Thursday, 24 August 2017

A Letter For Europe

Having tweeted the above this morning, I felt compelled to write said letter.

Dear Europe. 

Sorry about all this. It was a game of chicken with some of our more gullible electorate and we lost and you know how it is with us upper class English types – can’t back down. A wager’s a wager and debts have to be settled. More on that later.

Historically, our island nation has often been on bad terms with you guys.  It was hoped that the lessons of millennia of conflict and distrust might have been learnt but do you know how many people read the Daily Mail? I know, right?

Idiots. That’s the only word for it. Don’t tell anyone I said this but we’ve been made to look like bloody fools. We’ve only ourselves to blame,

Truth be told, most of us really like Europe, or at least most of us who’ve actually ventured anywhere other than those ghastly places on the Costa Del Sol where you can get a proper English breakfast and a pint of Carling for under a fiver. Well, could. I see the pound plummeting faster than Boris Johnson’s chances of leading the country and it’s all I can do not to smile.

Would you take us back? I mean, would you consider it? Obviously, we’d have to meet covertly at first, like secret lovers at some impossibly romantic rendezvous. There I go again, peppering this letter with French words.  I’ll have to stop that. Stick to the mother tongue.

English is a mongrel language and we are a mongrel breed. Where we got the idea that we are some kind of pure, undiluted, special breed of man I’ll never know. Last chap who had that sort of numbskull idea was a failed art student and well, you know the rest.

Farage is a prick, isn’t he? Sorry about him. Typical self-made oaf. Stick a stale ham in a tweed suit and off they go, crashing helicopters and screaming the Germans did it.  Still, you won’t be seeing him again.

Us Brits aren’t supposed to do feelings. Stiff upper lip and all that. It’s rubbish, of course, much like the stuff that Murdoch prints but there you go. We’re sad to be going but we can’t admit it.

Chances are that we’ll be knocking on the door to come back soon. The pound is already stood on the white cliffs of Dover, threatening to jump into La Manche.  Any further decline and we’ll be the new Zimbabwe. How ironic would that be, eh?

Knocking? We’ll be pounding more like. Please save our precious pound, Frau Merkel! Won’t someone think of our poor orphaned pennies, Monsieur Macron? You can’t build an economy on jam. You can try to build one on the missiles that destroy the villages thus causing the waves of refugees we are running away from, sure. But not on jam.  Oh God, we’re going to bring back golliwogs aren’t we. I’m so sorry.

Don’t cry for me Ireland, Sweden. I doubt they will. Nor Belgium, Spain or anyone else. Can’t imagine any foreign backpacker will decide to queue for hours just to visit one of our many thousands of Wetherspoons.

UK. United Kingdom. They don’t even realise the irony of what we’re doing. A (largely) successful political union of previously warring neighbours leaving a bigger version of the same thing. It’ll end in tears. But no apologies.

Please take us back. I’m begging you. I'll pay whatever you ask. We're the Lannisters in this thing, aren't we? And the Lannisters always pay their debts.


The United Kingdom.





Monday, 12 June 2017

The Poor Have Never Had It So Good.

There’s still a significant amount of people in this country who believe that poverty is the result of some personal moral failing.  That, if only these wretches could find the resolve to dig themselves out of their self-created messes, everything would soon work out for them. It should be no surprise to anyone that these opinions are, almost exclusively, the preserve of people who have never experienced a single moment of hardship in their lives.  Such fortune only reinforces their opinion, I work hard, they tell themselves. I work hard, I have money, and therefore hard work equals elimination of poverty.
I’ve got a pretty good idea what poverty feels like. It’s like a sack of coal upon your back that you are never allowed to set down. From the moment you wake to the moment you collapse at the end of the day, it’s slung over your shoulder. Nearly every single decision you make depends upon this weight. Few of these decisions involve anything but difficult choices.  Do I put a fiver on the gas meter before I runs out or do I hope it isn’t too cold this evening and buy something decent for tea? Do I get the bus to work or do I pay my kid’s school dinner money? Do I get that toothache sorted at the dentist or do I get my daughter a birthday present? Every day is like this, every single fucking day. And that doesn’t take into account the continual justification you have to make for each of these decisions, to yourself, to your partner, to the woman on the working tax credits helpline, to the bank, to the bloke at the job centre.
Poverty is grim. It stops you from sleeping, it is the unwanted spice in every thankfully sourced meal you eat when the fiscal stars fail to shine your way. It's the hole in your shirt you hope your friends don't notice, the wet walk home when there's no money for a bus. It's the stolen loaf and the Christmas present you wanted to get for your son but couldn't quite afford. I know all of these things and a hundred more and I've got a fucking job right now.
Not the job I’d like, mind.
More than anything else poverty dampens expectations, smothers hopes and crushes dreams. Statistically speaking, if you’re born poor, you’re more than likely going to die poor. It doesn’t matter what talents you have, you’re not going to make it without a huge amount of good luck.
I was the first person in my family to go to university. Without consciously looking for them, I gravitated instinctively to the only other person there who’d been on free dinners. Maybe we recognised something in each other’s eyes or clothes.  We were both skinny.  Maybe that was it. Our accents were ours, not faked, not exaggerated. We didn’t feel the need to say we were working class. Nobody needed to ask.
Fast forward thirty years and we’re still best mates. Neither of us have made much of our lives. We don’t own our own homes, we cling on to jobs we hate because life has taught us the grass is never greener elsewhere. Speaking not that long ago my mate told me about a conversation he’d had at work with his boss.
“Have you seen I, Daniel Blake?”
“Seen it? I’ve bloody lived it.”
We had a good long laugh at that.
I lost a reasonably well paid job in 2006.  I had only myself to blame, I’d launched into an online tirade against a boss who had pushed my buttons once too often. Thinking I’d find something quickly I hadn’t allowed for the first shoots of an economic recession and soon found myself signing on.
There are few second chances for the poor.
Unlike those with the right connections, we go to prison if we stab people. If we lie on our CV, we lose our jobs. We wouldn’t ever get a third or fourth chance.
Living with these pressures day in day out can be difficult. I find it hard and I work full time. Lord knows what it’s like now to be unemployed. In the last five years I’ve been made homeless twice through no fault of my own. I’ve been referred to foodbanks. I’ve suffered depression and anxiety issues. Just as I cling to my job for dear life, not wishing to rock the boat, so I cling to my council flat for the shelter and security it brings my family. It’s in a post-war council block of the kind built by this country in a kinder incarnation, when governments realised that social housing was a necessity rather than a frivolity. It sits a couple of hundred yards from the highest rated state school in the country. From my kitchen I can see the Bristol Channel and the hills of Somerset. It is a beautiful view and one that sooner or later, my local authority will realise it is also one with a high market value. I try not to think about that, though it keeps me up some nights.
I put things into perspective. My ancestors were miners, labourers and factory workers in the days before health and safety regulations. They fought in wars waged on their betters behalf and died in their beds of diseases we can now cure. I don’t have to walk ten miles to source water to drink and I won’t watch my children die of malnutrition.
It is with these perspectives in mind that I suspect Fraser Nelson says “Things have never been so good for the poor.” And even though that isn’t even remotely true, it will be heralded as the fact that justifies the cuts that are still to come.





Friday, 2 June 2017


46 years old and still sobbing on trains.

Pop music is the cruellest music. Ephemeral and eternal, pointless and profound, disposable, inescapable pop music. The crackling intro of a jukebox classic, the yearning of a timeless fade out.

Everything I have ever heard and loved takes me back to a moment long lost. I can’t ever just hear a song. It is never just playing. Songs aren’t content with being beautifully rendered pieces of art, they have to torture me with images of vanished youth, thwarted love and wasted time.

So, my walk this morning. Shuffle on. Bring A Friend – HappyMondays. I’m 18 again, having fallen properly in love for the first time ever. Delighted at this unrequited experience, a relief to find I can feel anything, having spent my teenage years till now terrified at the thought of not being able to relate to anyone or anything past my nascent record collection. All of life’s mistakes not yet made. In the psychedelic sludge of Martin Hannett’s production I am reminded of my friends initial disgust at this purchase and their volte-face at Wembley Arena a year later as they slope in with the freshly flared jeans of the interloper.

Method Man – Bring The Pain. Late 20s me, bedsit me, stupid McJob and shit relationship me. Drugs me. Is it real son, tell me is it real son, is it really real son, tell me if it’s real.  I don’t even know if they’re the words.  It doesn’t matter. Just one of pop music’s myriad pleasures is the deciphering, the deconstructing of it’s hidden intent.

The music obsessive is an archaeologist, a historian, a detective, a trivia buff, a snob, a zealot, a tribalist, a completist, a fanatic. We don’t know the price of milk but we know who wrote How Can You Mend A Broken Heart. We argue on message boards, write fanzines, come up with fantasy cover versions, dream festival line ups. We make compilation tapes for would-be lovers, break-up tapes for ourselves.

You can’t prove it but I’d take a stab at saying that if it was possible to have a chart listing every band that had ever featured on a break-up tape then The Cure would be in the top 20. They’d have to be. I’m not even a massive fan but even they have songs that stop me in my tracks, send a time-travelling punch to my solar plexus, take me back to a place where I can literally smell and touch every single thing in the room.

And so it is with “Plainsong” – the kind of song you’d imagine The Cure sound like if you’d only read about them. As you hear it, you realise how much they and New Order ripped each other off. Chicken and egg stuff. All those 1980s music journalism clich├ęs rush to your mouth, synths are glacial, bass lines majestic – drums funereal etc.

Somewhere in all of Robert Smith’s pained mumbling, I’m back to 1990 and enjoying the sound of a summer storm battering the windows of my little college room. There’s a woman asleep next to me. In the background, my cassette copy of Disintegration – the nearest The Cure ever got to a heartbreak album – is purring away. At that moment, all the dreadful and terrible things me and that woman went on to do and say to each other have yet to happen – mere rumours from a personal dystopia not yet written.

At that moment, I think I’m about as happy as I had ever been or seemed likely to be.

And that’s pop music’s terrible power because there’s an equation which goes something like Power of Memory x Soundtrack x Years Passed = Amount of Pain Hearing Said Song Brings.

So it is that, on a beautiful clear Simpsons blue sky morning, I’m pretending to have hay fever on a train to a job on the edge of the world. And there’s no cure for that misery, neither would I want one.

Thursday, 27 April 2017

Notting Hill.

Earlier this week I gave a minute-by-minute commentary on the 1998 Hugh Grant slice of cinema verite, Notting Hill.

But I didnt give much of an introduction. Last night I had a curious dream about writing a Victorian style ghost story about Hugh Grant.

So I've attempted to merge the two. Read the short piece below, then the minute by minute commentary. Watch the film at the same time for a fully immersive experience of what it was like to be alive at the moment neither Arsenal nor the Labour Party were a joke.

I remember clearly that it was the week of Michaelmas when the Dean invited me to dine in his quarters. I was glad of the invitation, the first anniversary of my wife’s passing had found me in varying shades of maudlin and the opportunity to distract my mind – if only for a few hours – from sad and dismal contemplations was to be gratefully taken. 

It was an excellent meal. The Dean’s cook, a plump lady in her middle years, had rendered us quite invalid with roast beef, carrots, potatoes and peas – all quite drowned in the most succulent gravy I had ever tasted. Our passage to invalidity, I am almost ashamed to say, was aided by a bottle and a half of a most splendid claret. My comfort would have been unsurpassable were it not for the knowledge that outside the weather had turned most treacherous. Having retired to the Dean’s drawing room, warmed by both the excellent beef and the glowing hearth by which we now sat, I had begun to feel the first stirrings of tiredness when the Dean suddenly spoke. 

“Do I strike you as a good man?” 

I replied that he did. 

The Dean poured two more large glasses of the claret. 

“Even the most proud soldier of Christ has weaknesses, my boy. Strange proclivities, curious wants and illicit desires haunt us as they haunt all men. I have seen things that would shock even the hardest of hearts. But there is one terrible vision which I feel compelled to share with you if you would be so kind as to indulge an elderly fool.” 

The rain grew bolder outside. 

“Mrs Trilby will make you a room up. No point in wasting your warm belly in that storm.” 

I thanked the Dean and reached for my glass. The Dean went to a locked cabinet and pulled out a curious book. Opening it, he withdrew a flat disc of shimmering light. Before I could enquire as to what this disc was for, he placed it in a most curious contraption. All of a sudden, an unusual picture frame that I had hitherto paid little attention to, was lit with moving figures. A strange music came from it too, orchestral, giddy and joyous. 

“What magic is this?” I cried. 

The Dean pressed a button on a small block next to his left hand and the previously unremarkable picture frame filled with words. 

“Allow me to share with you the torments of a man called Thacker. A most unfortunate wretch whose dismal predicament has haunted me these many years. Let us watch the DVD of Notting Hill.” 

Though it is some time since that evening, there is not a part of me that wishes I had taken leave of my host there and then. For though the storm that raged outside that night would pass by the time the sun had risen, how I wish I could say the same for the tempest that has troubled my mind ever since.” 

Hawkney Chess, “The Night of the Glittering Disc.” (1874)

Wednesday, 18 January 2017

Theme to Brexit Boast

If you’re too scared to call Murdoch out just call Brexitboast

We've got UKIP goons and Wetherspoons at Brexitboast

Hear the Leader of the Country invoke Article 50

Remember what you see is not a tragedy but Brexitboast


If your party is divided you need Brexitboast

If your pound is falling swiftly just call Brexitboast

   You can let Paul Dacre scare you, and claim the country’s over run

Because we’re horrible, and know you’re gullible - Brexitboast


Let me state the most ridiculous statistics, not scientific

In the newspapers and telly everyday.

Our language patriotic , our policies psychotic

We’re heading for disaster Theresa May!, Ya-a-a-ay!


We are fanatical hate preachers here at Brexitboast

We will proudly man the beaches here at Brexitboast

We will march towards oblivion

Under a blood soaked Union Jack

We got our nation back from a pretend attack , that’s Brexitboast

We got our nation back from a pretend attack, that’s Brexitboast




Monday, 26 December 2016

The Dead Celebrity List Song

(to the tune of Good King Wenceslas)

Bowie, Burt Kwouk, Rickman, Prince
Boutros Boutros ghali
Fidel Castro, Rick Parfitt
and Muhammad Ali

All these folk dropped dead this year,
doesn't seem quite proper.
Celebrities must fear who is next
to come a famous cropper.

Corbett, Daniels, Andrew Sachs
Glenn Frey of The Eagles,
Terry Wogan, Jimmy Young -
all dead famous people

Caroline Aherne has gone
George Michael and George Martin,
Gene Wilder and Victoria Wood,
the great they kept departing.

Umberto Eco, Harper Lee
Prince Buster, Leonard Cohen
Sharon Jones, Edward Albee,
the talented kept going

So 2016 takes its leave,
its list of dead a barrage.
Who next year will we all grieve?
Please take Nigel Farage...

Friday, 28 October 2016

A Day In The Life

A Day In The Life Of Mr Cunt.

Mr Cunt wakes to the sound of the his newspaper hitting his doormat, the crunch of the paper boy’s footsteps on his gravel drive a forewarning of the teeth gnashing shite the paper specialises in.

After a demonic shit and a cursory wash of his hands, Mr Cunt walks downstairs to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on. He gets two slices of bread and places them in the toaster. He farts the first six notes of God Save The Queen.

He picks up the paper. On the front is a story about children in Calais being 63 years old. On page 3 there is a picture of Kate Middleton with her two small children. The picture gives him an erection. The toast pops.

Mr Cunt gets the butter out, gets the marmalade out. He still buys Golden Shred in the hope that collective sanity will prevail and they will once again have golliwogs on the tin. He makes his tea and returns to the newspaper.

Page 4 is a story of a sex change Nigerian family of health tourists who have been put up at taxpayers expense in a purpose built mosque made from the wrecked Mercedes Diana died in. It costs £100,000 a day to house them.  On Page 5 a BBC presenter is being called a shithouse by a veteran of four World Wars for not wearing a poppy whilst presenting the Goal of the Month for August.

Mr Cunt chomps away at his toast, growling in between mouthfuls, harrumphing at every news story his eyes feast upon. “We’ve got our country back, fucker” he belches at a picture of a Polish woman who’s been beaten up outside a Wetherspoons.

On Page 26 there is a review of a film called Death of A Sponger. It is a film made by Mr Cunt’s hero, Leonard Cock. The story is about a man who has never worked a day in his life, living on benefits of £800 a day in a luxury yacht off the Isle of Sheppey. A brave civil servant heroically brings a stop to this nonsense and, on his first day in work at a Burger King, Mr Cock’s protagonist accidentally falls (or is he pushed) into a deep fat fryer and is eaten by his fat kids. The review is by an old classmate of Mr Cunt’s and is given 5 stars out of 5.

Mr Cunt applauds this review. He punches the air. He walks to the lounge and gazes upon his beautifully manicured lawn and weeps for what this country has become.

He gets dressed, smart shirt, suit and tie. Polished shoes. He recycles one of last year’s poppies and buttonholes it to his jacket. He kisses his wife goodbye.

It is about 800 yards walk to Mr Cunts office but he doesn’t walk. Why buy a Bentley if you’re going to use your legs.  As usual, he is immediately stuck in traffic.  He phones his secretary and advises her that he’s going to be late. He does this whilst steering the car with his knees and turning up Born To Be Wild on the radio.

To be fair to Mr Cunt, the cyclist he knocked down thirty seconds later was exactly the kind of hipster arsehole that unites us all in hatred against him. He was stupid enough to be listening to his iPod, when Mr Cunt’s powerful motor car, freed from the ignominy of first gear, excitedly bumped the cyclist fifteen feet into the air.

Mr Cunt phones for an ambulance. Police come. Statements are given. The whole thing takes up all of Mr Cunt’s morning.  It’s an absolute nightmare. People are gawping, filming the frantic CPR on their mobiles, staring at Mr Cunt as he explains to the policeman exactly what happened.

A gust of wind sends various bits of crap tumbling out of an overfilled bin. The green plastic stem of a dropped poppy sticks to a dog turd, straining to be free.

Mr Cunt thinks about his friend the Chief Constable. Everything will be fine. It always is.