steptoe & Son
Genuine class. The Christmas special from 1974 where Harold wants to go abroad but Albert wants to go to Bognor. Cue much pathos, emotional blackmail & “Dirty old man’s" but with party hats & grotty decorations. Hey, if it aint broke……..

Commercial Time
Extolling the virtues of the Ronco “Buttoneer” & a still saucy Lynda Bellingham knocking up a bit of scran for her ungrateful archetypal 80’s nuclear family, complete with hubby more interested in magic tricks than unfurling those cracking norks we all witnessed in “Confessions of a Driving Instructor”.

1:00 – Some Mothers Do ‘Ave Em
Not wearing as well as many would have us believe but still watchable. I’ll go for the Christmas special from 1974. No rollerskating or worrying about the correct change but a myriad of “ooh’s”, “aah’s” & dogs doing whoopsies on the carpet. Jessica’s gonna see the Queen on Christmas day, Betty’s one step away from the Prozac & the Christmas tree is but a mere twig. Culminates in the inevitable chaos at the nativity play. “Put another bag on…NO, NOT THAT ONE…”

2:00 – Porridge
1975 Special. Grouty is masterminding a tunnel, Fletch wants no part of it, Godber is dopey, Warren is illiterate & Biggins gives Norton, Winton et al a masterclass in camp . Needless to say, it all goes tits up. McKay cancels Christmas & Fletch saves the day by falling down a big hole & revealing where they hid the soil. Funnier than it sounds (but you knew that anyway…)

2:30 – Rising Damp
1976 Christmas Special. Rare incursion of an ITV product. Alan thinks he’s gonna get laid, Philip brings back some “jungle juice” & a black girlfriend ( mild racism alert but its ok cos it’s the kind we laugh AT ). Rigsby’s thwarted by the milkman ( aka Mr Mash from “Are you being served” ) on the bird front. Absence of Frances de la Tour means lack of hip grabbing & “Miss Jones” mannerisms but that aside, it’s textbook Damp.

3:00 – Top of the Pops
Viewed from behind a mountainous dinner perched precariously on your lap – NEVER a table – it’s the second outing of the day for hirsute Anti-Christ Edmonds slotting effortlessly into a classic line up of Blackburn, Saville, Travis & Peel ( mandolin playing optional ). All resplendent in draylon & party hats, covered in tinsel & fake snow making lecherous sideways glances just off camera towards underage girls ( Peel – I’m looking at YOU here…. ) Artists should include Wizzard, the Pogues, Jona Lewie, and Shakey. Slade, with mutton chopped Noddy & preposterously coiffeured Dave Hill, must be number one. Mirrored top hats compulsory. “Super Yob” guitar optional.

4:00 – Bond Film
Neither know nor care which one. Merely white noise whilst I sleep off unfeasibly large Christmas meal, Miniature Heroes & peanuts all the while breaking wind like a Stevedore. Helpful if it includes bald villain on kitsch 70’s swivel chair stroking white cat, hatching fiendish plots & uttering lines such as “Ah Mr Bond, we meet again. But this time the advantage is mine” (copyright Viz 1989).

6:00 – News
Nothing ever happens on Christmas day. Actually, there will be some atrocity in the Middle East but this will be glossed over to show the Queen in Church accepting a teddy off some gurning old dear who’s not had the gas on since October to pay for it.

6:30 – Only Fools & Horses
Not the flabby overblown caricatures who took the money & ran towards the end but the sharp, half hour 1983 special where Del Boy’s dad comes back with a different blood group to Del. Cue hilarity at Grandad’s gravy, Delboy being called the Lone Ranger & the fact the estranged Trotter had robbed the chief gynaecologists Lambretta from some hospital in Newcastle.

Commercial Time
Henry Cooper & Barry Sheene splash it all over as Patrick Mower drinks Babycham, probably whilst smoking a Hamlet (..”The mild cigar…from Benson & Hedges”).

7:00 – Generation Game
Just in time to greet the inevitable round of turkey butties, the big boys come out to play. Plumped for Forsyth here but honourable mention must also go to Grayson ( not Davidson ). Bruce’s rug is suitably seasonal & the goofy Anthea is twirling like her life depended on it in a “tasteful” pastel blue tarpaulin. Festive twists on the usual pot throwing & baton twirling games topped off by a panto inclusive of Frankie Howerd & The Kings Singers. Prizes to include luggage, a fondue set &….a cuddly toy!

8:00 – Morecambe & Wise
The Rolls Royce of light entertainment. Rejoice in the sheer genius that was Eric Morecambe & his much undervalued straight man. A cavalcade of cheek slapping, bifocal adjustment & grapefruit squeezing. Gaze in wonder as Eric plays all the right notes (but not necessarily in the right order), Angela Rippon high kicks & a coke fuelled, suspender clad Frank Bough somersaults acrobatically, fresh from having his arse tanned by a dominatrix brass. Timeless.

9:00 – The Two Ronnies
Close second to M&W. Awesome entertainment from two all time legends. Must include dressing as unconvincing women or children’s characters for lavish musical numbers with clever plays on words (possibly about fork handles). Little Ron, sporting the latest in terrace fashion knitwear, must labour over a drawn out monologue bemoaning his producer’s fiscal limitations. There should be an episode of the Phantom Raspberry Blower of old London Town or “The worm that turned”and the whole thing should be topped off with “It’s a merry Christmas from me & a happy New Year from him”. Trust me, it doesn’t come any better than this.

10:00 – The Office Christmas Special
Two parter & the most recent inclusion. Quite simply, one of the most perfect 2 hours of TV it's ever been my pleasure to witness. Everything about it was exquisite, from Brent's reaction to the fat blind date through to the look on that smarmy bastard of a boss' face when Brent's tasty bird arrives. Stick 2 fingers up as David finally tells Finchy to fuck off then shed a tear as Tim & Dawn get together. Right. Can I ask you a question? Who does your tampons?

12:00 – Carry On Film
What better way to round the evening off. Seeing as “Screaming” has probably been shown a couple of months earlier for Halloween, I’ll go for “Khyber” or “Follow that Camel”. Either’s good for slumping down & making yourself sick on nuts, Newberry Fruits & all manner of shite you wouldn’t entertain the other 364 days of the year.

Words caressed by an overly sentimental Finton Stack.
Special thanks ( & a knowing tap on the nose ) to the good folks of TV Cream for providing the inspiration. In loving memory of all the greats mentioned here who are no longer with us yet gave us so much happiness.

Finton’s Festive Faves

2008-12-09T05:56:00.000-08:00

10) The Waitresses – Christmas Wrapping
Annoyingly quirky number that’s on loads of compilations but no one knows what its name is. Daft yanks rattling on about nothing in particular from 1981. Shouldn’t be festive but it is.

9) The Pretenders – 2000 Miles
Vegan, animal rights size queen Chrissie Hynde takes time off from firebombing McDonalds to show her sensitive side. She’s moaning about some bloke who’s buggared off 2000 miles away ( wise man ) but reckons he’ll be back at Christmas. Yes luv. Of course he will…………Still, nice enough tune though.

8) Jona Lewie – Stop the Cavalry
Released in 1980 on the fiercely indie Stiff Records ( home to Elvis Costello & the infamous “If it ain’t Stiff, it ain't worth a f***” motto ), the Fred Harris lookalike went all Blackadder Goes Forth. Only just a Christmas tune but the brass band section & sleigh bells give it the bona fide yuletide stamp. That & star billing on the 1980 “Cheggers Plays Pop” Christmas special.

7) Mike Oldfield – In Dulci Jubilo
Traditional English ditty given an update by the quintessential 70’s synth lunatic. The kind of tune you could imagine being played as ruddy cheeked yokels & busty maidens frolicked on snowy village greens in days of yore. Now more likely to be battered by bearded real ale drinkers playing bodrums & penny whistles whilst paedophiles in arran sweaters nod approvingly.

6) Greg Lake – I believe in Father Christmas
Except he doesn’t really, if you listen to the lyrics. Instead, the colossus of navel gazing prefers to bleat on about being promised “snow this Christmas…..peace on earth” with a barely concealed level of cynicism even I’m shocked by. The video also has camels & explosions. Bizarre. The straight lift of Prokofiev’s “Lieutenant Kije” by Keith Emerson’s keyboard middle section rescues this prog navel gazer & propels it into the realms of a proper Christmas tune.

5) Wizzard – I wish it could be Christmas every day
Now we’re talking. The Phil Spector Wall of Sound with a Brummie accent. Ludicrous beards, stack heels, face paint & glitter stars. Team these with small children in snorkel parka’s playing pretend trumpets on TOTP & you can’t go wrong. Evocative of a time when we had proper weather & it snowed every Christmas ( except on Norley ).

4) Band Aid – Do they know its Christmas
Not the shite versions that have followed but the original & best from 1984. Kept both Wham & Frankie off number one. Proper pop stars as well. Where else would you get Boy George enjoying a chop & pop session with Francis Rossi & assorted members of Shalamar? Song itself was utter wank but this didn’t matter as these were less cynical times& it was all for charidee. Except no one told the Human League who famously decided to give it a miss…….

3) Wham – Last Christmas
Worthy of a mention purely for George’s highlighted bouffant & atrocious jumper, a sartorial faux pas from a man who sported a Fila BJ & Diadora Borg Elite in the Careless Whisper video only months earlier. A tale of unrequited love which, in hindsight, was probably directed towards Andrew Ridgeley. Wham made perfect pop. But this wasn’t it. Indeed, the B Side “Everything She Wants” ( a sublime slab of blue eyed soul ) pissed all over it. Still, it’s my chart & I’m including it for nostalgia alone. Kept off number one in 84 by Band Aid then in 85 by Whitney Houston before she became a crack whore.

2) Slade – Merry Xmas Everybody
File alongside Wizzard in the “PROPER Christmas record” file. First released in 1973, this homage to a working class Christmas charted 7 times in all. You can almost smell the Watneys as a magnificently sideboarded Neville Holder & the “Liberace of Glam” Dave Hill camp it up for the cameras & the disturbingly under age girls that seemed to make up the bulk of a 70's TOTP audience. They, as well as us, realise that by rights they should be hod carrying somewhere near Dudley instead of arseing about in platforms & tinfoil suits. Fuck the 3 day week……………….IT’S CHRISTMAAAAAAS!!!

1) Pogues & Kirsty MacColl – Fairytale of New York
No bigging up needed. It had Matt Dillon in the video & was cool as fuck. I defy anyone to hear the words “…..the boys of the NYPD choir still singing Galway Bay” without the hairs on the back of their neck standing up. Made even more poignant by the fact that Kirsty MacColl died on the 18th of December 2000. Inexplicably kept off number one by the Pet Shop Boys “Always on my mind” but pissed all over the abysmal “When I fall in love” by Newton le Willows’ finest Rick Astley.

Words by Finton “I Wish it could be Christmas everyday” Stack.

Workplace Japery

2008-12-09T05:43:00.000-08:00

As unemployment figures soar - and in view of the fact that they may become a thing of the past - here are some of The Mudhutter's favourite workplace stitch ups, wind ups and downright filthiness

From the shopfloor:

1. The Johnny Wilkinson. This involves lining up four cardbord boxes, four lads, one of them being a new apprentice are lined up to try to kick their boxes over the wood rack. Three of the boxes are empty. The one the apprentice is kicking is a box full of metal screws. The look on their face as they swing a boot at a box and it moves about half an inch is a picture.

2. The concealed turd. This has been done in various forms. The one which seemed to go down best was done on a young lad who had a car that was perminately full of rubbish. A turd was hidden in the pocket thing of the drivers door. He drove round with his head out of the window for a week before the coin dropped .

3. The April fool. A few that I can remember are when we rang a lad up from another works and covinced him he'd won a thousand quids worth of musical equipment. He jumped straight into the works van and drove to Dawsons in Wigan to collect his voucher.

One lad was a junior British bodybuilding champion. We found out a bodybuilding products firm were cocidering offering him a sponsorship. We had him shouting down the phone in the office in front of the boss and his staff "Im the biggest Im the best. In fact Im awesome" because he thought he was taking part in an audition for a radio advertising campaign for the firm.

A chubby apprentice was told to take a note to a local shop near our works. The note said "This is a stick up. Give me all the pie's and cakes or I will sit on you".

4. The anal insertion. Never leave anything lying around the brew room. One lad disscovered his Vicks sinex had been stuffed up somebodies arse before he'd used it. The same happened to a lads cig. One apprentice left his phone and his sister recieved a text telling her he was going to "Cum on her tit's".

5. One unpopular apprentice loved his car stereo so much he had a sun visor with Kenwood on it. It had been altered to say Ken Dodd for two weeks before he noticed. Another time his registration number was skillfully changed to read "EL CUNTO" and he was stopped by the police.

From the office:

1. Sellotape down the receiver button on the phone, when the phone rings, receiver is lifted and it keeps ringing. This requires careful application of tape to avoid visibility.

2.Changing the mouse settings to lefthanded.

3. If a ball mouse, remove the ball.

4. Change contrast/brightness/colour down to black.

5. Move the letter indexes on a rollerdex

6. Take one bite out of someones sandwiches

7. Changing the letters on a keyboard to either spell rude words or confuse those who have to look at the keys M & N are the best for this.

8.Loosen holepunch base and ask a colleague to pass it to you.

9. The usual 'give me a word' game, to sneak into phone calls, presentations and meetings without detection.

10. Putting all your colleagues personal effects into a winster box whilst they are at lunch, with a post-it note to speak to the boss (assuming they are in on it).

11. Swapping over the telephone sockets so it is someone else's phone that rings.

12. A real beauty for confusing people who lock there computer to stop people from twatting about with it while they are out, is to put a space after the user name so when they put their password in it won't unlock. This usually only works with the windows classic logon screen.

13. If someone has brought a bag in and is going off on a plane/train later in the day, fill it with assorted old mice/keyboards/leads, it's best not to make it too heavy though as they usually find out.

From the traditional design/art studio or an operating theatre.
Ask to borrow a surgical scalpel (providing its the Swan Morton removable blade type) and wait a few minutes.

Then shout your colleague's name, add 'thanks mate' and throw it back to them having removed the blade.

The number of people who innocently cup their hands to catch it a nanosecond before screaming as it hit is unbelievable.

From the man on the move:

Setting my van sharing mate on fire with a blow torch, I not nearly, really pissed myself.

Was worth it tho. Bit dangerous at 85 on the M62....

The Mudhutter Revolutionary Workers Party

No more three stripe

2008-12-06T05:14:00.001-08:00

When I was a school I had a mate who had a pair of trainers, nothing strange in that of course, we all did, especially in the 80s, I loved my Adidas Kick and New Balance Bryan Robson trainers, but this guy had the same pair for years. They were plain black, with a long tongue and I mean long. They actually resembled a pair of rugby boots but with no studs of course.

And like I say he had them for years, in fact I think he had them for the majority of time we were at high school. They were that durable that he could play football in there, run in them and wear them casually and they never split or ripped. They were a pair of Walsh trainers. Sadly I never had a pair of them in those days, I was too easily seduced by the three stripes.

Over the weekend I was doing a spot of shopping and popped into Life, a clothes shop that has had many a penny from me over the years, but sadly in the last few, not too much. Anyway, there I was mooching around when I noticed a rack of shoes, and there it was, the name, Walsh. The name stirred up the olden days, and that immortal pair of black trainers, I had to take a wander over. There were no black leather trainers there, but these beauties stared at me back from the rack

I was in love again, I had to touch them, to have a feel. I was reborn, never mind the three stripes, the trainers that everyone these days wear. The Walsh Bazley are the trainers that I need to get on my feet.

Walsh, in case you didn't know, is a local company based in Bolton, so not only do my feet get the fantastic trainers they are used to, but my custom stays in the region. Everyone is a winner.

A request for a pair for my birthday in January has already been made.

Steve Wood
http://www.tripsonglue.co.uk/

adidas in semi-decent reissue shock

2008-12-04T08:08:00.001-08:00

Originally produced in 1972 to coincide with the Munich Olympics the shoe was reissued a while back in a full leather finish, but this version is faithful to the first generation. That means a nylon weave body with suede detailing, a 'running shoe' type sole and should you want to pass them off as a first edition, a vintage hand-finishing treatment to create a slightly aged look.

Choose from three authentic colour schemes (including the two above), with pre-orders priced around £60.

EXPECTED MARCH 2009

Blimey a reissue that actually looks summat like.

On the Buses

2008-10-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

12 People that get on my bus

Student (x4)
From various parts of Wigan, all doing teacher training at Edge Hill College and all as thick as fuck!
Conversation covers facebook, getting pissed, planning on getting pissed and more facebook

Agent Scally
Scouser with THAT walk. Dressed in the usual all-black Ninja Scal outfit when he is too old to know better. Gets on in the heartlands of Wigan WN5 which means that he must have been doing a bit too much bouncy scouse house at Wigan Pier and got some Wigan scrotess up the duff!

Nurse Gladys
Lovely, just lovely. Little on the chunky side but this Hispanic beauty has that “I just want to mother you in my ample bosom” look about her. Probably poisoning OAPS in the care home she works in as we speak.

The Murali Twins
Get on and off at the same spot, look like each other (and like spin king Murali) and never utter a word to each other. One of them speaks to a bloke that is the spit of Jimmy Floyd Hasselbank.

Catwalk Kate
The aisle in the bus is her catwalk as she shows off her latest clothes and shoes. Never seen her in the same outfit twice. Dresses wonderfully, looks great – if a bit skinny – but never has her head out of one of those celebrity magazines. Probably a scouser!

Miss Skem 2008
The undoubted star of the bus. Dumpy 14-year old, braces on her teeth and lightly touched with the Downs stick. She gets on with latest mobile fastened to her ear – never talking just mobile to ear, scowls at the driver when showing her ticket and then sits down next to one of her school mates. And then it begins…. “Yous was hammered last night”, “I gave him the best shag of his life, as he’s going the big house tomorrow”, “Don’t normally do coke but fucking hell my nose last night” and on and on and on. Great entertainment. All complete bollocks of course but…

Down-filled Dan
Big old feller – looks about ninety – still working and wears a big white down-filled jacket and woolly hat in all weather. Speaks to a lot of the young girls. Probably a lollipop man/nonce

Catherine Zeta Jones
Absolutely stunning 18-year old girl that gets on in Old Skem. You can smell the bitchiness in the air as Miss Skem and her mates get the claws out… Truly beautiful young woman. Was once on the phone discussing the X Factor auditions.

Emo Boy
Or goth, or skaterboy or whatever these kids call themselves now but known as Emo as he looks just like Emo Philiips. Ugly fucker and sits with a punky girl that has great tats if not great tits! He’s gay. Doesn’t know it yet but he’ll undoubtedly bat for Yorkshire in a couple of years.

Oh and thirty plus fucking idiot schoolkids all dressed in black Helly Hansen jackets and all fucking about!!!

the lights of love by Mike Duff

2008-10-24T06:33:00.000-07:00

the pubs they were closin
as i stood in the tarmaced car park
an the girl of my dreams
was not quite wot she seems
as i huddled up my coat in the dark
i pulled on a cigarette regrettin
an walked behind her unseen
thinkin about hate an havin to wait
an a life that had fallen between
an the lights of love turn red
on the road to happiness
why it did fade
to such a charade
is just about any man's guess

she hesitated down by the corner
in the shadow of an old maisonette
illuminated in the light
by the last bus of the night
as i wallowed away in my regret
i knew that she was waitin for someone
an that the someone it wasn't me
followin your heart can tear you apart
but i suppose it just wasn't to be
an the lights of love turn red
on the road to happiness
why it did fade
to such a charade
is just about any man's guess

i walked by the railin's un-nonticed
an watched her from a doorway not far
as she looked all around
without makin any sound
an then she slowly got into his car
i threw my cigarette into the gutter
i knew that me an her were all through
cos a love aint even a love
unless the other person feels the same way too
an the lights of love turn red
on the road to happiness
why it did fade
to such a charade
is just about any man's guess

based on a newspaper clippin from my past.....

page 7 of the manchester evenin news july 18th 1985.......

"FORMER FIANCE
HITS THE ROOF"

i still have the copy...girl i was engaged to.....left me for a man with a tr7....i got drunk in the apollo on varley street in the plattin...an went to her house...his car was outside....i clambered on top of it an jumped up an down on the roof.....he came out an give me a pastin....an then i got arrested for criminal damage...oh love oh love oh careless love.....

she was a nice girl...i was an arsehole....she's still with the same fella...
....sorta based the song on that....only in the song the man acts more civilised

by MIKE DUFF

I've never been to Leigh

2008-10-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

Hey Mrs Ives, you Mrs Ives, cursing at your life
You're a discontented mother and a regimented wife
I've no doubt you dream about the things you'll never do
But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you.....

Oh, I've been to Orrell and Norley Hall and anywhere I could run
I took the hand of a Vaughanie man and we made love in the sun
But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
I've been to WN5 but I've never been to Leigh

Please MmmDonuts wife, please MmmDonuts wife, don't just walk away
'Cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today
I can see so much of me still living in your eyes
Won't you share a part of a weary heart cause your Donuts ate all the pies

Oh, I've been to Pem and avoided Skem while I've guzzled cum on a yacht
I've moved like Aki in Marsh Vegas and showed 'em what I've got
I've been undressed by Finton Stack and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to seem
I've been to WN5, but I've never been to Leigh

[spoken]
Hey, you know what WN5 is?
It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It's that little penis you're holding, it's that man you glassed this morning
The same one who’s going two’s up on you tonight
That's the truth, that's WN5 love......

Sometimes I've been to crying for a brown baby that might have made me complete
But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet
I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free
Hey Jimmy T......
I've been to WN5, (I've been to WN5)
But I've never been to Leigh

Mrs Charlene Oldman

Pop will eat itself

2008-10-24T05:59:00.000-07:00

Man cannot live on Special Brew alone so for those moments when you need something a little more refreshing here are the Mudhutters top ten fizzy drinks

1. D&G Ginger Beer

The boss can of pop. Serve cold. Fuck the chilled bit - freezing cold. Pour into glass and let the spicy ginger rush to your head

2. Coca Cola

Must have been the end of the sixties. I'd be ten or so and I'm on the beach and it's boiling and I'm just beginning to notice girls. They are suntanned and gorgeous and wearing next to nothing and I'm drinking Coca Cola out of a bottle and it's lovely. Shit out of cans

3. Dandelion & Burdock

A proper Wigan drink. Better when you were a kid as it hasn't aged as well as some but still pretty fine...

4. Robinson's Barley Orange

It will always be hot and it will always be Borg v McEnroe. Dan Maskell's in full flow and you're sat there drinking the same stuff as the Ice-cool Bjorn and Mad John

5. Vimto

Another Northern classic. Ribena was for the posh lot - Vimto for us

6. Shandy Bass

This bottle contains less than 2 1/2% alcohol. Like it mattered. We saw it as proper beer and it tasted lovely. Ditto cider ice lollies

7. Lemonade

The proper cloudy stuff you can get now. Makes the old tastless stuff we used to drink as kids seem like water

8. Dr Peppers

First time I ever had this was around 1980 after playing 5-a-side at the Michael Sobell centre in Finsbury Park. Used to serve great big cups of it with loads of ice. Never tasted anything like it at the time. Nor since. It used to be lovely - I'm not sure now...

9. Cream Soda

We weren't posh enough for this but the Tinsley's next door but one had it. Then again their house resembled a cross between Are you being served and Abigail's Party.

10. Orange Lucozade

Best hangover cure ever!!

Zaki Zaki Zaki

2008-10-24T05:20:00.000-07:00

Should I go or should I stay… or something like that. Not that the “I” comes into at all. Cos let’s face it if he continues in this form he ain’t going to stay with us. The big four will come a calling and as much as Amr kisses the badge this season he’ll be trading in the Once a blue always blue for the red of Liverpool or United.

So where does all this leave the Latics fans and what does it tell us about the current state of football and the current state of Latics?

Firstly I have to say he looks a top, top player and all we can really do is enjoy his presence and hope he gets enough goals to keep us up. We may even get him on a permanent deal but I somehow doubt it. And that is upsetting on a number of levels. Firstly the question has to be asked as to why we didn’t sign him on a permanent deal? Well if news is correct that Bruce didn’t want to risk £7.25m on him then hmmm. If indeed he was allowed to make that decision.

Father Jack promised £7m players during the close season yet nobody really believed him. Let’s face it he has never really recovered from paying £5.5m for Koumas. Fucking hell it almost drove him to the Priory! That’s Whelan not Koumas (insert winky thing). Let’s face facts that the infamous war chest remains firmly closed. If, however, he did say to Bruce: “Here’s seven mill get Zaki” and Bruce said that he thought it was too much of a risk then what does that tell us a bout Bruce – the manager.

I really like the fella but maybe (just maybe) he hasn’t got that bit extra that will make him a truly great manager. Has he got the eye for a player? Will he take the risk on a player? Returning to Birmingham for players suggests he’s happy with what he knows. And there probably isn’t anything wrong with that but has he got that bit of nastiness? That sharp eye that says “you know what I’ll risk it with this lad.”

I’m not sure what the Zaki situation is but we (and everybody else) will have to get used to it. Happened with Rooney at Everton while Berbatov had a great season with Spurs and then pissed about for the rest of the time until United came calling. That’s football 2008. That’s why I can’t really get on with it. Never really liked people with money and that’s the way it always will be.

But back to Zaki and let's hope he contiunues this rich vein of storm because in amongst this we'll have the January fire-damaged sale when Father Jack will wave Palacios, Heskey and Valencia around like rent boys on the rack at Piccadilly Circus. Whether Bruce has indeed boobed by not signing Zaki on a permanent or not his managerial prowess will be tested thoroughly if the Father Jack sells the others in the window. If Bruce (and Zaki) keeps us up then the loan signing of the Egyptian may just be the best signing of Bruce's career...

Shalll we sing a song for you? Part 883

2008-10-24T02:09:00.000-07:00

There is none of that "Come on sing up you wankers" around here business. They are there at every home and away game, turning around, giving it the "come on sing your hearts out for the lads" scowling at those that don't sing. Which is all well and good if I'd ever seen one of them before. You see them going cherry red in the face - to match the replica shirts in their wardrobe.

So without further ado here is the Mudhutter Manifesto on singing.
"You do not sing for the sake of it"

That basically means if you want to sing - you sing. If you don't - you don't. Doesn't mean that you care less about the team. And that's it - but if you are going to sing it MUST be one of the following:

To the Team:
"WIGAN, WIGAN, WIGAN"

That'll do every so often.

And occasionally “ER WIGAN, NA NA, NA, ER WIGAN…”

To the Coppers:
"OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM, E-I, E-I, O
AND ON THAT FARM HE HAD SOME PIGS, E-I, E-I, O
WITH A NICK NACK HERE AND A NICK NACK THERE,
HERE A NICK, THERE A NICK, EVERYWHERE A NICK-NICK
OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM, E-I, E-I, O"

"HARRY ROBERTS IS OUR FRIEND, IS OUR FRIEND, IS OUR FRIEND,
HARRY ROBERTS IS OUR FRIEND, HE KILLS COPPERS"

And of course the LAUREL & HARDY theme tune when they walk passed in the inevitable twos all riot-shielded up!

To the Opposing fans:
"YOU'RE GONNA GET YOUR FUCKING HEADS KICKED IN"

"WIGAN AGGRO, WIGAN AGGRO, HELLO WIGAN AGGRO"

"YOU'LL NEVER MAKE THE STATION, YOU'LL NEVER MAKE THE STATION"

" YOU'RE GOING HOME IN A WIGAN AMBULANCE"

When we are pissed:
"WHEN I WAS A LAD MI DAD SAID TO ME, WOULD YOU GO AND WATCH WIGAN RUGBY"

And that is about it. Happy Singing (if you insist) folks.

Put your feet upon the water and play Jesus for the day part 2

2008-10-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

If you've more or less made it in Wigan you buy a big fuck off house on Wigan Lane. If you've really made it you buy a mansion in Parbold just outside Wigan. Mr Soft had almost made it and home for him was at the good end of Wigan Lane. He was a regular in the Boar's Head pub where he would nod to locals and talk about golf and cars. Every inch the successful businessman. They thought he worked "in computers" and that suited him fine. Mrs Soft knew half the truth. Nobody else knew anything.

Mrs Soft was a doll, a diamond. Mr Soft knew that. He had never cheated on her and she had never cheated on him and never would. She lived for the kids.

She dropped him at the station just in time to catch the 7.34 am train to London Euston. He'd be back tomorrow and she'd meet him off the 9.10 pm train tomorrow. They kiss, he buys The Guardian and the latest issue of Arena and settles down, first class naturally for the journey to London. He certainly looks the part. Paul Smith suit, polished brogues and Burberry raincoat. Every inch the successful businessman.

At Euston he hops on the Northern Line two stops to The Angel meets Raymond, does the deal, checks in to the Ibis Hotel at Euston drops his bag, deposits the crack in the hotel safe and does what he always does in London - shops.

By Six he's bought toys from Hamleys for the kids, a silk scarf from Hermes for the wife and a tie from Liberty for him self. Evening meal is taken at an Indian restaurant around the corner from the hotel where the maitre d' greets him like a long lost friend. The food is sumptuous and he retires to bed at just gone ten.
A splendid night's sleep is broken by a nine o'clock alarm call, a continental breakfast, a leisurely tube journey via the Victoria Line to Brixton to meet Stephen. The deal is done and Mr Soft is back at the hotel by eleven. A job well done. He checks out, puts the crack and the recently acquired Gruber & Litvak pistol in his bag and spends the day walking around London.

It's one of those wonderful early Spring days where the sun shines and the city looks beautiful. Mr Soft thinks that he could not live in London but he certainly admires the place. A wonderful fucking city he once told Mrs Soft. She hates the place. As he is getting the six thirty back to Wigan he decides on a light late lunch at Bar Italia in Soho followed by a drink at a newish looking bar around the corner. He orders a large vodka and lemon, sits at the bar, makes small conversation with the attractive blonde fortysomething lady behind the bar and gets an erection as she reveals her cleavage as she bends over to pick a bottle up. She catches him looking and flashes him a " do you like what you see smile" walks to the other end of the bar and brushes herself up against the young black girl who's waiting the tables. The setting sun catches the girl's gold tooth as she kisses the older woman on the mouth.

Mr Soft picks up his bag, puts his raincoat over his bar, says his farewells, takes a mental note of the bar's name and enjoys the mile and a half walk back to Euston railway station.

ROSE by Martin Cruz Smith

2008-10-23T03:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve had this book on my shelf for years and always intended to read it but with it not being my typical type of read I’ve never quite found the time to take it on until a recent holiday.

You’ve probably heard of Martin Cruz Smith, an American author who specialises in Russian tales of espionage and investigation how ever Rose is a story of an American explorer who gets sent to Victorian Wigan to find a missing cleric as punishment for liaising with Africans on the Gold Coast and ends up in a pickle with a local lass.

Regardless of the actual story line, if you’re from around these parts, it's a fascinating descriptive tale of what Scholes life was like in the late 19th century, when everyone went down the pit and then straight to the pub after work where boozy miners engage in shin kicking contests with the local fighting Irish. It also describes in great detail the harrowing conditions most miners and pitgirls worked amongst and the geography of the land when daylight barely broke through the smog.

It references lots of places directly linked to Wigan, meaning that I for one at least no know why Blair’s was called thus as the main character stays at the Minorca Hotel, and of course the Minorca Hotel was renamed Blairs in the late 80’s just as my boozing career started to commence and there's also other modern place names mentioned such as Jaxon's and Thicknesse.

It is well worth a read if you're interested in local history of the time or your ancestors were miners, and very scary to think the whole of Wigan was sitting on toxic mineshafts and risking their lives on an almost daily basis to earn a crust and die young. It is slightly derogatory towards Wigan in parts, not helped by endless mentions of clogs and rugby league but if you want to know what it’s like to shag a pit girl then this book is for you. The plot is pretty decent too, if a little predictable towards the end.

This book came as an Omnibus along with the better known Polar Star by the same author which I am also now half way through. Substitute Russian fish trawling and a bit of crabbing for coal mining and it's much the same story line but nevertheless it is still a good read and Mr Cruz Smith has at least succeeded in managing to distract me from the latest hoolie tome for the past few weeks.

Jimmy T

Film Review - The initiation of Nikki Jayne

2008-10-22T04:44:00.001-07:00

Right let's cut straight to the chase. Is this latest porn star from Wigan's new (and apparently) debut movie any good?

We went out and about to get the views of some of Wigan's finest film critics

Les Bagg: "It were smookingly good."

Statto: "Savage"

AM: "I wouldn't fuck about with vaseline or anything i'd just rip off Nikki's Primark thong and dry bum the bint!"

Zoetemelk: "Normal day in Amsterdam for me"

Golly: "Normal day in Whelley for me.
"5/10 - you want a bit of Budapest porn.
"In fact I've got some on me..."

RobT117: "She was in my class at school"

TerryThomas: "She was in my son's class at school."

Dom: "A spokesman from the Coronary Ward at Wigan Infirmary said that Dom was in a stable condition after watching the movie"

Orrible Ives: "It was like Slade Prison on a quiet day."

Tat: "If only she'd not been so enthusiastic I could have got a great cartoon of Golly and Donuts going twos up.
As it is I've just got Golly grinning away in his ref's outfit!"

Donuts: "Golly's got one spotty fucking arse!"

Migs: "Good film but it aint half fucked my sugars up!"

Father Finton: "She was an alter girl at Sacred Heart when I was there."

Jimmy: "There is no way we can advertise this in the fanzine her lawyers will be onto us immediately..."

K21: "Poor - saw more action in two minutes Srebrenica in the nineties.
"Oh and there was no Oasis on the soundtrack!"

You can tell by the way that I stalk my stalk

2008-10-22T04:16:00.000-07:00

Just a few of the people I've done the Barry Bulsara on in London...

Lulu
Back in the 80s she lived up in Highgate village - might still do for all I know. Used to see her pottering about. Always jolly, smiling away. Oh and well tidy...

Simon Cadell
Not the fragrant Shakepearian - that's Simon Callow - but the one that was the main bod in Hi-de-Hi. Was in a packed pub in Victoria, London. He was pissed and pissed-off waiting for somebody or so it looked. It was only a matter of time when the first voice went up: "Hi-de-Hi" and the whole pub replied: "Ho-de-Ho".

He got up and shouted in that actor's voice: "Fuck off you set of cunts"

Probably his funniest line ever...

Rolf Harris
Walking down Regent Street, whistling away to himself. Not sure if it was Two Little Boys or not. But my mate stopped him and said: "For fuck sake tell us what it is!"

"It's a fucking painting you daft pom" was his reply as he continued on his merry way

Tommy Cooper
Absolutely wankered in The Woodman by Highgate tube. Wife was as bad - sad fucking site

Raquel and Cassandra
The sorts from Only Fools. We saw 'em on successive nights in different pubs. Dell's bit was really good-looking - much more than on the telly. Rodney's was trying to get her husband out the pub (google his name). She had the kids in tow and it was getting very messy...

Kate Moss
For two weeks I saw here everywhere... She was/is fucking gorgeous

Boy George and his entourage
Could probably add in all the rest of that 80s London "scene" - set of twats the lot of them.

George Melly
Could probably add in all the rest of that Soho "scene" - set of likeable drunks the lot of them.

Robbie Coltrane
Fucking massive, arrogant get. Walking through Berwick Street market - he wasn't buying fruit!

Robert Smith
Sans make-up. Used to drink in same pub as us - cracking fella. Said to us once: "Do you mind if I sit with you and talk football?

"These fucking goth tourists are doing my head in."

Sophia Loren
She was doing a book signing in Liberty in London. Me and a mate from work queued up, got to the front and she said: "Where's your book?"

"Oh, I just wanted your autograph"

"No book - you can fuck off"

Got a bit of a twitch on when she said that...

More next time (maybe)

Football that is rich

2008-10-22T04:00:00.001-07:00

Wigan Council operates this Ring and Ride scheme - provides a door-to-door accessible minibus service for people of all ages who find it difficult to use 'ordinary' transport. Keep thinking I might take ‘em up on the offer. Can’t stand buses. Can’t stand trains. But can’t call ‘em as I’ve no credit in my phone. Currently waiting for the American government to bail me out. I’m that skint.

Shopping for whoopsies at Asda. Boiling a kettle for water to wash in, as it’s cheaper that putting the immersion on. Walking everywhere. Miles after miles. Chewing gum to stave off the hunger pains. Raiding my mum’s fridge for chocolate biscuits. One crumpet a day – two on a Saturday will do me fine.

As that great philosopher Marx (Groucho) said: “I came into this world with nothing; and still have most of it left...”

“So excuse me while I light my spliff” and try not to laugh too much at brokers and bankers bawling their eyes out as they have lost their jobs. Didn’t fucking cry when you got that 100k bonus, did you? So you can fuck right off now. As can QPR with their £40 tickets for Championship football. As can Chelsea with their prices and Whelan putting his Pooles pies up 22p in 2.2 months. Oh there he is with his wife walking down Tottenham High Road. Not exactly Parbold is it, Father Jack? And what about all those darkies about, eh? And not just in the Wigan team. Bit of a fuck up for the “Wigan is white” brigade that innit. Don’t fucking bother me. I’ll drink with any man and fuck any woman. Couldn’t be arsed about creed and colour.

Me and the poor boys and girls will just put Tom Russell on the stereo and drink coffee and chew gum to stave off the hunger. Don’t bother about rich boys and Tory twats. Entrepreneurs and stockbrokers. Bores me senseless. And football’s now about money and entrepreneurs. And the stadiums are not grounds anymore and our place of worship has had the lead stripped off the roof and “offers 15 suites ranging from an Executive Box for up to 24 people to the rather unique indoor Marquee for up to 500 people. Nine of the suites offer spectacular pitch views. Two suites offer ground floor access, ideal for car launches and exhibitions. All suites offer air-conditioning. Wireless internet access is available throughout the Stadium.”

It used to be pies and Bovril and tumbleweed blowing over the Town End and now it’s fat girls in suits at conferences from Monday to Friday and fat cats in suits on Saturdays.

And it should be football that is rich with prices for the poor. But it’s over at that level. That top level where the football is poor with prices for the rich. So I’ll stick to my ideals and go the library and borrow a book and listen to Tom Russell sing Walking on the moon. And there are tears in my eyes as he touches my soul. And I love Tom Russell and I’d take a man or a woman that loves Tom Russell over brokers and bankers and new football fans and sportswear retailers any day.

“Now the lights of the town are growing yellow brown,
The moon is beginning to rise and I left momma at the door
I said don’t worry any more
I’ve seen daddy put those stars in your eyes…”

The bearded lady and Aldershot '82

2008-10-22T03:23:00.000-07:00

“Sorry lads, you can’t come in.”

“Er how come?

“It’s eleven, your door's open.”

“No beards.”

“Yer wot.”

“You heard.

“Your mate’s got a beard.

“He can’t come in.”

We look at the Big One and indeed he does have a beard. But we aren’t going in. And we’re laughing and Tone says: “Just run this by me again Mr Landlord.

“You’re not letting us in because our mate has a beard?”

“Yeah sorry lads but I can’t let you.

“It’s an army pub and they’ll know you’re not army as he has a beard.

“End of story.”

And Tone says: “But Robert E Lee had a beard and he was army.”

“Che Guevara,” shouts Guzzling.

“Fidel Castro,” I say.

“Karl Marx”

“David Bellamy”

“Kenny Everett”

Kenny fucking Everett, ha, ha, ha.

“Jim Morrison,” says Az

And we are all laughing at the thought of Jim Morrison being refused entry at a shithole of a pub.

The Big One is doubled up. Dribbling down his beard and Tone shouts again: “Jennifer Miller”

“Jennifer Miller, who the fuck is Jennifer Miller?”

“A bearded lady.”

So Guzzling says: “Would you let Jennifer Miller in?”

“Not if she’s got a beard!”

And it’s getting dafter and dafter and we are laughing and laughing. And it’s the first time I’ve laughed since I heard that Alan had gone down with the Sheffield. Laughing my head off in this army town of Aldershot on a sunny Spring day.

“Rolf Harris”

We all turn around and there are two Wigan kids in their Braemer golf jumpers, jumbo cords and adidas pumps. Right little Ronnie Corbetts. They have seen what’s going on and they’re loving it.

I’m rolling around, the Big One is stroking his beard like a mad fucking professor and Tone is trying his hardest to think of somebody else with a beard and I shout: “Captain Birdseye, he was military.”

Still he stands there and we turn into the bright morning sunshine. And I say to Tone: “How the fuck did you know about Jennifer Miller?”

“God knows…”

We shuffle on by and the brandy in my hipflask sinks into my soul as we turn the corner to see a gang of happy Wigan fans outside a pub.

“Alright lads, do they serve people with beards in here?” says the Big One.

And they look at this daft big cockney with a beard and one of them says: “Yer wot?”

So I reply: “Yer wot, yer wot, yer wot.”

And everybody joins in and they know that I’m Wigan and these cockneys with me today are Wigan and as we go to the bar Guzzling orders five Guinnesses as we hear the cry of “What shall we do with the Argentinians?” from the growing number of Wigan fans outside.

Guzzling’s still laughing when he says: “Rich, I’m going to grow a beard next week.

“Grow it for your Alan…

From sunny New York - Clobber

2008-10-22T01:57:00.000-07:00

Well we discussed the Torres jacket on the Mudhutsmedia forums. One of our number said the following: “Given the colour and the velcro name patch holder over the left breast pocket I'd guess you're looking at something issued to the emergency services, or at least a copy of the same.

The cut (cuffs, collar, pockets etc.) is incredibly close to the US Military BDU jacket. Google 'M65 jacket' and see if I'm wrong.”

Well he was bang on and amazingly it’s being made by Nike! Well not that amazing as Torres wore it in a Nike ad but… Well they just don’t make good clobber. Well they have done this time.

Available in New York only by the looks of things and no sign of price but a great coat

"He bought the coat from sunny Spain" or maybe not

Point to point - Clobber

2008-10-22T01:53:00.000-07:00

It’s raining, the world is wearing K-Swiss and Henleys, you’re wrapped up in your big coat and you need a shoe to go on your plates of meat. To keep you warm and dry. Wondering what to buy? Well here at Mudhuts Towers we really like these Pointer Taylors boots.

They’re available in a myriad of mad colours but we’ll stick to this subtle brown. Cost about £70

Levi Stubbs - Heaven has recalled another angel

2008-10-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

Our legends and heroes leave us. But still the music remains.

Baby I Need Your Loving
Without The One You Love (Life's Just Not Worthwhile)
Ask the Lonely
I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)
It's the Same Old Song
Something About You
Shake Me, Wake Me (When It's Over)
Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever
Reach Out I'll Be There
Standing in the Shadows of Love
Bernadette
I Got a Feeling
7-Rooms of Gloom
I'll Turn to Stone
You Keep Running Away
Walk Away Renee
If I Were a Carpenter
Yesterday's Dreams
I'm in a Different World
What Is a Man
Don't Let Him Take Your Love From Me
It's All in the Game
Still Water (Love)
River Deep Mountain High
Just Seven Numbers (Can Straighten Out My Life)
In These Changing Times
MacArthur Park (Part II)
A Simple Game
I Can't Quit Your Love
(It's the Way) Nature Planned It
Keeper of the Castle
Ain't No Woman (Like the One I've Got)
Are You Man Enough
Sweet Understanding Love
I Just Can't Get You Out of My Mind
One Chain Don't Make No Prison
Midnight Flower
Seven Lonely Nights
We All Gotta Stick Together
Catfish
H.E.L.P.
When She Was My Girl
Tonight I'm Gonna Love You All Over
I Believe In You and Me
Back to School Again
I Just Can't Walk Away
Mean Green Mother From Outer Space
Indestructible

RIP Levi, Obie and Lawrence

"When the world falls apart some things stay in place
She takes off the Four Tops tape and puts it back in its case
When the world falls apart some things stay in place
Levi Stubbs tears.."

Meet at Topshop

2008-10-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

Meet at Topshop, Oxford Circus. All the young lovers meet there. Boys and girls and boys and boys and girls and girls in this mixed-up muddled-up shook-up world.

I meet Janet there and she is late as normal. And I’m as mad as normal and she flashes me that big beautiful smile. And she takes my arm and I forgive her. Cos I always forgive her and we walk through the backs to Efes for kebabs and steaks. And beautiful dips and pittas for a beautiful girl.

We share our joy and pain. Sunshine and rain. We eat and I drink. Jan has a Baileys that she sips. And she keeps smiling and we talk about our friends. Mutual and otherwise. I tell her I love her and she tells me the same. But this love will not be consummated. This is platonic love and we both know that. We hold each other close in our hearts. We are mates and that will do me fine. Beautiful as she is – I don’t break up relationships. My morals are low but something deep, very deep keeps me from her. But no messing I love this beautiful girl from Streatham.

And this beautiful girl from Streatham loves Tom Waits and to a backdrop of the chitter and that chatter of twenty-nine accountants and one secretary I slowly and quietly start singing:

“And you can ask any sailor and the keys from the jailor
And the old men in wheelchairs know
That Matilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred
And she follows wherever you may go
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda
You'll go a waltzing Matilda with me

And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace
And a wound that will never heal
No prima donna, the perfume is on
An old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey
And goodnight to the street sweepers
The night watchman flame keepers and goodnight to Matilda too”

Through welled-up eyes and a lump or six in my throat. And she flashes me that big beautiful fucking smile. The suits are bewildered – twenty nine of the fuckers trying to chat up the secretary from Southgate who will lead them on and half-listen to their tales of accountancy and flow charts. Budgets and provisions, sports cars and salaries. When all you need to fall in love is Tom Waits and gorgeous Turkish food.

We talk about growing up and Jan tells me Tom Waits’ Kentucky Avenue is the greatest song about childhood. I tell her Springsteen’s Growing Up is the greatest song about… er growing up but she flashes me that me that big beautiful fucking smile and I know she is right.

Waits once said when introducing the song: “I grew up at a street called Kentucky Avenue. Well, I was born at a very young age, and eh when I was about 5 years old I used to... I used to walk down Kentucky Avenue collecting cigarette buts. And I finally got me a paper route. I used to get up at 1 o' clock in the morning so I could deliver my papers and still have time to break the law..."

But the song is more about his best friend. This friend had polio and he used to be in a wheelchair and they’d race to the end of the road. And Jan tells me this and she sings in her sweet South London voice:

“I'll take the spokes from your wheelchair and a magpie's wings
And I'll tie 'em to your shoulders and your feet
I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad and cut the braces off your legs
And we'll bury them tonight out in the cornfield
Just put a church key in your pocket, we'll hop that freight train in the hall
We'll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall”

The suits don’t understand poetry. They don’t understand love. Don’t understand platonic love and the way that Janet’s big beautiful smile means more to me than anything in the world and they don’t know who Tom Waits is and it pleases me no end and it would please Tom Waits as well…

a pound, I shit a pound

2008-10-16T03:35:00.000-07:00

Right then,

I finally decided it is time to do something about my weight and last Wednesday I went and enrolled at Weightwatchers.

I didn't know what to expect, I had images of Majorie Dawes and Yvonne from Peter Kay's Slimming World tale. It is not a million miles away!

After filling in more forms than your average civil servant, I was finally enrolled, and Danielle (the leader) invited me onto the scales. Now it is about 4 years since I last weighed myself but I thought I had a fair idea of my weight. To my horror it was almost 2 stone higher than I'd anticipated, which left me with the feeling that I'd made the right decision to attend.

As a new member, you are invited stay for the meeting and afterwards the leader will take you through how the weightwatchers points system works etc. The meeting begins with Danielle standing in front of a before and after picture of herself 'from fat munter to slim ugly pig'. She then proceed to pass around a 1lb block of lard to make those who'd lost only a 1lb realise how much that was. Lots of oohs and aahhs later, she passed around a bag with 12lb of weight in it. The challenge was in the 12 weeks up to Christmas to aim to lose a lb a week. Nods all around. At this point, my mind started to drift as she'd mentioned fish and chips wiping out a day's points....Mmmmm Fish n Chips!!

After being inflicted to a further 15 minutes of prattle from fat middle aged scrubbers talking about water retention and how one of them got so pissed her grandson had to put her to bed, I'd really had enough.

So, then it begun. My diet allows me quite a lot of scope as I get more points for being a man, more for being 35, shit loads more for being a fat cunt. Fish n Chips could be accomodated for less than half my daily points allowance. Despite a couple of early wobbles on the weekend with my niece's birthday I managed to stick to this diet relatively easily and well below my points allowance.

Tonight, I went back with some apprehension for my weigh in, as it got closer to my turn, I got really quite nervous, what if I'd not lost anything? what if my Friday night had scuppered my week?

Well fuck all of that, cos I lost 11 lb in a week, and like they do on the videprinter (eleven fucking pounds). So tonight I'm well happy and more determined than before to continue with this. I'm not comfortable telling all how much I weigh but once I've lost a bit I'll probably say what it was. My staged goals are all about losing 10% of my weight and I'm well on my way to goal number 1.

I've set my own objectives, to be able to shop at regular high street stores like M&S rather than High & Mighty as well as feeling able to fly economy!

Look out for donuts before and after picture in a sunday supplement before Xmas 2009!

More updates to follow

Donuts

Things you're still doing in your forties that you should have given up in your twenties

2008-10-13T06:09:00.000-07:00

Thinking you’ve a chance with 19-year old girls
Pissing in bottles on coaches
Actually travelling on coaches
“Doing the day”
Thinking that Heskey “has got something”
Watching MTV Base
Checking out what people are wearing at the match
Considering buying a motorbike
Facebook
Talking about the performance of cars
“Turning your arm over for a few overs in the summer”
Searching for clothes that you wore in your twenties
Getting involved in a pub brawl
Arguing about God/politics/football
Going the rugby
Going the shop in your trackie bottoms and replica shirt
Willing the ball to come to you when you pass some kids playing football
Not eating on a Saturday
Listening to four skinny indie kids in a bar in Camden
Dancing
Spending more money than the previous year on a winter coat.
Browsing through the lads mags section in Smiths
Being shocked by pornography
Considering taking up smoking as it’s becoming too unfashionable
Getting your ear/nipple/lip pierced
Discussing who is currently the best rapper
Cheating on the missus with some ugly trollop
Eagerly awaiting the latest adidas reissues
Trawling myspace to listen to the band on the cover of this week’s NME
(Even) Considering buying an ironic tee shirt
Playing 5-a-side football. And taking it seriously
Buying pudding, chips and peas at midnight on your way home from the pub
Doing drugs

As Pizza Hut becomes Pasta Hut here's a small tale

2008-10-13T05:19:00.000-07:00

Nail your top takeaways.

Mine are simple
Kebab
Kentucky
Pizza.

Still remember the first time I tasted ‘em all. Not cosmopolitan me. I’m from Wigan. Brought up on lobbies and braising steak and liver and chips. Egg and chips when we skint. But always a roast on a Sunday. Mum and dad made sure of that. Always ate well on a Sunday. And then on Mondays we’d have cold meat with chips. Used to love it when it was lamb as the fat tasted so nice.

Probably that’s why I love kebab. Still remember the day when I first tasted a kebab. Little restaurant up from Camden Town. Primrose Hill way. Nice little gaff and I sat down and had beer, kebab and chips. On a plate with salad and chilli peppers.

We had salad on a Sunday at home. Sunday dinner was roast while Sunday tea was salad. Grandma White insisted on it. Always said: “You can’t beat a good salad.” Never had chilli peppers in our salad though. Never had a salad like I had with the kebab. Still remember the taste. Can food taste beautiful. Well that kebab did that night. Never had it on a plate with a knife and fork since but…

First time I had Kentucky was on the County Road before an Everton game. Must have been 14 or 15. Surrounded by rapscallions, trying to disguise the woollyback accent. Letting the scouse mates do the talking and then sink the teeth into something unworldly. Breadcrumbs and chicken and spices and that taste and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’m more jerk chicken now but there are no faded photos of Marcus Garvey in Muswell Hill. Jah Rastafari has not made it to N10. So it’s still Kentucky in Muswell Hill and it still moves my soul on sad and lonely nights when I’ve had too much to drink and too long to think.

And pizza is pizza. And pizza is girls. When I first came to London it was Pizza Hut at Stamford Hill. Pizza and mulled wine and beautiful girls called Rose. Laughing and joking. Big multi-racial gang of us. Me from the north with these North London folk that let me into their world. And I let them into mine. Had some laughs in that Pizza Hut. Good folk – my friends.

Still go to Pizza Hut when I’m with a girl. Was in the one around Leicester Square with Janet the other week. Straight from work and bloody Wham were in there. Made her day. All sat there. George Michael, Andrew, Pepsi and Shirley. Four of ‘em just sat there having pizza and Coca Cola. Laughing away like we do up in Stamford Hill. Flirting before the fucking. Top of the Pops and still in Pizza Hut. Sort of made me smile that.

Went over and said hello and got the lads to sign a napkin for Janet. Didn’t want to disturb them but they were fine. Took it back to the table and it really made her day. The girl with the biggest, brightest smile in the world flashed it towards me.

Might go out and buy Wham’s next single now. Made my mate’s day and you can’t ask for anything more than that...

Sonnets of Wigan - No 1

2008-10-13T05:06:00.000-07:00

Shall I compare thee to a Wigan day?
Thou art more filthy and far less ornate:
Rough birds do shake my massive spuds of spray,
And my Johnny Bag hath too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of plonker shines,
And oft' is his purple headed bulb dimm'd;
And every bird from Ince sometime declines,
By chance or more crabs changing minge untrimm'd:
But thy eternal dole cheque shall not fade
Nor lose currency of thou sweaty breast;
Nor shall Death brag thou fat arse in his shade,
When in eternal pies to belly thou growest:

So long as Brocol House gives free money,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

The Bard of Wigan

The Ghost between the Posts

2008-10-13T04:53:00.000-07:00

A cold wind blows around the vast deserted dark stadium. The only sound to be heard comes from the scuttling litter being blown hither and thither under the seats across the concrete terraces. No one sees the pale figure in the goalmouth standing guard for an attack that will never come. John Thomson, the ghost between the posts.

John Thomson was born in the Fife mining village of Cardenden on January 28th 1909. When he left school he did what most men in this community did, he worked down the pit. Outside of work he played football for local side Wellesley Juniors and he gained a reputation for being an excellent goalkeeper. Celtic were alerted to his talent and he signed for the club at the age of 17. £10 secured his services and it was surely the best £10 the club ever spent. At 18 he made his first team debut in a 2-1 win at Dundee and he went on to become the first choice goalkeeper at the club.

He wasn’t the tallest of keepers being around 5ft 10in but he was a superbly athletic one and was renown for his bravery. That same bravery would cost him his life at the tender age of just 22.

John’s talent was backed up by hard evidence. In his short career he won two Scottish Cup medals with Celtic, in 1927 against East Fife 3-1 and in 1931 against Motherwell 4-2. He was also picked for the national team and won four caps for Scotland and four for the Scottish League side.

Sadly his promising career came to an abrupt and cruel end at Ibrox on Saturday, September 5th 1931. 80,000 witnessed it and not a one would ever forget the tragedy that unfolded that day. Rangers v Celtic one of the greatest derbies in the history of football has always been a passionate affair and it was young John Thomson’s final day of his life. Early in the second half of the game the Rangers centre forward Sam English broke through the Celtic defence and moved swiftly towards the goal. Thomson was off his line in a flash and raced out to block the imminent shot. There was a sickening collision and both men fell to the floor. English got up but the young keeper lay prone on the turf. He was obviously badly hurt and was hurriedly placed on a stretcher. One report said that as he was being taken from the pitch he managed to raise himself up and looked back towards his goal before collapsing back unconscious. A hush fell upon the huge crowd as he was carried down the tunnel but one piercing scream rang out from the main stand when John’s wife of a couple months saw her stricken husband. He was taken to the Victoria Infirmary in Glasgow. At 9:25pm that night John Thomson died.

Sam English was cleared of any blame in the incident, it was purely a tragic accident. In the collision as Thomson bravely dived at the attackers feet the knee of English struck a mortal blow to the goalkeepers head. It was the first old firm derby that English had played in and it was only his 7th game for the club. He was never the same man again and throughout his career he was taunted by fans who blamed him for the death of the keeper. The fact is he was blameless, it was a shocking accidental collision with no malice intended. Sam English was 23 at the time of the accident and he retired from the game 5yrs later. He died on April 27th 1967 aged 58.

The funeral of John Thomson was attended by over 30,000 people, , including thousands who had travelled from Glasgow, some of them had even walked the 55 miles to the Fife village. His coffin was carried by his Celtic team mates. Rangers players and officials were also there to pay their respects to the keeper.

He will never be forgotten by the Celtic supporters and his name lives on. Even today nearly 80yrs after his death, his grave is visited by the fans and green and white tributes are placed on the monument.
Many thanks to the excellent website www.kerrydalestreet.com for their info.

Come all you Glasgow Celtic
Stand up and play the game
For between your posts
There stands a ghost
Johnny Thomson is his name

John Thomson 1909-1931

Tony Topping

An Open Letter to Paul McCartney

2008-10-09T04:43:00.000-07:00

“Oh Paul oh Paul oh Paul
Oh how the mighty fall
Oh how the times have changed
From hero to deranged”

Ok, so it’s a stanza from a poem I wrote about Paul Jewell, but the same rules apply.

You’re a fucking joke McCartney, and have been for some considerable time. If I’m being brutally honest I never really did like you. Your mate, that Lennon lad, was much more my cup of tea. There’s just something about you that I find unsavoury. It’s a smugness about you that I normally associate with one of those pseudo middle class twats who have just arrived on the [italics]upwardly mobile express[italics] from workingclassville. I used to attribute it to a more softer characteristic in your personality, maybe a touch of shyness.

You see Paul, the public has forgiven you for a lot over the years. From your fucking awful collaborations with Stevie Wonder and Michael (anal bleaching) Jackson, to the musical abortion that was the Frog Chorus. In fact, aside from a couple of songs with Wings your post Beatle career has been painful. We even forgave you when you got hitched to the wooden legged pit pony that is Heather Mills. And we stood by you during the messy divorce even though we knew she wasn’t all to blame.

We stood by you because you were [italics] OUR[italics] Paul McCartney, a local lad made good. A local lad who shook the world with his music. However, you hammered the final nail in the coffin for me a few weeks ago.

What in the name of Hezbollah did you think you were doing playing in Tel Aviv? Let me remind you Paul, as you clearly have forgotten your history about the State of Israel. Israel is a country that is flaunting every UN resolution under the sun. A short while back you may remember a little publicised incident called Gulf War 2. In that war, we, the civilised counties in the west, invaded a little known country called Iraq. And why? Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which of course as we all know now didn’t exist. Israel has been carrying such weapons for years only they wont confirm or deny this. What do we do? Nothing.

Point 2. I seem to remember you being against the South African regime of apartheid in the 1980’s, but I don’t seem to remember you breaking ranks and playing Sun City. So how does this sit with the 1.5 million Palestinians that are being held siege in Gaza and your decision to play in the land of their oppressors? Of course you said of playing Tel Aviv;

“if I go to a place it becomes evident that my message is a peaceful one and I hope that the idea will spread”

So what reason did you have for not spreading yourself over the border and play a concert there? Could it be the $5m you got for it eh Paul? Because you really need it don’t you. It’s up there with one of the other natives of that region, Iscariot, in the fuck you I’m getting paid stakes of betrayal.

Not to worry though eh Paul as I see you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Those naughty boys and girls at McDonalds have been using Beatles images in their restaurants. I see your spokesman did your dirty work for you:

“What sort of morons do McDonalds think Beatles fans are? It's ridiculous and insulting to use images to peddle hamburgers. Fans should boycott McDonalds - and not just in Liverpool.”

I hope that crisp iceberg lettuce you’ll be eating for your salad lunch is noisy enough to drown out the screams of innocent, starving and dying. You’re a fucking disgrace McCartney. John must be turning in his fucking grave.

Dirrrrtyoldman

http://thethoughtsofadirrrrtyoldman.blogspot.com

Real-ity Television?

2008-10-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

I’ve kept too quiet for too long but it is really getting on my wick! At the risk of upsetting 99% of chavs who watch Jeremy Kyle, whilst smoking in front of their baby and shagging their boyfriend’s mate, who is really their cousin, I really dislike reality television programs!

My interest in this as boiled to the surface after bullying racist Jade Goody was told on India’s version of ‘Big Brother’ that she had cancer. If this is true, then I hope she recovers. But it’s a wee bit convenient isn’t it? Whilst on a television show, grovelling for forgiveness from a country whose Bollywood star she had apparently bullied.

Of course all the goons have taken to the ‘brave Jade’ campaign, not realising that 1000’s of men and woman suffer with this awful disease every day with no help from no-one. They are the brave people, not self-styled thicko’s who make a tit of themselves on television just to get famous. She’ll be okay, she is now the darling of the gutter press once again and the millions of people who believe the media hype. I’m just worried about all those everyday people who can’t afford those treatments that ‘brave Jade’ will be getting, perhaps in exchange for exclusive snippets from her new autobiography, well one written in her guise anyway!

Get well soon Jade, just hope Max Clifford has covered his tracks……..

But where will it end? Will it ever end? Most of my hatred is towards all these ‘pop music’ shows. We have four numpties who know as much about music as a two year-old. Granted Simon Cowell knows what sells but he knows jack all about music. Why is Danni Minouge there? Ditto Cheryl Cole? Louis Walsh has been sacked by Cowell more times than York but seeing as his ‘expertise’ is in boybands (wink, wink!); he’s probably the only one worth keeping on.

But I can’t for the life of me, know the answer to one question. If there is one question we will never know the answer to, even if we live for another 1000 years, it’s this: Why the bloody hell is Amanda Holden a judge on, the ironically- titled, ‘Britain’s Got Talent’? What the hell does she know about talent that we don’t?

After making her debut as a contestant on ‘Blind Date’ (she didn’t win), Amanda’s career has flourished. Starring in such epics as er, er, er, okay she used to go out with Les Dennis, apart from that, I can’t think of anything!

Okay that’s a bit unfair, the star of ‘Cutting It’ and ‘Wild at Heart’ knows how to act (a bit) but crying when some big lad, who is bullied at school, sings some opera (which undoubtedly, his mother ‘bullied’ him to sing!), isn’t the sign of a judge who is fair and knows her stuff.

Infact mastering the show itself, is like a checklist of criteria you must be, to get through. You either have to be seriously ill, bullied, fat, a weirdo, a dog, a failed contestant on another related show or Holden’s dole officer. And who won last year’s contest? A comedian? A magic act? Even a dancing dog? No, its was a fucking ponce who danced in water!

There’s nothing these reality shows won’t do. You look in your television mags, singing, dancing, cooking, hunting for ghosts, jumping out of planes and eating a Kangaroo’s testicle! They are supposed to represent real life. If they are true to life, then I really fear for our future!

Anyway here a couple of my suggestions for reality television shows which I’ve forwarded to a number of different television channels:

Britain’s Got No Talent What So F***ing Ever! – ‘Talent’ show in which Amanda Holden and Kerry Katona judge a variety of acts, including singers, dancers and er that’s it! Presented by Kate Thornton.

I’m a Celebrity (apparently) Chuck Me Out Of Here! – Game show where viewers phone in, answer a question and the winners are chosen at random from our 4 year old Sri Lankan boy, who we pay 2p a day, sorry I mean a computer! The winners will get to choose which washed-up celeb that will be thrown out of an in-flight aircraft, with no parachute. (Calls cost £25 a minute + Network charge, just to take the piss out of you that little bit more)

I’m a Celebrity (apparently) Chuck Me Out Of Here! – EXTRA – Game show/drama, in which the two remaining washed-up ‘celebs’ fight it out on the wing of the plane – like in Die Hard 2! Yippee Ki-Yay m**********ers!

Straight Eye For The Gay Guy – Reality show in which a gay guy is taken to live a ‘straight life’ for a week but realises that his new found straight mates are a bigger bunch of poofs than normal gay guys. They take in a Kooks concert and drink coffee at ‘Nero’. And our guy realises that he isn’t missing out after all!

21st Century Eye for the 19th Century Gentleman – Spin-off reality show in which we transport a 19th century man into the 21st century to sample life in our time and see how much as changed in 200 years. Our man is decked out in the latest ‘attire’. His smart waistcoat, shirt, trousers and top hat are replaced by the finest Henleys has to offer. Out goes timeless sheet music by Mozart, Verdi and Beethoven and in come ‘banging tunes’ like McFly, Fall Out Boy, 50 Pence and ‘banging house anthems’. He longer as to work for a living as a fortnightly trip to the dole will sort him out. And in order to woo a lady, he no longer as to win her father’s favour and invite her to dance. He simply has to slap a ‘bitches’ tracksuited arse, shield his eyes from her orange skin and fumble for her bra. It’s touching stuff!

The Drinking Klub – Reality/game show in which 5 young people are invited to take on each other in a drinking contest. They are allowed to quaff as many bottles of WKD (or ‘Wicked’ as they are generally referred to) as they like. They are allowed just one food stop (generally a kebab or pizza) but it’s not compulsory. Its last-man standing as our contestants will no doubt turn to dirty tricks to win. Sick buckets, police officers on probation, with arrest figures to reach and ambulance crews will be on standby. Doormen will be provided if the action is a little slow. Girls will come into the game, to try and ‘mix things up’, if our lads are still standing at 2.00am.

Viva Marsh Vegas

Check out his fine blog at http://caravanofhate.blogspot.com/

CCTV CITIES MUDHUTTER STYLE

2008-08-27T02:09:00.001-07:00

Much has been said about the CCTV Cities on Wigan - it was bollocks really and it would have been just the same in any similar-sized town in the country prior to Christmas. At Mudhuts we wrote the following little piece some three years ago. That McIntyre might as well have used it for his script…

Jimmy Jazz was fucked. Big-style. Out all night watching modern day Britain at leisure.

It the old transit with Jimmy was Robbo and Sam Ahmed. Robbo had more or less been a permanent feature on Jimmy's teams for the last two years whilst WPC Ahmed was straight outta Bolton via the University of East Anglia.

It was now 6.30am and Robbo's notes show the following.

Midnight - Blonde bird dark-haired bloke - 3 minute knee trembler. Bloke sick immediately after. Kept cock out of trousers while he threw up.

12.22am 3 punches thrown. 18-year old missed twice 50-year old hit him once.

12.33am Ambulance arrives.

1.00am Very fat girl sat on very thin man's face.

1.23am Ambulance arrives.

1.43am Carol Doughty staggers passed. Pissed? Stoned? Who gives a monkeys? The whore will be dead in 6 months.

2.00am Huge kick off around the corner. At least 60 involved. Three objects hit the van.

2.33am Sally Johnson on knees sucking Councillor John Sedgwick's cock

2.44am Money changes hands.

3.38am Terry Robinson (Bouncer at Liquid) gives dark-haired girl a package in exchange for money.

5.05am Two "studenty-types" pushing Asda trolley full of something?

5.06am Establish they are pushing 3rd "studenty-type" around

6.05am Vicar opens church doors

6.10am Vicar clears up vomit, cum, urine and blood from church doorway.

Well another night in Wigan! Just a normal fucking Saturday night/Sunday morning in Wigan

"Easy like a Sunday Morning" - Indeed!

"Put your feet upon the water and play Jesus for the day"

2008-08-27T02:07:00.000-07:00

Choccy was a twat. A successful twat albeit but still a twat. Mr John Soft shot him. Four fucking times. Bang, bang, bang and fucking bang. Put the body in the canal. Let it float down, or is that up to Wigan Pier. Wigan Pier the Proletariat's Disneyland. They all go. All the poxy George Orwell groupies! A leisure complex based on the good old days when everyone made money for the evil Lord of the Manor and then died.

Choccy made money for himself and then died. The corpse was spotted by two Japanese tourists. The water had cleaned the blood away but it was unmistakably a dead body. The female tourist, Kobi Anshe (aged 29 from Hiroshima) told the local cub reporter that "She knew immediately that it was a dead body and didn't panic". She simply called the police on her mobile and watched them lift it from the dirty water.

That night Kobi and her boyfriend stayed in the Quality Hotel on Riverway in Wigan and had the best sex they'd had in their eight-year relationship. A year later to the day Kobi shot her boyfriend four times. Bang, bang, bang and fucking bang. She pushed the body into the river and caught the first plane to Manchester to look for Mr John Soft. Best of luck. Her and the police.

Harry's Bar is the type of public house that normal people do not go to. It's a sea of cheap tracksuits, cheap perfume and cheap booze. Inhabited by the drunkest deadest white trash in town. A blow -job in the bogs from a trollop with liquorice roots costs a fiver. Squeak went there once. Never again! "Very unsatisfactory" were the words he uttered to himself as he wiped his cock against his Marks & Spencer Y-fronts. "Very unsatisfactory!"

It did, however, not prevent him visiting the said premises four times a week. He would arrive on Monday at 11.00am and leave on Thursday at 7.30 pm. He obviously went home each evening but it all sort of blurred in to one long booze-fest. The unusual thing about Squeak is that he would sit all on his own and talk to nobody. Unlike the others who would argue continuously, he would sit look straight ahead, moving only to visit the bar where he would order his usual Guinness with Jameson chaser or visit the toilets to relieve himself. The arseholes who frequented Harry's thought him odd but nothing more. Just odd! If only they knew.

Bubble, had during schooldays and late teens, been Squeak's best friend. That was until one woman took Squeak away from Bubble and Bubble made up for lost time by screwing half the half-decent females in town. Women had undoubtedly been his downfall. He was currently cheating on his fourth wife with his boss's youngest daughter. Blonde and beautiful his wife may be but, come on, the girl's young and impressionable and to use the current parlance "she takes it up the wrong un". See when I say Bubble and Squeak were best friends, their friendship was based almost solely on their mutual interest in hard core XXXX pornography. Bubble had a far too unhealthy interest in anal sex while Squeak, well Squeak was just Squeak and said very little.

This being Friday Bubble was "up town" chatting to the girls. He had had his eye on a girl called Paula for the last two weeks or so and tonight he would make his move. It would be easy. She was gagging for it. No problem! And quite right because by ten that evening he was back at Paula's neat terrace. The fucking had been marvellous for the two of them. All night long! She must have woken the whole street. Bubble particularly enjoyed her cry of "That's fucking wonderful big boy". Paula had obviously watched her fair share of pornographic videos because to the discerning viewer, if there had have been one, the fucking was not wonderful and Bubble was far from being a big boy.

In the cold light of morning Bubble still considered Paula attractive. For she was. Small with short fair hair, a well -toned sun bed tanned body. This could be difficult. A wife and two girlfriends could prove difficult but fuck it they don’t call me 'The Scholes Stallion for nothing' thought Bubble. What a fucking prick!

Bubble was desperate. He used to buy from Choccy and it was easy. Nice and clean but now he had been reduced to haggling with the scum from Coops Foyer. All would-be gangsters all fucking half-wits as far Bubble was concerned. He could nip to Harry's and buy from the cunt who runs the scene in there but he knew that Squeak would be in and he couldn't be bothered in conversation. Also it was his lunchtime and he was an accountant with the top firm in the town. There's no way he could go in there with all the down and outs. He needed the dope, not really for his own sake as - although he had what could be termed a marijuana habit - he had promised Emma, the bosses daughter, he could get her some.

He had managed to get a pass out from the wife on the premise that he was playing darts with the lads. The wife knew he'd never thrown a dart in his life but was beyond caring. With ten minutes of his lunch left he had no option but to go in Harry's find the man and grab what he could. The deal was done at the bar. " How fucking unprofessional" he thought. He nodded to Squeak who barely stirred from his Guinness and rushed out making it back three minutes late.

That evening Emma and him self smoked the dope and drank three bottles of wine between them. Bubble fell asleep for a short while. Emma looked at his ageing body, prodded him and through the dope and alcohol haze somehow ordered a cab that took him home. It was ten thirty when he left. Emma found some energy from somewhere, went to the bathroom showered and washed the fucking arsehole out of her life.

The next day at work she told him it was over. Bubble agreed it was for the best, thinking about his job should her father find out, and said "Well it was bloody good while it lasted".

"Well it was average", said Emma.

Police had estimated that Squeak had been dead for three and a half weeks when he was found dead. He had shot himself. Bang. The police also announced the gun that he used was almost certainly the one that was used to kill Anthony "Choccy" White some two years previously.

Bubble identified the body
To be continued…

FROM THE ARCHIVES: THIRTY GO MAD ONT' ISLE OF MON

2008-08-27T02:02:00.000-07:00

Recently I began thinking about which was my favourite Latics trip and there was a clear winner. In my 25+ years (thinking about it, it's more like 30) watching Latics there was only one choice. It was not one of the trips to Wembley or the end of season trips to Torquay or Bournemouth. Nor was it Wrexham away in the FA Cup in the early 70's even though we lost 4-0. I still remember that game/trip like it was yesterday probably because it was my first away trip with Latics. Neither was it one of the many London trips over the years. No the one trip that I really enjoyed and is still my fave is the Pre-Season jaunt to the Isle of Man in July 1992.

Initially I had planned to go alone as I only wanted to go for the weekend and most that were making the trip were going for the week. But after airing my plans to the lads one Sunday lunchtime several more decided to go and come the day around 30 of us made the trip. The ferry tickets were booked and around 7.30pm on Friday 24th July 1992 the weekend began. Two minibuses were sorted to take us to Heysham for the night sailing to Douglas. After a night's drinking in 'The Springfield' we were on our way and it didn't take long for the fun to start. By the time we reached Heysham Beanie was well out of it. Apparently he drank a whole bottle of Ouzo during the 45-minute trip up the M6, and proceeded to fall headlong out of the van on arrival. He was in such a state that the Captain of the ship refused to sail with him on board. He wasn't so concerned with what happened to Beanie he just didn't want it to happen on his ship as he'd be well for it. However after much serious debating in which the captain and ferry staff were told no one else was missing the trip and Beanie would be left in their hands they decided to let him on board. They did insist that he had to stay on deck with one of us keeping an eye on him.

Needless to say he slept like a baby outside on deck for the whole journey and believe me it was freezing as I found out when it was my turn to sit with him. Onboard that night were around 20 Huddersfield guys going across for the tournament as well. There was no trouble and Wigan and Huddersfield got on well not only that night but for the whole weekend. Several people thought it would be a great laugh to shave Beanie's eyebrows with one of the Huddersfield guys carrying out the deed as we all waited for him to wake from his drunken stupor. The trip across went quietly and on arrival in Douglas early morning was woken. Imagine how you'd feel. But all was not well and the lad was in serious pain. So a couple of lads took him to hospital with the help of a luggage trolley while the rest of us had the craic with Norman Wisdom who was waiting for someone getting off the ferry. At the hospital it was discovered he had a broken leg (ouch). The fool had broken it falling out of the van at Heysham and was so out of it he didn't know or feel anything until waking 8/9 hours later. He had a broken leg, horrendous hangover and no eyebrows. I'm glad it wasn't me. As he was meant to be staying the week he was booked on the trip home on the Monday with the weekend boys under the name of Mr Bean. Very appropriate I thought. We all booked into our hotels, as the owners were genuinely glad of the custom. I booked into one room with Little Jimmy and Keef. We had a room on the seafront overlooking Douglas Bay. Very nice!
We arranged to meet at 12 noon in Bushy's and even though it was now around 9am everybody turned up. There were no games today so it was an all-day session ahead. We agreed to meet later for the night out and went different ways with me and Jimmy opting for a walk with Taylor to a pub he recommended at the opposite end of the bay. After about an hour's walk we arrived to find 2/3 people having a quiet drink. Top pub John! Anyway we stayed as it had by now started pissing down which resulted in us getting a tram back to meet the rest of the lads in the main area, grabbed some tea, a wash and a brush up and out again for the night. We again had a drink with Huddersfield who told us some Stoke had arrived in the afternoon and for some reason were panicking about it. Stoke seemed to have the Indian sign over Huddersfield and we couldn't understand it. A brilliant night was enjoyed by us with a good number ending up in some Rave Club where we were the only people drinking. Meanwhile the DJ kept referring to us as the "Wigan Posse in the House". Several were on the dancefloor but the rest not being ravers were on a balcony above the DJ. At this point young Fatboy Slim decides to piss from a great height onto the DJ. What a sight! Anyway I don't think any of these ravers (mostly kids anyway) fancied their chances with us, and nothing came of it. After leaving the club we talked a taxi driver into taking 8 of us back to the hotel in his taxi. He wasn't keen but we were very persuasive and 5 minutes later we were outside our hotel ready to turn in.

I awoke Sunday morning to a faint sound in my ears. Looking at the time it was around 6.30am and boy this bloody faint noise was annoying me. I thought that the room intercom had been left on but as I turned over there were Little Jimmy's legs dangling over the bunk (he was in the top bunk, me in the bottom) listening to his personal stereo. Keef was in the big double bed snoring his head off as usual. After showering and breakfast we swapped stories and back to the pub for Sunday lunchtime. Our game was an evening kick-off at 7.30pm against the Isle of Man team. The game was in Castletown and coaches were laid on to take the supporters from Douglas to the game. We again met Huddersfield who were playing Dutch team S.C. Cambur in the afternoon. After finding out that Sunday hours were a ridiculous 12.30pm - 2.00pm and 7.30pm - 10.00pm we were deflated as our evening game would take up most of the drinking time. We were delighted to hear that the hotel where Robbie and Dean were staying was prepared to serve as long as we wanted so that was sorted. As we had our afternoon drink, us in one corner and Huddersfield in the other laughing and joking about the previous night in walked Stoke, swaggering over to Huddersfield and then over to us. "Hi we're Stoke, you Wigan" to which we replied "Yeah so why don't you fuck off". We had seen Huddersfield all weekend and they were sound but these pricks really thought they were the Bees Knees. Anyway off they went and we never saw them again. When the bar shut we decided to go to the game with Huddersfield and spent the afternoon at the Douglas Bowl. Hudders won 1-0 and spent the whole game singing "You're just a bunch of poseurs" at us as the difference in dress was quite noticeable. Wigan in designer gear etc with Huddersfield in team shirts - you get the picture. Once again Wigan were showing others the way to dress. We went back to the hotel after the game and got ready for our match.

The coach dropped us at the ground in Castletown. This I remember was not as good as the Douglas Bowl earlier and consisted of a seated stand on one side and three, open un-terraced sides surrounded by open countryside. As it was so open it was too much of a temptation and not many of our lot paid to get on. Latics won the game 3-1 in front of a crowd consisting of lots of Wigan. By the time we got back to Douglas it was around 9.30pm and we managed to get a pint before last orders before we were back to Robbie's hotel. The girls were taken aback when 30 thirsty Wiganers virtually drank the bar dry. It was around 11.30pm when someone mentioned that the club around the corner was open so off we went to check it out. I knocked on the door and this little window opened and informed us that "yes it was open" and unbelievably served until 4am! Jackpot! In we went and had a great night. Hudderfield players, Latics players and fans all having a great laugh. And even after that back again to Robbie's hotel where we chilled before walking back along the prom to our hotel where the landlord couldn't believe we were just coming in. After packing and breakfast it was off to the boat for the trip home. More ale was ordered but guess what - the same pint was still on the table when we docked in Liverpool. I for one couldn't touch another pint after a mega weekend.

A couple of other memories from the weekend were Cainy 200 feet up on the roof of the hotel waving a Wigan Athletic flag and finding Keith Harrison under his bedcovers smoking a cig in a cloud of smoke. Loonies or what? Jimmy Meadows also spent the night sleeping in the bottom of the shower but that's nothing new.

THE BEST TRIP EVER

THE NAUGHTY ONE

CELEBRITY SKIN

2008-08-27T01:59:00.000-07:00

This year the ITV network restored its News at Ten programme. It is presented by Sir Trevor McDonald and when announced cynicism was in the air, as the announcement happened to coincide with the latest phone line scandals to hit the network.

The once-highly-admired News of Ten was restored and it has been interesting to see how it fared against the BBC's 10pm bulletin. It has bombed! Where it's other news is highly influenced by celebrity material? In the main area where the two networks go head to head - over the cornflakes and coffee. The serious stuff at ten is not ITV's cup of espresso.

Celebrity news, red carpet events and reality television dominate GMTV's breakfast programme. There appear to be more 'Showbusiness Reporters' than 'War Correspondents'. Their argument will be that: they have recognised that the mass market is both influenced by and interested in celebrity and have chosen their editorial accordingly. Breakfast Time, meanwhile, tows the traditional BBC line and concentrates mainly on harder news. The final 30 minutes of the weekday show is usually given over to lighter news and entertainment items but in general it keeps to this agenda.

By looking, in depth, at both channels' viewers it would be easy to identify their core audiences and the differences therein. However the picture blurs and will undoubtedly change over coming years. It is also important to ask whether, indeed, GMTV has looked at the mass market and identified that their audience wants a celebrity-driven news show or whether the publicity arm of celebrity has compromised the news media by putting forward more and more celebrity news.

The effect of celebrity will continue to influence the news media but to what extent. Firstly there is the potential "ghettoising" of serious news programmes. It has recently been announced that billions of pounds need to be cut from the BBC's schedules with ten per cent of content to be slashed. This has led to fears that their 24-hour news channel BBC News 24 may suffer in favour of celebrity-led programmes such as Strictly Come Dancing. It may also lead to news being considered an elitist market as a small percentage of the market seek out the serious news programmes such as Newsnight and Channel 4 News. There may also be the case where the BBC decides that if you can't beat the dumbing-down then you may as well join them.

With 60-second news spots on BBC3 and it cannot escape anybody's notice that the BBC's recently-departed presenter Natasha Kaplinsky was a contestant on Strictly Come Dancing. This has brought up a number of conundrums.

Firstly her winning performance on the programme may now mean that she is known as "that woman that won the dancing thing" rather than the winner of the 'Newscaster of the Year' at the annual Television and Radio Industries Club awards.

The broadcaster Mark Lawson said: "Views within BBC News are strongly divided as to the wisdom of allowing - and indeed encouraging - news presenters to venture into non-news areas.

"Leaving aside professional jealousy, some BBC journalists feel a presenter's authority is diminished when they take on entertainment roles.

"Some cringe when they see Andrew Marr or Jeremy Vine donning fishnet tights or punk garb for the now seemingly obligatory newsroom turn for Children In Need.

"Others - including many viewers -see it as a highlight of the show and a sign that newsreaders are human after all."

Of course newsreaders carrying out a song and dance is nothing new as Angela Rippon galvanised the public's attention when she appeared on the institution that was the Morecambe and Wise Christmas show almost 30 years ago. Kaplinsky, Bill Turnbull and other newsreaders that have crossed over to entertainment may, in fact, have introduced a new generation to the more serious news format from the BBC.

There is also the question as to whether gossip and celebrity is simply not just another form of news. Who are we to say whether it is less important than so-called hard news? It has long been a part of print journalism as society pages were filled with the gossip of the upper echelons. Maybe the 3AM girls in The Mirror are simply the Nigel Dempster's of today. The celebrity - if they are only a Victoria Beckham lookalike from Doncaster - may be looked upon with the same awe that the readers once looked on the debutantes of the 1950's.

The former television and radio producer Bob Meyrowitz said back in 2000. "It's interesting because gossip is a well-recognized and well-established form of journalism,

"We'd just like to see it get more respect."

As for the future it is hard to tell which way the news format will evolve. If we concede that the print industry preceded television with celebrity reporting it can now be seen that sales of celebrity magazines and hits on celebrity internet sites are slowing down and in some cases falling.

Whether falling magazine sales will translate into a less celebrity-led television news time alone will tell. In Britain it may just take an event like the (possible eventual) outcome of the Madeleine McCann case to test television's resolve. It began as a hard news story but has evolved into a real conundrum for some television companies and programmes that allowed themselves to be used by the McCanns as they encouraged the media to report their case and had people within the media (in some cases) funding their cause. Here were official suspects using PR to put across their counter defence in the British media. They are using and have been using publicity to put their point across in the same way that Victoria Beckham does when she wants the world to know about "her David".

It was reported by the likes of GMTV and SKY News in a breezy, celebrity way. Now as the messy affair grinds to a halt and the tragic disappearance of a little girl still remains unsolved, maybe certain news channels may look back and consider the way they report news and the content they use. If the unthinkable happens and the parents were in some way involved in their daughter's disappearance then the moment that "Kate and Gerry" became "The McCanns" in the news reports may have just been the moment when broadcasters ought to consider the implications of celebrity and celebrity culture dominating news bulletins.

However with the case being put on hold in Portugal and the McCanns having their arguido status removed they are back to being Kate and Gerry with their ringmaster Clarence Mitchell pulling the strings again. The messy affair continues. The blurred line of celebrity and news is as ever. As Big Brother dominates the pages of the Daily Star and David Beckham edges ever nearer to his 100th cap for England when a blind man can see he's not capable of playing at that level anymore it could be some time before news is reported in the way some of us would deem it acceptable.

Festival Fever

2008-08-27T01:55:00.000-07:00

Well what a summer it's been with all the festivals, eh? Glasto, Reading, Leeds, V and all the others. It's the new "going to Spain for your hols". And I've seen most of it. Of course I haven't been. Just sat their in the chair with a brew and the red button. Great stuff.

Come Glastonbury and come all the discussions. "You go out last night?"

"Nah stayed in and watched Glastonbury"

And quite right as well. I was in the queue in Tesco listening to two middle-aged women discussing Neil Diamond at Glastonbury. I thought how ridiculous until I realised that I, as a middle-aged man, had spent a Sunday afternoon in front of the telly watching it. In fact with the BBC's red button I was flicking from Pyramid Stage to Main Stage and back to the studio area where I was shouting at the amateur talents of the likes of Lauren Laverne and Jo Whiley.

My phone was buzzing with texts: "Are you watching Verve? Fucking superb." I was and they were and then I watched highlights and shite and never once needed a pair of wellingtons.

Then there is somebody a bit good in the dance tent and the phone's going again and it's two in the morning and you retire your tent exhausted. Up next day - back on the red button, shouting at the presenters and revelling at the odd decent band. And after Glastonbury it's the other festivals. Never as good but still worth watching. Too old for actually going there - well apart from the Cambridge Folk Festival, maybe - but still loving and hating the music in equal measures. Still discussing and arguing like we did when we were teenagers and twentysomethings. Wondering whether Morrissey really is as fat in real life as he looks at Wireless and checking out the foxy posh birds in the audience.

Roll on next summer…

Fat Frank and football's new family

2008-08-27T01:54:00.001-07:00

Fat Frank wandered over to the corner flag to a crescendo of boos at the JJB Stadium. Nothing new there as the fat one is booed wherever he goes. Also nothing new in that he had a smirk on his face as he walked over there. Fat Frank always has a smirk on his face. He's laughing at us all. His new contract at 160k a week - give or take a Rolex - securely in his pocket. It doesn't matter to him. We're just mere paupers to him. People he can take the piss out of. He loves it. His fuck off attitude that means people despise him like no other.

His own fans would probably despise him but for the fact that there are few genuine Chelsea fans left at "The Bridge" (nee Stamford Bridge). They were priced out long before the Russian arrived. They will never be able to return. There are no dodgy trips to West London when Chelsea are in town. Some may be pleased with this but give me watching my back above Loadsofmoney NEW football types any day. But those days are no more.

However that is not the argument here. This is football 2008/9 where average to good players like Fat Frank can earn that sort of money. That sort of money in a week that it would take Wiganers over ten years to earn! Can that be right? Can anybody honestly sit there, pay their hard-earned money to watch the likes of Fat Frank and be happy with that. I went to watch Latics in a friendly in Holland. We had 38 spectators in the ground. Ten years ago we would have had 380 there and we were crap then. That's how much football has changed and tells us how much the new lot don't understand football culture. But I digress - what I was about to say was that I watched Emile Heskey there - a player that I have previously defended whilst all around me have rallied against him - walk about for 17 minutes before deciding he was injured and hobbled off. Some said he's hobbled off the coach. Heskey must be on something like 60k a week! It's a cliché but I have seen better players pull the blue and white on when we were non-league.

Yet Heskey is considered a top player. Capello picks him for England and that shows you what a dearth of talent there is in England. Nobody cares enough. Chairman and managers say academies don't work. Spectators believe them and we take 38 to Holland. The power is in the hands of the players. The same players that spend all their spare time - and they have loads of that - talking about cars and money and bling and cars and money. And the new fans love this. The clubs that are caught up in all this are in the hands of the players. They sign contracts and then say they want to piss off. The clubs at the premier level cash the satellite television channels cheques and continue to bump up prices. Why? Because they can. West Brom charged Everton fans £40 and there didn't look to be a spare seat in the house. They can do it to Everton as Everton are one of the few teams that are still a proper club. Their old fans are still with them - just. If they move to Kirkby let's see what happens. Contrarily Chelsea fans have never sold out their allocation at the JJB with tickets sometimes being £15! It tells you everything.

The new fans don't get football. And what football really is. The old fans played it. Saturday and Sundays on muddy pitches. Not once a week down at the local JJB Soccerdome. They listened to the tales in the playgrounds and pubs. On the trains and the coaches. Nowadays the new fans don't bother with aways. And when they do go they moan that Goodison Park is a shithole while Pride Park is perfect. Fucking hell. And these are the people that pay money to watch Fat Frank and Deco and Ronaldo. No offence but I couldn't give a fuck about watching all these so-called world class players. I've always been to football to watch my team (hopefully) win. Win and have a laugh when watching them. Being part of the club. Part of the community. Who gives a fuck about watching world class players when your team is losing.

But that is what's happening. Wigan fans (and we are Wigan now rather than Latics if you listen to some of our new fans) stay and applaud the teams off. Us the gallant losers, Steeeeevieeee Geeeeee and the like the world-class players. When football mattered Steeeeevieeee Geeeeee would have been a Scouse bastard - world-class player or not. Now home fans take his photograph on their mobile phones.

The 200k-a-week footballer may soon be with us. If you are happy about that then fair enough but personally I'm too much of a class warrior to accept that. But like the true Chelsea fans, Geordies, Mancunians et al that have walked away from the game I'll be joining them. And modern football will be pleased. The clubs do not want the likes of me - and you. We don't buy a £4.00 programme and £2.60 pie. The new fans don't want the likes of us that dare moan and dare question the clubs and dare not accept that Marcus Bent is worth 30k a week. In fact the saddest thing I have read recently was on a Wigan messageboard during one of the many spats between the old and new Latics fans. Here some newbie said something like: "Accept it, we are the future of Wigan Athletic". Unfortunately they are right and if they are the future then Wigan Athletic Football Club as we have known and loved is fucked. And as their like are the future of football then football's fucked. But hey it doesn't matter because Fat Frank's getting his 160k a week, they can gurn at the SKY cameras, take their photos, be the big time internet Charlie's and let football and the clubs and players and administrators get away with anything they want.

Sad, sad days…

21 Essential Items for the post-casual credit-crunch northern man's wardrobe. Autumn/Winter 2008

2008-08-27T01:48:00.000-07:00

1. Six pairs of battered adidas trainers. Owt will do as long as they don't cry out 2008 reissue. And on the Sabbath God wore Wallabies
2. John Partridge waxed jacket. As Barbour becomes as ubiquitous as BHS Partridge is a good alternative
3. Oxford Cotton Buttoned-Down or the OCBD as it is known in trad circles. As usual M&S can be relied on with its less than £20 shirt
4. Baracuta G9 Harrington - nuff said
5. Primark socks. Seven pairs for a fiver or whatever and they last longer than many other far more expensive pairs
6. Ditto Champion sports socks from JJB. Great quality and surely the time is right for the white sock revival
7. Clarks desert boots. The more battered they get the better they look
8. Lee jeans. Find them at Matalan cheap and still better than any skinny-jean-designer-distressed bollocks you'll ever see
9.
Le Tigre polos. Again the Skem Selfridges can supply - at certain stores any road
10. Fawn-coloured Wrangler cords: appearing in TK Maxx as we speak
11. The M&S lambswool sweater - for the 26th year on the trot
12. The old Stone Island jacket. You know the one - that which would now fetch a couple of ton on ebay and tells the world that you bought it back in 1987! Just don't wear it to the match
13. Six battered Lacoste polos. Any colour will do as long as they don't cry out Hurleys 2008. And on the Sabbath God wore Ralph
14. Waterproof jacket. Berghaus, Paramo, Mountain Equipment. Anything that says Lake District
15. A decent pair of boots in case the global warming decides to have a holiday. Anything will do. Shop around there are enough brands out there
16. Lumberjack-type shirts from the Skem supermarket that is Matalan. Summat like £4 a chuck. Just button them up to the top and pretend you're as skinny as you were back then.
17. A couple of thick plain sweatshirts with absolutely no label/writing on them
18. A couple of thick woolly hats with absolutely no label/writing on them
19. Nice pair of leather gloves - try TKs for some crackers
20. One big fuck off down-filled jacket with a hood, ski-gloves and pray for some snow to bring out the Eskimo in you
21. A scarf as an accessory tied in a certain way - only joking

Boris Johnson - the complete fucking buffoon

2008-08-27T01:47:00.001-07:00

Oh and the Tories main weapon. Vote for them at your peril, maybe but the "only blonde Downs" Mayor of London will entice you in. See, Boris is witty and a fool. Disheveled and entertaining: "Ping Pong's coming home" and the posh bloke is the posh bloke that common man likes. Forget his privilege and his class. His aberrations and his downright stupidity. I mean he was right about the Scousers. Or so Basildon Barry believes. And who gives a fuck about them any way. Darling Margaret never visited Liverpool once and it did her no harm.

No rest assured this complete fucking lunatic is the Maggie of the noughties. Of course he won't screw the working class into the ground as his heroine has already done that but he'll make sure that David fucking Cameron and his Eton buddies get into power next time out. London 2012 will be Cameron's Falklands. Boris is Dave's Heseltine. Gaffs and guffaws. The party of the south will be back in government soon. Essex will rejoice. Surrey will be elated while inner London will be carving each other up. Wembley Stadium our national treasure. A new breed of Sloane Rangers. Cameron's chicks. Dylan Jones and his GQ brigade all cosied up in their cosy little world. Get ready it's coming. Now where's Dark Side of the Moon LP and that spliff I rolled earlier?

I hate ITV 1

2008-08-27T01:45:00.000-07:00

On the odd occasion I stumble across an advert on one of the myriad of channels that now exist I simply haven't a clue what it's for or about. And frankly I don't care. Then again neither should the advertisers as a sad middle-aged with no money is not their target.

It did however get me thinking how little television I watch and how I never watch the main ITV channel. If I do it is to watch football - with the volume on mute as the commentators are awful - and that is it. The rest of the output is fucking appalling. The two main soaps - Emmerdale and Corrie are parodies of what they once were whilst it's comedy output is outrageously bad. Benidorm v Rising Damp anyone?

The Granada news output stinks amateur in comparison to the immaculate Ranvir Singh and imperious Gordon Burns whilst daytime telly sponsored by ITV Bingo tells you everything.

It was only a few years ago that Frost and Morse were being produced to a remarkably high standard but of course nobody is arsed about that as long as the Jeremy Kyle's and GMTV satisfy the remote clitoral hood of single-mum heaven.

Classic Corrie, The Sweeney, Minder, World in Action, Rising Damp et al are now a distant memory. It was good while it lasted but hey X-Factor is back - rejoice!

BTW I love ITV3: The reason why? Morse, Blood on the Wire, Poirot, The Sweeney, Minder, Rising Damp et al

WHY THE MEDIA IS THE ULTIMATE OUTSIDER

2008-08-27T01:38:00.000-07:00

As Britain edged it's way out of post-war austerity the Soho area of London danced to a sound of modern jazz as London teenagers mixed with black GI's from the American air bases in Cambridgeshire at clubs such as The Flamingo, The Mapleton and The Lyceum.

From these routes the modernist scene emerged developed into the early 60's and is still alive and well today. They were young men and women in various cities and towns throughout the country that were in love with the American style. They loved soul music and the Ivy League look of America. Wing-tip brogues, Sta Prest trousers and Brooks Brothers shirts. John Simons opened Clothesville in Hackney, East London and then The Ivy Shop in Richmond in the early sixties. They are arguably the most influential menswear shop this country has seen and continues to trade to this day at J. Simons in Covent Garden. During the early days of The Ivy Shop there was another scene that was developing in Carnaby Street.

The press and media eventually caught on to this as Simons said in February 2005: "It was Clothesville and the Ivy Shop that defined the mod look.
"We had working class guys coming down from the East End and West London who were influenced by American culture, clothes and music.
"By the time the Carnaby Street mods had hit the news the main characters had moved on."

As R&B bands such as The Who gave patronage to the Carnaby Street mods it was the events on Brighton Beach that alerted the media to this new trend amongst youngsters.

However there had been disturbances earlier at Clacton.

As the academic Cohen said in his seminal book Folk Devils and Moral Panics: The Creation of the Mods and Rockers 30th Anniversary Edition: “The one that was to set the pattern for all the others and give the phenomenon its distinctive shape, was not Brighton, but Clacton, a small holiday resort on the east coast of England.

"It has never been as affluent and popular as Brighton and has traditionally become the gathering place for tougher adolescents from the East End and north-eastern suburbs of London."

Although the events at Clacton were recorded in the Daily Mirror of 30 March 1964 it had been ignored by most and it wasn’t until it entered the lives of the wealthy inhabitants of Brighton in May 1967 that it was reported in the mass media.

It may be argued that the reporting of these events was another case of the media introducing the concept of moral panic as they worked in collusion with the police and society to include moral panic in the general hegemony.

The press and television had no excuse for in 1959 Colin MacInnes published what was to become one of the greatest cult novels of our time: Absolute Beginners. MacInnes recorded events in the capital during 1958 through the eyes of a teenage photographer. From hence on it can be seen that people are chronicling events of teenagers - and nearly always working-class teenagers - but it is mainly from the left field. Few pick up on events at the time but are later embrace the music film and writing by which time as John Simons says: "The main characters had moved on."

By 1969 these "characters" had moved on as the lifestyle of this particular type of working class male had moved onto what the media were to christen skinheads. They again had been slow to jump onto the scene and again they only focused on the negative aspects of the latest cult. Skinheads were portrayed as racist thugs ignoring the fact that much of the image was taken from Jamaican immigrants and the music that was popular was the early reggae sounds emanating from that island.
Away from the press the movement was rarely chronicled in other areas of the media. The pulp books of Richard Allen: Skinhead, Suedehead and others were eagerly consumed by schoolboys but received no critical acclaim.
Ironically the books are now being reassessed and original copies are changing hands on auction sites for large sums.

By the end of the seventies and with the country in economic turmoil the musical revolution that was Punk Rock captured the media's attention. The movement was embraced by people from all classes yet away from this a new exclusively working class, exclusively male tribe emerged. And it emerged in Liverpool; that most political city that likes to stand apart from the rest of the United Kingdom.

Gangs of young men began travelling abroad to watch Liverpool Football Club in the European Cup competition and over the next few years began bringing items of European sportswear, especially training shoes, that were unavailable in the United Kingdom. A code of dressing developed as fashions changed on an almost weekly basis.

As this was the first youth movement that was exclusively based around football the various styles traversed the country as various football teams’ supporters visited other towns and cities. Styles differed between towns yet the defining factor was that, even though numbers were growing, many people including the media were unaware of what was happening under their noses as young men bought (or acquired) expensive sportswear and designer wear.

The eighties heralded a much more “savvy” media as magazines such as The Face, Blitz and ID emerged to commentate on the burgeoning New Romantic scene. The Face that was launched by Nick Logan’s Wagadon company in May 1980 is often looked upon as the “80s fashion bible” and while there is no doubt it was closer to the mindset of the youth it again fell short when reporting trends among working class males.

It wasn't until The Face's Issue 22 of 1983 that they addressed the topic: a full five years after the early stirrings on the streets of Liverpool and other towns and cities in the north west of England. The newspapers were unaware of this underground culture and were genuinely amazed when Millwall supporters in designer clothes attacked the police at Luton in 1985.

By then the early protagonists in Liverpool were listening to Pink Floyd and Frank Zappa and clothing wise had "scruffed down": denim shirts, desert boots, tweed and wax jackets. Money that a few years earlier was spent on clothes was now being spent on music and drugs - as Phil Thornton recalled in Casuals.

This cult - that has no name - continues to this day.

By looking at this particular strain of working class males over the last fifty years it can be seen that this never-ending, always changing world of clothes, music and an occasional penchant for violence passes from one generation to another. The dress codes are passed by word of mouth. To the outsider there is no logic on why skinheads wore Dr Marten boots or why the label-obsessed football fans appropriated old English clothing companies such as Aquascutum and Barbour. And there is no bigger outsider than the media!

This section of the general public is rarely reported at the time and each era is only generally reported favourably when the participants at the time have entered their 30s or 40s and themselves have positions within the media. It is almost exclusively reported retrospectively. If it isn't then it is always the negative aspects that are reported. Hence mods - in the mainstream media's view - will always be seen fighting rockers on the beach at Brighton, skinheads will be racist thugs and football casuals - as they are known - will always be hooligans. The fact that many men - now in their 60s continue to live a modernist lifestyle with no ill-effects is ignored. Rare Jamaican reggae and northern soul vinyl exchange hands for extortionate amounts and the person stood next to you in the pub is probably wearing at least one item of designer clothing.

As for the future with the advent of the internet the reporting may be more instant. Whether it will be accurately reported is up to question. With hoodies and ASBOs being the latest folk devils and Shameless a television ratings success it may appear that things are merging together a little quicker. However Shameless first hit the screens in 2004 while the critically-acclaimed novel - that hugely influences Shameless creator Paul Abbott - Low Life by Mike Duff was published in 2000.

The film of Low Life is currently in development. It will be interesting to see when it is completed and how the book will be covered.

Excuse me, can I just have two minutes of your time Sir?

2008-08-26T04:13:00.000-07:00

Now as you may or may not know, I got married during the close season (that’s the bit in-between last season and this season). As a result of this I’ve made a pledge to my fellow writers/sellers/ne’er do wells at Mudhuts Towers. I’ve made the same promise to my close friends and family, and it’s this. It’s that I will spend less time getting bent out of shape about the activities of others. No more will I get hypertensive and tachycardic at fucking idiots whose mere existence is seemingly set to serve one purpose and one purpose alone. That being to make my life in-fucking-tolerable!

You can drop your chewing gum on the pavement, I care not a jot. Be my guest and slurp your coffee and chomp your food like a scruffy dick, not a problem. You can even let me hold the door open in the local chemist whilst putting the pram with my daughter in it to one side to allow you in with your pram. Then, as I expect a return of the compliment or even a simple thanks, you can just walk through, letting the door shut on me and my daughter as you saunter away, unaware of my kindness let alone my existence.

You know what? I’m okay with it all, I am unfazed by anything that life has to throw at me. Why would I be? I’m a newly wed and the new season is here, what more could I want?

However, whilst walking through town the other day this do-gooder felt the need to ask me a question. Now it wasn’t something offensive, or for that matter was it something that I hadn’t been asked before. In fact I’ve grown all too accustomed to being asked the same bastard question over and over.

“Excuse me, can I just have two minutes of your time please Sir?”

“No you fucking well can’t as it happens!” I retorted in my mind, as I deftly manoeuvred myself away with all the grace of a young Rudolf Nureyev to get to Wigan Wallgate and on my train.

The only two minutes you’ll be getting sunny jim will be the two minutes needed to put my fucking size 12’s on your head in Wigan baths and end your constant questioning. What is it with these people that they feel the need to assault me every time I try to get from A to B across my own town?

You see my friends I’m not a mean spirited man. Moi? Non! I’m all for charity but not when I get hassled to involve myself in it every fucking day. Not only that, but the whoppers who are trying to acquire my business are reason enough not to give to charity again. If it’s not some idiot being whacky in a fucking rubber suit, then it’s some scruffy student with fuck all better to do. Only maybe getting a job would be a good idea eh you work shy fop? But why would you bother to do that when you can get me to pay taxes to fund your fucking fees, whilst you sit up the student bar supping bitter that I have paid for whilst you slag me off for not signing up to the charity you’re representing in a piss poor manner!!
Standing there with your “MIND” t-shirt on with no fucking knowledge about what you’re talking about. I would fucking love to say “here pal, MIND this” as I throw your tub of natural yoghurt and cucumber in your scabby, bum fluffed bearded fucking face. THAT I’M FUCKING PAYING FOR!

And it doesn’t stop there. No my friends, that’s only the beginning, the real fun starts when you get to work. It’s “I’m collecting for this. . . .” or “I’m doing a sponsored shitathon for the fluoridisation of Zimbabwean political prisoners of conscience fucking teeth”. It never, ever, ends. . . and how enthused we all are that we can do our bit, whether we want to or not. Like I said I have nothing against charity. . . . . . . .

On the theme of work I must mention the fucking collection. Some bastards will collect for anything. You’ve hurt your leg playing football? Let’s start a collection. You’ve just become a parent? Let’s start a collection. You’ve trapped your cock in your zip? Let’s start a fucking collection! I’ve recently stopped collecting my wages and have asked for them to be divided equally between my colleagues, so they can pay for presents for the sufferers of broken nails and for a fresh water well in Leigh.

I shouldn’t complain though. The collection they got together at work for my wedding gift netted me £200 and I’m sat wearing most of it whilst I’m typing this. Well they do say charity begins at home.

Dirrrrty “the honeymoon’s over” Old Man

Harry Pearson Interview

2008-08-26T03:40:00.000-07:00

“The Far Corner” by Harry Pearson is in my top ten favourite football books, a very funny affectionate look at North East football from the Premiership to the non league minnows. The lower league chapters are a real joy and Harry as a wonderful eye for the characters that punctuate these little grounds.
It was shortlisted for the William Hill Sports Book of the Year Award in 1995 and is still a popular choice for the discerning reader today. Harry Pearson is a columnist for the Guardian newspaper and has contributed to the magazine When Saturday Comes for 20yrs. He has written six books “Achtung Schweinehund”, “Dribble”, Racing Pigs and Giant Marrows” A Tall Man in a Low Land”, “Around the World by Mouse” and of course “The Far Corner”
His hobbies include supporting Middlesborough, collecting board games and war gaming.
I managed to get in touch with Harry and he very kindly agreed to be interviewed despite being snowed under with work. Still what’s the Beijing Olympics when you have an exclusive with the world famous Mudhutter?

How old were you when you first starting watching Middlesbrough?
I was six. My Uncle Les took me to see Boro v Carlisle. It was Boxing Day and all the seats were sold so we had to stand in the Holgate End. I was a truly appalling whinger as a child and by half-time my complaints that my legs were aching and that I couldn’t see and was cold were so pitiful and irritating that my uncle took me home.

Do you miss Ayresome Park?
Yes. It’s an odd thing that having spent most of the late-1980s campaigning for better grounds and facilities for fans I now miss a ramshackle shed and a chance to wade through ankle deep urine. Oh and the bloody PA at the Riverside is too loud an’ all.

Who was your favourite player?
When I was a child Big John Hickton the Boro centre-forward. His penalty run up started from the centre circle.

Have you ever been to Wigan ?
Well, yes, because my partner Catherine’s family – the Gaskells - are all from Ince or thereabouts. They’re more rugby league though, and any time a stranger turns up immediately start haranguing them about how much better Wigan are than St Helens.

What are your thoughts on the current Premier League, do you think that eventually one of the bigger teams will go bust?
Like pretty much everybody else over 40 I think its bloated and over-hyped and pompous and arrogant and full of its own importance and (continues on page 94). It’s got out of control really. As to a big club going bust I can’t see that happening. Let’s hope I’m wrong, eh?

Do you still go to watch non league football?
Yes, I try and go to a couple of matches a season at least. It always restores my faith in football. Last season I took a German friend of mine to watch Blyth Spartans. He’s a doctor and at halftime said, “These guys are incredible. There were four times in the first fifteen minutes when I thought, “After that tackle that man will never walk again” and yet 30 seconds later he was running around as if nothing had happened. They are the true heroes not the superstars.” And I agree with that. Plus the abuse is generally of a more eccentric standard. And there’s a raffle for meat.

Did your writing career start off with the club fanzine?
No, I started off writing for When Saturday Comes in about 1988.

Were you approached by the Guardian or did you apply to them?
They approached me. It was when Juninho and Ravanelli were at Boro and they wanted an article about the effect it had had on Teesside. That was actually a very busy time for Boro fans mediawise. I remember I even got phoned up for an interview by a bloke from the Wall Street Journal – not something that would have happened in the days of Stuart Boam.

The Far Corner is one of my favourite football books, did it take long to write?

It was written over the course of the season and I think had to be delivered on something like 30th May, so all told it was about ten months from start to finish. In those days I still wrote on an automatic typewriter, so I used to write it all out in pencil first and then type it.

How many copies has it sold?
I’m not sure. I guess around 30,000. It’s been in print now for 13 years and it still sells about 5-600 copies a year.

Did you always want to be a writer?
Once I realised my dreams of being a footballer, racing driver and astronaut were not going to come to anything, yes.

When did you first become interested in wargaming?
I guess when I was about thirteen. About the time I should have been taking my first tentative steps towards romance. Airfix was less scary.

How many soldiers etc do you have?
Oh, not many. Certainly no more than 10,000.

Do you have huge battlefields as well?
You have to have, otherwise you wouldn’t fit them all on. Last Christmas we fought the Battle of the Granicus which was Alexander the Great’s first encounter with the Persians. We had a table that was thirteen feet long and the Persian army stretched from one end of it all the way to the other. Sadly, it’s the only area of my life where I’ve actually realised all my youthful dreams.

Do you have any favourite troops?
I like the ancient world. The Carthaginians are my favourites. Who doesn’t like Hannibal?

How often do you take part in the games?
Once a month. Wargaming is like cricket. It takes a lot of organising and it goes on for a long time (and most people find it incredibly boring/pointless).

How long have you been collecting football board games?
Only for about five or six years. Unfortunately eBay makes collecting anything rather too easy…

What’s the most you have paid for one?
I paid £48 for a copy of TAF 4-2-4 which is a bit like Subutteo only the players are mounted on wedge shaped bases and the tackling is done with dice. It came out in the sixties and I remember the adverts in Charles Buchan’s Football Monthly.

Do you have any favourites?
I like the German game Tipp Kick quite a lot and Tomy Supercup is brilliant if a bit noisy. In terms of genuine boardgames –a opposed to dexterity games – all the best known ones are pretty useless. Wembley and Soccerboss have nice graphics but the games are just dice rolling. There’s no skill and not much decision making either.

Which one do you consider to be the best?The best actual boardgame is probably a game from Holland called Street Soccer. It has a chess like quality as you might expect from the Dutch. There’s a rugby game from South Africa called Crash Tackle, which is the best boardgame about a non-racing sport I’ve played.

Do you play the games with your friends/family?
We have a board game group that meets once a month and we play various games. Our favourite is Blood Feud In New York, which is a bit like Risk only with the Mafia. There’s something uplifting about watching a local GP battling for control of the drug trade in Queens with a piano teacher.

What does your wife think of your collection?
As long as it never comes out of my office she doesn’t mind. Actually she can see the practical side of it. A couple of years ago when we needed a new car I sold 3,000 Napoleonic soldiers and – hey presto - we had enough to buy a VW Golf.

Any more books in the pipeline?
I’ve got a book about taking the dog for a walk – Hound Dog Days – coming out on September 4th.

Thanks to Harry Pearson for agreeing to the interview, top bloke and a great writer. As for me I’m off to buy “Tipp Kick” and “Blood Feud in New York” anyone up for a game?

Tony Topping

COUP de GRACE

2008-08-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

It’s not often we praise the French at Mudhuts (K21 Excepted) but we have to say Coup de Grace’s tee shirts are the best we’ve seen this summer. In a sea of Henleys and Gio Goi shite they are set to drop their latest collection of tees which carry the same strong imagery which has made the brand so revered and respected. Among the topics making their way into the t-shirt are Notorious B.I.G., Brazilian underwear model Lima, the Civil Rights movement, Miami and Paris. Available now for pre-order at RobustFlavor.com.

Here are some more detailed images and the official blurb. Magnifique!

Coup De Grace - pronounced [kuh-de-grah], means "blow of mercy" in French. The term is used to describe the deathblow intended to end suffering of a mortally wounded creature and is figuratively used to describe the act which brings about the end of some entity.
Coup De Grace offers diverse ways of thinking through visual design in apparel. Music, media, sports and individualism around daily issues inspire the team behind CDG. Coup De Grace is a lifestyle brand that is dedicated to unique views to everyday situations.

Cool runnings and a natural mystic blowing

2008-08-26T03:19:00.000-07:00

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery None but ourselves can free our minds
Have no fear for atomic energy
‘Cause none of them can stop the time
How long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look?
Some say it’s just apart of it
We’ve got to fulfil the book
Won’t you help me sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause they all I ever had Redemption songs Redemption songs
Redemption songs

It was his last appearance In the United Kingdom. Unbeknown to the crowd Bob Marley was suffering from cancer that he famously contracted while playing football. Marley In his adidas playing the game he loved In a country that loved him. But on that warm June day In South London the crowd - that had to endure Q-Tips led by a Paul Young that would later become a big star, shuffle to Joe Jackson and then dance to the AWB - took Marley and his Wailers Into their hearts. A great, great gig where the ganja floated through the air as Bob sang: "There’s a natural mystic blowing through the air”, and then when he stood alone with his guitar, the park hushed and Marley started the glorious Redemption Song - religious (almost) majestic definitely

GIRL BANDS WHO DISAPPEARED UP THEIR OWN ARSES

2008-08-26T03:16:00.000-07:00

NO. 76: B*WITCHED First there was the Spice Girls, who spawned the loathsome, evil Posh Spice, who made her fella get shit tattoos and wear a gypsy pensioner’s clothes, to be copied by a million wankers in pub beer gardens up and down the country and now lives in LA whoring around events with film stars. But there were many many others, some of which may have had some genuine talent, but suffered because they weren’t fronted by a load of mouthy crack whores.

Let’s not kid ourselves, they had fuck all talent but were capable of generating a lower half twitch when you were lying in bed on a Sunday morning watching The Box – music television you control.

B*witched were Irish, probably still are for that matter. They hit the charts in 1998 with a top ten smash ‘C’est la vie!’ – Wow they’re Irish – yet they speak français as well!! You couldn’t say that any of them were stunners, the blonde one obviously worth a slice, the curly haired one: well obv but she looked more Albanian than from Dublin’s fair city. The two hogging all the action were indeed the band’s redeeming grace: TWINS!! Even though they had the misfortune to be sister to ex-Boyzone ‘star’ Shane Lynch and had chins that you could balance pint pots on, the fact that they were twins more than made up for it. Before you knew it, the pair of them were in bed with you, one either side saying ‘What are you like!’ in their cheeky Irish brogue as they were wont to do in their effervescent, flowery videos.

After a succession of mid chart hits, the girls got dropped by their record company, although according to Wikipedia, the sisters re-formed as a duo and can now be found playing the pub, clubs and student unions of their native Ireland. Tough times no doubt but I’m sure the feisty Dublin duo will manage to ‘stand up and fight like their da’!!

THE MOVES OF THE DECADE

2008-08-26T03:12:00.000-07:00

Every year there is some light humoured tabloid article about the colloquialisms which have found their way into every day speak and into the stuffy old Oxford English dictionary. From chavs to wheelies to no doubt donkey punch and dogging, it must be with a heavy heart that the old dodderers of Oxbridge are forced to tow the line with the 21st century greed and speed generation. What is lesser known is that there is also a visual equivalent to cover the field of human motion and activities, commonly referred to as the JUG’s (Journal of Unknown Gyrations) as here is a sample of the most recent entries:

The Mobile Walk
Keep still you bastard! I got disciplined for shouting this out of an office window last year to a gentlemen who I had watched pace around and around in a circle whilst on his mobile phone one fine summer’s day last year. There’s also another bald Brummie who constantly yaps away on his phone a few yards away from me and as soon as his moby goes he gets up from his desk and walks and talks in circular motion and like one of those submarine sensors he comes in and out of my radar and how I long to leave my own desk and fly at him with the mother of all haymakers and a verbal assault along the lines of ‘Can you not just sit at your desk while you make that fucking phone call, it’s hardly confidential as half the office can hear you? Some of us are trying to surf the internet in peace!’ Also found on trains and outside public houses.

Blackberry Flick

Usually found at airports or on the tube, these things never beep or bleep despite all the incessant fucking fiddling it’s owner is doing mainly because they aren’t really that important. But hey don’t they feel the big man or woman when waving it around. The Blackberry is a status symbol every Office Ted aspires to whereas most decent folk who have the misfortune to own one prefer to turn the fucker off and read the free Metro paper on their way home instead of constantly whirring away on this piece of shit whilst pretending to be a big cheese. Nob cheese more like, put it away – you’re only playing the bloody games half the time away. So you’ve got an email, no-one died – get a life. Ideal for the boss who fucks off from the office at 5 every day and can then by seen as conscientiously ‘working late’ by his bosses and team as he sends some random emails while sat on the bog in his local pub at 10pm.

Satnav juggle
Aren’t Satnav’s great, some sexy female voice telling people exactly where to go, erm well no, they’re not much use at all really by the time you get close to where you need to get to the battery normally goes and the driver, far from concentrating on the road, is fiddling like mad with the fucker as it’s gone on the blink again as their hands undertake a movement first seen in Black Lace’s Agadoo video accompanied by a pair of Maracas.

The Eyetie eyeball
Usually spotted on motorways, this is the bulging eyed action one motorist bestows upon another who has dared to pull into his space. Usually this was involve some pinstripe suited twat who is clearly speeding in his company beamer and a 78 gentlemen has pulled into the fast lane after having spent the last 20 miles indicating to take over a milk float. This brings on the wild, rabid eyes, fists banging on the steering wheel, arms flailing up and down and cut-throat gestures to the poor bewildered pensioner who has dared to make the cunt of a salesman twenty seconds later for his conference in Coventry.

The Scissor sister sashay
Performed by metrosexuals in offices and shopping centres everywhere, they are usually carrying a coffee carton and wearing a scarf. They don’t walk like normal people do, oh no their walk says ‘I’m smart, I’m confident, my body language tells you exactly who’s boss and I’m officially of the smugometer scale. I’ve been on courses to perfect this you know and it’s what makes me better than you. Common cure for this behaviour is a pint glass in the face but the power walkers rarely drink anywhere which serves drinks in anything above 250ml measures.

Alan Sugar finger

Me mum always told me it’s rude to point but point people do and all the frigging time. It seems that courtesy is a scarce commodity and pointing is now the new speaking for lazy bastards everywhere. I just pity the poor bird somewhere whom during the Apprentice found herself on the receiving end of her wacky wayward boyfriend who doubt thought it’d be funny to dump her by pointing the finger and saying ‘I’m sorry Shazza, I’ve made my decision and you’re fired!’

CRUISING WITH HOODIES

2008-08-26T03:05:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the first in a new series where your correspondent drives around dogshit estates with the petrol light flashing on his car and cacks himself in the process….
This month: Wythenshawe

I get bored when stuck in traffic so sometimes I just end up driving somewhere. Anywhere for that matter. I don’t like big posh houses with finely manicured lawns or faceless industrial estates and I really fucking loathe the block after block of soul-less apartments clogging our country up. What I like to see is ropey pubs and boarded up houses on rough as fuck council estates. Don’t ask me why I just do.

South Manchester is a fair old mish mash of the above. Centred around the sprawling Manchester Airport, there are prosperous areas such as Wilmslow, Cheadle and Alderley Edge (NB WAG Wannabes Brazingamens is currently boarded up and states that it will be opening ‘Summer 2008??’ as Panacea) but it was the riot torn shithole that is Wythenshawe that attracted me on this current date. The biggest council estate in Europe wasn’t it once so claimed? Like most people I have seen Wythenshawe from the air and I’d also been here once before for a job interview at the Co-Op and can recall the concrete jungle shopping centre. Why would any town have to emblazon in massive letters the words ‘TOWN CENTRE’ on a building??

On arrival into Wythenshawe from the Southern side, I am greeted with pleasant leafy suburbs and a massive Brewers Fayre type establishment, followed by a big school and some respectable semi’s. As I pass the town centre on my right, it is a monstrosity but looks to be clean and functional if not spectacular. The standard of neighbourhood thus far looks highly respectable with one or two locals possessing the gormless ‘Shameless’ demeanour but overall quite pleasing on the eye, especially some young student bird at the pedestrian crossing listening to her Ipod.

I them start to espy to my left a few council type houses, several of which appear to have been boarded up and/or burnt down, there is also a mid-tier tower block on my right. Not quite Jasmine Allen on The Bill standards of degradation but one of those ‘ex local authority’ types they try to flog to young professionals and end up full of Albanian waiters. However, upon passing through the town, I reach a T-junction and take a right into Newall Green. Green implies pastures, cricket stumps and children rolling around and enduring play flights on balmy summer’s days and nights.

Fuck me, it’s bad. Newall Green is one scary place. It starts when you approach the Newall Green pub (think Flam in it’s pomp) with it’s metal railings over the windows and every single shop at just gone Friday teatime is covered over with shutters to stop the Shameless doppelgangers climbing in. The road dips down past some bright yellow council houses with horrendous corrugated roofs, like the old upside down houses in Scholes and to my right there are massive sprawling flats which are known as the Parkway Green Housing Trust. There’s no way I’d trust any fcker who lives on here looking at some of the shady looking residents. You wouldn’t put your dog in one of these houses and as I cruise past I sneakily push the lock on my car door as I am forced to slow down as I pass row after row of corrugated iron maisonettes all with callow youths loitering outside. I can’t speed up as there is a backlog of cars in front of me, a couple of nice shiny Meganes are getting slowed up by a gang of lads on bikes. They are cycling in front of the cars and weaving in and out of the traffic. They’re grabbing hold of the cars and banging on the roofs and scaring the shit out of the drivers. They might know them I tell myself and might just be having a laugh with the driver. Then the hoods go up and the seven or so ride in formation behind their leader, flanking the cars as they snake their way past the shitty housing. They are whooping and hollering and before I know it I’ve got an ugly mug grinning at my car window wittering some illegible Manc gibberish as my sphincter tightens up even further and you’ve guessed it – on comes the petrol light. I’ve got my flashiest work suit on and it’s fair to say my arse would be mincemeat if I had to walk through this parish with a petrol can in me hand.

I reach a parade of shops (sun bed shop, offy, the rest boarded up) and there are a mob of lads and girls enjoying this ceremony of intimidation, the hoodies take up position again giving abuse and hitching rides on the first car and one does the ‘smoking gun in the air’ gesture. My ordeal is over I think as I approach another T junction I can see an even more shitty estate up ahead and the BMX terrors fire off through it along a path way.

I am now completely lost and the signs give me no idea as to whether left or right will guide me to sanctuary. I turn right and see a sign for an industrial estate. Shit, everyone knows that there’s only one way in and out of industrial estates. The likelihood of adding my name to Britain’s knife victim statistics might be low in a welding firm but as the night draws in it probably means I’m going to have to re-trace my steps just in time for the hoodies to play their game again going back the other way with me at the front this time!! There’s also more cream painted tower blocks on my right and bugger all sign of any civilisation, let alone a petrol station. Thankfully, I spot a bus up ahead. That’s the one good thing around buses: they’re always going somewhere and soon I find myself edging closer towards the comparatively sedate area of Northern Moor and I see a signpost for Timperley and Altrincham, places where I believe there may be less of a chance that I might get dragged out of the car at any point in time and stabbed to death for not being local. I then spot the bastion of all civilisation, a 24 hour Tesco. There is quite honestly the biggest mob of scrotes I have ever seen congregating on the forecourt of Tesco and a massive queue for petrol like people cannot wait the get away from the dump I have just passed through.

So through Altrincham, I spot a cracking looking Holts boozer and am back amongst the shiny office blocks and retail parks with my trousers only moderately soiled. Wythenshawe did meet my expectations of being a shithole, I was slightly disappointed as to not have dropped on Benchill which is where a young un got caught on camera making gun gestures to David Cameron. There is always next time though as I ponder whereabouts in the North West I meander through the next time I wish to view some socially deprived housing and risk getting dragged out of my car and getting my head stamped on by some ASBO and his bird.

Fucked off with the place?

2008-08-26T03:02:00.000-07:00

Wigan is a large town in Greater Manchester (wiki) Full of junk, high on speed, fucked on beak and zonked on weed. Fucking hell, what a town I live in. I pass a kiddo every morning with his bottle of cider and a mixture. Stood looking into the canal. Used to say “hello” to me but not now. That was a month or so back. But now he’s gone. Away with fairies. Away with the scrotes. Found some woman crashed out in a hedge down that canal path one morning. Asleep to the world with just the nettles for company. Picked up her bag. It was heavy with three bottles of cider. Cheap at half the price. Three for the price of one. Does the math work out? Who cares – she didn’t.

Pass the scrotes on mountain bikes at three in the morning, screaming and shouting and hustling and jibbing. Outside the Wigan Substance misuse drop-in centre. A centre that is housed in the old red brick building that once housed the mining and technical college. The mines are gone - the technicians with them. Kids get record results but it doesn’t show. Maybe it’s just the peacock parade around this town and it’s new shopping centre. And the fucks and blinds that come from such young lips and their appalling fashion sense – of a fashion. And those that are genuinely clever fuck off to university never to return. For there is no reason to return. This and other towns that are on their arse. And as the councilors and bigwigs and football chairman and industry do’ers and givers and “all is well” report the press that is in their pocket and the police toil away or so we are told as we never see them. Whilst in their bedrooms the young and not so young communicate in a language unknown to man if not msn and facebook their mate’s mum and threaten and bully and act the Mr Big and they are not big.

This town isn’t big. It is small. Small-minded and sad. There are worse places we are told. Are there?

Lon Chaney: Man of a thousand faces

2008-08-26T02:54:00.000-07:00

Lon Chaney was born on the 1st of April 1886 in Colorado; he went on to become one of the greatest character actors the silver screen has ever seen. He was the definite Phantom of the Opera and played the hunchback Quasimodo to perfection. He did his own stage makeup and earned the nickname “The man of a thousand faces."

This is his story.

Lon Chaney was born to deaf and dumb parents and was only able to communicate with them by sign language. The other children in the neighbourhood mocked Lon’s parents and he was so distressed by his parents suffering that he refused to speak until he was 8yrs old. For the rest of his life he sympathised with the downtrodden and afflicted and he was at his best portraying misfits and outcasts. At around 10yrs old he quit school to care for his bed ridden mother and to pass the time he would do pantomime to entertain her. His ability to mimic other people stood him in good stead throughout the rest of his life.

He got a job as a tourist guide taking people around Pikes Peak a local landmark. He went on to work in a variety of others roles including decorator, draper and cowboy!

He eventually got a job in theatre albeit painting stage scenery after his older brother had pulled some strings at the Colorado Springs Opera House where he worked.
Inspired by the many acts he saw he eventually went on tour as an actor in a play he had co-written with his brother, he was 19-years-old.
Three years later he fell head over heels in love and married 16yr old Cleva Creighton a singer with the troupe. In 1906, their only child Creighton Chaney was born; he also enjoyed success in the movies in later life under the screen name Lon Chaney Jnr.
The next few years were really tough for the family and the marriage began to fall apart. It all came to a head in a dramatic fashion when Cleva attempted suicide on stage, drinking the poisonous mercury bio chloride. She survived the attempt but her vocal chords were so badly damaged that she would never sing again.

It was a terrible scandal and it ended in divorce in 1915, sadly little Creighton was taken away and put into a home “The Home for Children of Divorce & Disaster”
Lon turned away from the theatre and sought work in the fast growing world of silent movies. A friend got him a job as a bit part actor at Universal Studios and a legend was born. In those days bit part players would hang around waiting for work in a “bullpen” Assistant directors would come to these pens and ask if anybody could play a particular role. Lon quickly learned to adapt to different roles and guarantee himself more work; his legendary makeup box enabled him to change like a chameleon.

His son Lon Chaney Jnr explained how this came about “He used to sit in this bullpen and they would come and shout `Anybody here play a college boy? ` and Dad would say `Yeah I can play a college kid` sometimes they would shout `Anybody play a Chinaman?` and nobody ever could so Dad got together a makeup kit and the next time they asked for a Chinaman he would shout `Yeah I can do it` and he would use his makeup box. That way he got to appear in three or four pictures a day”

Lon also got married again in November 1915 to a chorus girl Hazel Hastings and Chaney Jnr left the children’s home to live with them. Over the next three years he appeared in over a hundred films but he was only being paid $5 a day. Eventually he approached the studio manager, William Sistrom, and asked for a raise of $125 a week and a five year contract. Sistrom looked at Chaney and said “I know a good actor when I see one but looking at you I only see a washout” Understandably upset Chaney walked off the set and the family struggled over the next few months. Chaney returned to menial jobs to make ends meet and that could have been the end of his film career but for the intervention of western actor William S. Hart who cast Chaney as a villain in one of his pictures. Chaney’s career really took off after this and in 1919 he excelled in the film “The Miracle Man” when he played a cripple. His next major success came with “The Penalty” in which Chaney played a legless criminal. It was in this film that Chaney displayed his almost masochistic approach to acting but it wouldn’t be his last. In order to portray the amputee Chaney designed a leather harness which bound his feet against his thighs and enabled him to walk on his knees. The pain was excruciating and cut circulation to his legs resulting in broken blood vessels.

Then in 1923 came the part that would propel Chaney to worldwide fame, Quasimodo in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” For this role Chaney wore a rubber hump weighing 70lbs. This was attached to a harness that made it impossible to stand erect. Doctors warned him not to wear the harness for more than a few minutes as it would cause irreparable damage but he often wore it for over an hour at a time. He suffered with back pain for the rest of his life. He also wore a flesh covered rubber suit covered with animal hair and the heat was almost unbearable, Chaney was again suffering for his art.

Phantom of the Opera
Arguably his greatest ever role was as the terrifying Erik in “The Phantom of the Opera”(1925) He took makeup artistry to a new level and created a monster that had women fainting in the cinema aisles. The scene where the girl (Mary Philbin) creeps up behind the phantom and removes his mask is one of the most terrifying moments in movie history. Chaney pushed hairpins up his nose to widen his nostrils, wore false teeth that cut his gums and had wires protruding to pull back his lips. He also had celluloid discs in his mouth to distort his cheekbones. His place in movie immortality was secured.

In 1927 in appeared in a film that would be the Holy Grail to film enthusiasts throughout the world “London after Midnight” the most sought after lost classic of all time. All we have today are a few stills which give a tantalising glimpse of what may have been Chaney’s finest hour. Enthusiasts still search for a copy of this film today.
He was now a superstar and was up there with the other stars of the 1920s Fairbanks, Chaplin, Pickford, Valentino & Swanson. A popular saying of the day was “Don’t step on it, it may be Lon Chaney!”

London after Midnight

He had the world at his feet but he remained a shy quiet man who shunned publicity and liked the simple things in life like cooking and photography. He always kept his makeup secrets to himself and even had bodyguards watch over his makeup box while he was on set. Sadly it was all to end a mere three years later. Chaney began to have trouble with his throat in 1929 and whilst filming “Thunder” he got a piece of artificial snow stuck in his throat and this aggravated the condition. Chaney had an operation to remove his tonsils but it continued to trouble him. Then in 1930 he was given a part in his first talking picture. He was filled with dread as were many other silent stars, not surprising given the amount of careers that were ended by the “talkies” He needn’t have worried he was a success and he even imitated five other speaking parts in the movie, an old woman, a ventriloquist and his dummy, a girl and even a parrot! It was to be his last film.
His throat was getting worse and he saw specialists who discovered that he had bronchial cancer. He found it increasingly difficult to talk and his last spoken words were to ask for a cigarette. In a bizarre twist he spent the last days of his life as he had begun it, communicating by sign language. On the 6th of August 1930 he indicated to his nurse that he was going and died from a throat haemorrhage. He was 47yrs old.
MGM studios stopped production and a period of silence was ordered. Fans all over the world mourned his passing. He was interred in the Forest Lawn Memorial Park in California and his crypt to this day remains unmarked.

Lon Chaney Man of a Thousand Faces

Tony Topping

7/7

2008-08-26T02:52:00.001-07:00

Threw a lucky 7
and it blew you off your feet
who would have guessed two 7’s
wins a prize to God, to meet.

Such a fucking waste
such a fucking crime
such a pointless way to die
away ahead of time.

Just on the way to work
to earn an honest crust
now just a mere statistic
of politically spun dust.
Dirrrrtyoldman

Where there’s muck…..

2008-08-26T02:47:00.000-07:00

Brass bands, just what is the point? I could never work it out but finding myself holed up in Kirkby Lonsdale on a Sunday afternoon I found the constant parping and oompahing strangely soothing. How very British: the walking day, the smiling policeman and the furtive traffic wardens, the chippy, the dodgy burger van and the kaleidoscope of umbrellas going up and then down as the briefest glimpse of sunshine appears.

I can see why Father Jack likes it but it must be an old person’s domain. Plus brass bands must almost exclusively be a Northern thing. You can’t imagine hordes of pensioners descending on say Swindon or Basingstoke to listen to a load of ruddy faced gentlemen and big bosomed, frilly knickered fat girls puffing and blowing away into a piece of metal. And as we retired to the pub we got the full SP as to the kind of person who performs in a brass band, as they sat there in their team huddle on the next table nursing their lemonades. They always wear their official band blazers as well which only come in three fetching colours: maroon, brown or green. Eurgh! Anyway, let’s meet the band….

1) Middle aged Mable. Chubby ‘girl’ with long hair in pig tails and wears glasses but has gone beyond that age where women should have long hair. Think that horrible Bunty off the appalling Catherine Tate Show. Has never blown anything other than an instrument and would have no life if it wasn’t for the band. Wears mid-length skirts coupled with hideous tights and it’s just as well you can’t see all the way up as David Bellamy appears to be living in there. Excessively loud and has extensive knowledge as to the standard of buffet pork pies at Wetherby summer fete.

2) The Sergeant Major. The main man, nobody told him the war was over. Treats every performance like a military operation and a victory and bitches incessantly about those buffoons from the next village. Fond of real ale and possess a surfeit of facial hair which has been groomed since birth. Has a wife twice as fat as him but never lets her out, she spends all her time in the kitchen making cheese from her own breast milk.

3) The Clark Kent. Every band must have one, a clean bespectacled fresh faced (well OK them in possession of an ample expanse of facial acne) youth who has somehow got roped into it while the rest of his class mates at school are out happy slapping and bumming teenage mums. Wanks incessantly, usually over 1) above. He will probably turn into a decent boozy, football loving when his voice finally breaks, at which point he’ll be 32.

4)The DS Kid. I can’t possibly reveal what DS stands for, you’ll have to work it out but again a staple member of each troop, looking smart as fuck grinning anyway in his full band regalia.

5) The fat controller. Senile benefactor who spends all week by wandering around his country estate making ‘pom pom pom pom’ noises in anticipation of watching a load of oddballs wearing shit ties invade market squares on a Sunday afternoon when most sane people are in the pub

Let it Fry

2008-08-26T02:39:00.000-07:00

The planet’s over heating
and I couldn’t give a shit
I’m sick of don’t do that,
fed up of must do this.

I’m tired of recycling
and your different fucking bins
Don’t put it in that one,
separate the glass from tins.

Turn your heating down,
fuck you I’ve turned mine up
and I’ve left on all my lighting
just to piss you off.

So save your fucking preaching
cause I’ve bigger fish to fry
The planets fine and so am I
fuck off, curl up and die.

Dirrrrtyoldman

Pointless endings

2008-08-26T02:38:00.000-07:00

You could talk about it
but you’d rather knife him first.
Is it due to ignorance,
or is it unquenched thirst?

To see his life’s blood spill away
and run into the drain,
another pointless slaughter,
another Mothers pain.

Another young life ended
before it had begun.
One more headline story,
soon forgotten and soon gone.

The miracle of life
so needlessly cut down,
because you chose to end it
and slash life to the ground.

Too late to talk about it
too late to put it right.
Another young soul lost,
to his final sleep of life.
Dirrrrtyoldman

Beatles Day - A Celebration

2008-08-26T02:32:00.000-07:00

Well it had to happen didn’t it? A day dedicated to the four young lads who shook the world. So on the morning of the inaugural day to celebrate the genius of The Beatles I awoke determined to embrace the concept of Scouseness and Beatleness in it’s entirety.

To start with I imagined how I would feel if I was suffering intolerable heroin withdrawal symptoms. What better way to understand a Scouser? I reasoned that I would be tremulous, experiencing terrible gastro intestinal disturbances, my nose would be running like a bastard tap, my levels of irritability would be intense and that my pupils would be pinned to fuck. Scouse as you like eh?

This didn’t really feel authentic enough though, so I got dressed and left the house and headed into Liverpool on the train. Fortunately I had forward planned the attire part of the day to perfection. So it was on with the Lacoste shell suit and sovereign rings and away I went. All was going well as I hid in the train bogs drinking my white lightening cider from a polystyrene cup and avoiding paying my fare. That was until I got to Lime Street that is, and then the stewards got me. Luckily I said that “I ownleee gorron a Edgggge Hkkkkill whaccckkkk” and so only had to pay a single. As I swaggered off the station pleased as punch with myself I headed to the Liverpool Echo head office in Old Hall Street to buy my “mop top wig” which was retailing for just £5. How could anyone doubt my belonging to the town now the mop top wig was in tow?

It was at this point that I realised that I needed to up the stakes if I was really going to get down with the Scousers and the Beatle fans, to celebrate. So I took the last swig of cider from my cup and then placed it on the ground. Within 30 minutes I’d collected over £6 and I’d made contact with a local unemployed smack head who assured me that he could cut me in on a £10 bag. So, full of smack I wandered the Liverpool streets looking for Beatles devotees whilst feeling like a proper Scouser.

So much so that I initiated the next ingredient of my assimilation plan, I mugged an old lady. That’s right, I slapped the old duffer across the face and snatched her purse, well when in Rome eh? Would you believe it, another £10 bag in the old dears purse and the works to complete the mission. No fucking money in it though, just a bus pass and a love letter from 1945 that I used to dab the blood up after I’d dug for a vein. I never knew being a Scouser could be such fun.

As I staggered further into the city, onto Williamson Square, I came across a mass of people. Surely these are the devotees that I travelled so far to be with. Alas no, and I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon sat with the members of the Williamson Square Jobcentre Plus crew in the Beluga Bar. Not exactly Beatles, but very Scouse, and seeing Ricky Tomlinson on the telly with the same wig at least validated my decision. There was no need for the tribute band on the ferry though, fucking gash.

Shortly after I blacked out and sometime later I woke up being dragged into the back of a Police van naked and with come running down the back of my legs. Internally I didn’t feel too uncomfortable and the flashbacks since would suggest I was complicit.

So there you go, being a Scouser and a Beatles fan is indeed “boss” and I look forward to celebrating the day again next year.

Words hand crafted by adopted Scouser,
Roy “Carpenter” Smythe

Mudhuts Media - Coming Soon August 2008

2008-07-22T05:12:00.000-07:00

The Mudhutter 16 is now online

2008-06-24T08:18:00.000-07:00

MISS MUDHUTTER JULY 2008

"We want all you skinheads to get up on your feet
Put your braces together and your boots on your feet
And give me some of that old moonstomping"

And welcome to the 44-page July issue of The Mudhutter

Inside we have an exclusive interview with Paul McDonald - the author of the hilarious Northern Soul book Do I Love you?, we revisit The Doors, chew the fat with Fern Britton and are blown away by Ben Johnson's Liverpool Cityscape. There's political comment, a set of Orrible Ives, dewy-eyed and not so dewy-eyed reminiscences, great websites, arty jazz mags er sorry coffee table books, sport, girls and of course the obligatory mention of rubber-soled footwear.

Enjoy it all, let your mates know and we'll be back in a month's time

For Download please copy and paste this URL

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.33

Contribute to The Mudhutter

2008-06-17T03:49:00.000-07:00

Ok, so you think you have something worth reading? Fair enough, but there's a couple of things you should know...

We don't automatically publish everything. Put simply, if it isn't good enough, we won't use it.

If it is then we don't care what the subject is. As along as it isn't plagiarised and it's interesting it will get in.

Take time to look around our site, look at the previous ezines and listen to the podcasts to get a general idea what we are about and we'll welcome your contribution with open arms.

Site: www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk
Email: info@mudhutsmedia.co.uk

The Mudhutter June 2008

2008-06-17T02:52:00.000-07:00

Is available at http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.27

This month we look at the "Death of the Working Classes", dine out on Quiche Lorraine while talking to one of Britain's foremost horror magazine editors. We dance our little socks off to all sorts of music while we look forward to nine days of cool at the Wigan Jazz Festival and TV Smith's gig at Nirvana.

Then there's the usual football, obligatory mention of trainers, poetry and bile while all the time gazing at pictures of unobtainable beautiful girls .

All in the latest edition of the NOW MONTHLY The Mudhutter

"ENJOY YOURSELF IT'S LATER THAN YOU THINK"

The Mudhutter July 2008

2008-06-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

Will be online here and at www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk on 26 June 2008

Northern Soul- Book and Play
The Apprentice
Tons of Music
Fern Britton
Exclusive interview
Poetry
Pretty girls
Comment
Clobber
And a whole host more