Anarchy In The UK

I’ve been a little more prolific today – this is my second post of the day.

Recent events in the world, and in the UK in particular, have made me start thinking about politics – or should I say lack of politics.

First of all, we have a global economic crisis, due to the greed and arguably criminal activities of bankers; a crisis that leads to a credit crunch, increased poverty and a deep recession that is chewing away at everybody’s savings.

The Battlestar UK has been caught in the gravitational pull of a huge black hole and is drifting inexorably towards the void.

Its pilot, one Gordon Brown has tried in vain to convince all of us that he and his government are steering the UK in the direction of prosperity. I have always been sceptical of anything that comes out of a politician’s mouth; they consider themselves to be champions of the UK and on the people’s side – I have simply never believed a word of it. In my opinion most of them are liars.

There has been cock-up after cock-up after cock-up; if it wasn’t true it would be an absolute joke. I’ve looked at the Labour Party and thought to myself – is this the party I voted for? And then I’ve looked at the Conservatives, led by a man who seems to have no talent whatsoever; David Cameron. His policies are based on what he reads in the red-top tabloids – whatever is unpopular at the moment, he will adopt (no matter how absurd). And it just gets worse – as Gordon Brown’s popularity has dwindled, he has actually started to steal Cameron’s ideas. You couldn’t make it up could you?

Is there an alternative to Brown’s Labour Party or Cameron’s Conservatives? Why yes – there are the Liberal Democrats, a party led by the largely anonymous Bob – or is it Thingummy Bob? Hang on, it will come to me in a minute – ah yes! Nick Clegg.

I’ve sat and watched the news, read the newspapers and seen the government’s popularity slip towards oblivion as Cameron, who has had to do nothing, has watched his popularity rise. I mean, he has only needed to sit and smile as Labour have self-destructed.

Now, however, fate has kicked the UK in the balls yet again. Now, thanks to the Daily Telegraph, our beloved government, and most of the opposition as well, have been exposed as lying, cheating and thieving blackguards who have been fiddling expenses to line their own pockets.

Members of Parliament (MPs) are allowed to claim their out of pocket expenses, mainly due to having to live in London, potentially miles away from their constituencies. Most have purchased expensive properties in the London area and claimed expenses on those properties. But they have, quite frankly, been taking the absolute piss and claiming absurd and ridiculous payments, as well as manipulating the system to maximise their income, straight from the taxpayers, i.e. me and every other UK citizen.

Here’s a list of some of the things that caught my attention in the newspaper at the weekend:

(1) An MP who “forgot” that he had paid off his mortgage and claimed payments up to £16,000. How on earth would anybody forget that they had paid off their mortgage?
(2) Another MP who claimed £13,000 for a mortgage he had paid off.
(3) Another claimed £5,000 for furniture for THREE properties.
(4) Another MP who tried to claim £8500 for a huge plasma television set and nearly £2000 for a rug imported from New York.
(5) Small beans, I know, but another MP claimed £115 to have 25 light bulbs changed at his London home.
(6) Another claimed £2000 to have his moat cleaned. HIS BLOODY MOAT!!!
(7) Another female MP “accidentally” claimed for her husband watching a pornographic film.

You can find more here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/8039273.stm

And this is just the tip of the iceberg. MPs have been selling homes, paid for by us, in such a way that they can avoid paying capital gains tax. Some MPs have made an absolute fortune this way at our expense; and the worst think is, that these MPs think that they have done nothing wrong. So, not only are we all suffering because of a global credit crunch and incompetence of bankers, the very people who supposed to be running the country and those who’s job it is to oppose those running the country, are ripping us off further.

There are thousands of people in the UK who are struggling to pay off their mortgage because of the recession and are in a position where they may actually lose their homes; yet here we have a bunch of thieving fat cats abusing the system to line their own pockets.

And the crowning turd in the swimming pool is the fact that the majority of them THINK THEY HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG.

What planet are these people living on?

People up and down the country are furious and absolutely livid. Even those who hate Gordon Brown must be totally disillusioned at the antics of the only viable opposition.

The definition of anarchy is:

Absence of any form of political authority.

Political disorder and confusion.

Absence of any cohesive principle, such as a common standard or purpose.

The Battlestar UK has just accelerated towards the black hole. Now is a great time to become an anarchist – I think most people in Britain are harbouring a great desire to do just that. If ordinary people such as me were to break or flout the rules in the way that some of our so called honourable MPs have done, we would be sacked from our jobs immediately and possibly prosecuted for flouting the law.

The whole sorry thing is an absolute disgrace and I for one am ranting endlessly about it – and I’m not alone. The TV cameras have been out on the streets of Britain asking the people what they think and almost everybody is outraged.

We are not going to forget this. The House of Lords has been re-badged by the media as the “House of Frauds”. The worst offenders, if they are not sacked, will lose their seats in the next election for sure. In 2010, when Gordon Brown faces the people, he will suffer, as will his counterpart. The prospect of mutiny on Battlestar UK has never been more possible.

Finally, I’d like to share with you two reactions that I read today that made me laugh about all this (and I needed a laugh I will tell you):

One reader said that the British electorate must envy Ali Baba because he only had 40 thieves to deal with.

Another said that his grandfather had told him that only one man had ever entered the Houses of Parliament with honest intentions – and that was Guy Fawkes.

Mind Your Language

Fear not – this is not a post about swearing.

Instead it is a little confession about one of my regrets; my lack of fluency in another language.

I speak a very limited amount of German, a little more French and, if it were still spoken, I could get by in Latin. Sadly, for me, I was coached in these languages thirty or so years ago at school and the knowledge has been replaced by other, seemingly more important information over the years – stupid stuff like the lyrics to songs – you know what I mean.

I’ve just returned from a business trip to Zurich, a place I have visited many times before. It’s a wonderful city and the Swiss are one of the friendliest people in Europe, if not the world. In Zurich, the official language is German, although really it is Swiss German, almost a different language. I hadn’t been there for eighteen months, and had visited enough to actually start picking up snippets of German again. In those eighteen months, however, the snippets I had acquired had been replaced by yet more song lyrics.

As I was waiting in the airport to return home to Manchester, I began to reflect on the previous week. I had been working in the office, listening to the guys speaking German and then switching to English in order to accommodate me. A lot of these guys were fairly fluent in a couple of languages and I began to feel inadequate, so much so, that I started to try converse with them in very poor German. They were quite impressed that I had made the attempt but it became apparent very soon after I had uttered the first words that my vocabulary was extremely limited. I soon switched back to my native English. I was filled with disappointment.

It was so different when I was younger. At the age of 21, I left university and had the entire summer before entering into the rat race. I decided to have one last adventure and set off for a four week jaunt around Europe with two friends. At that point, my French and German were both strong enough to make myself understood and . My friends weren’t quite so good though. I nominated myself to do most of the conversing in France and they agreed. I managed to speak to Parisians in their mother tongue and could understand them too. I was filled with a feeling of pride and achievement. Alas, one of my friends, a guy called Chris, decided that he would attempt to speak French as well, a bold gesture in city like Paris if your French is not up to scratch.

Paris is a beautiful city but I have always found Parisians a little stubborn. If you walk up to a Parisian and say “Parlez-vous anglais?”, they tend to stare at you with a look of utter contempt and say “Non!”. You have to make the effort. In their eyes, you are in the capital of France therefore you must speak French. So Chris, not a shy lad, grasped the nettle and attempted to speak French as much and as often as he could. Sadly, his vocabulary then was far worse than mine is now and he frequently confused and shocked Parisians, as well as making them howl with laughter.

For example, as we were leaving Paris to head south on a train, we discovered that each carriage was absolutely full. We walked the length of the train looking for a compartment with three spaces and were just about to give up, when Chris spotted one. He opened the door and saw several old people, who stared at him with disgust (we were travelling light and probably looked a complete mess). Chris, being ever so polite but bold, gestured at the three seats and said:

“Le corridor – il pleut.”

Basically he told them that it was raining in the corridor. Some laughed at him; the rest stared at each other and said “Huh?”

I intervened and asked them if we could sit down. They reluctantly agreed but openly talked about us whilst sniggering at Chris. I understood a fair amount of what they said and they were criticizing our lack of French, even though we had at least tried.

I’ve been to Paris and other places in France on several occasions since then and have always tried to speak the language. As the years have passed, however, my ability to remember the words has diminished and I have had to resort to a pocket dictionary or a phrase book. Happily, in the last ten years my job has been made a lot easier because Mrs PM speaks French almost to fluency. She’s a little rusty these days but she can hold a decent conversation with your average French person. On a recent trip to Bordeaux, she was taking snaps for her photography course, when a woman started talking to her. The conversation was fascinating, mostly because Mrs PM was laughing and making the other woman laugh as well – not because of her poor French but because she was cracking jokes. How I envied her – I still do.

As far as German is concerened as I have said above, I have been to Zurich quite a few times over the past five years made a conscious effort to at least try to speak German outside the work environment. In the past, I have managed to ask for my room key, order food, order beer, buy train tickets and even have attempted to switch to German when talking to other people, switching to English only when I have had to. The more often I have been, the more progress I have made. Sadly, though, lack of practice makes you forget and this last trip was frustrating because I had reverted to having to ask for things in English again.

I still make an effort, whenever I visit a foreign place, even if I don’t know the language. In Moscow, for example, I learned a few choice phrases that helped me out.

“Two beers” – “два пиво “ (pronounced – “dva piva”)

“Thank you” – “Спасибо” (pronounced “spassiba”)

“Hi” – “Привет “ (pronounced “preevyet”)

I was stuck in Moscow in the middle of a harsh winter, with temperatures of minus 20 degrees and managed to find my way around the city, by learning how to pronounce the Russian alphabet. Sadly, speaking the above phrases only helped in a bar, so I ended up drunk.

Sometimes, attempting to speak a foreign language can be embarrassing (as Chris had discovered). In Beijing, I was in a restaurant with Mrs PM eating crispy duck, having had a few beers. Obviously nature had to take its course and I had no idea where the toilet was. In the end I had to ask a waiter. I waited until one of the male waiters walked past and pointed out the word "toilet" in the phrase book. He began to explain in Mandarin but I just stared at him like a lost kitten. He realised that I had no idea what he was saying and beckoned me to follow him. Feeling strangely courageous, mainly due to a little alcohol, I decided to practice the word as we walked. The phrase book had an English pronunciation for the word and I attempted to say it to him. He smiled and said the word properly. I repeated it and got it slightly wrong, so he repeated it again. This continued all the way across the restaurant when I finally pronounced it in an acceptable fashion. Just then, I noticed that a lot of people were staring at me with an ill-concealed look of mirth on their faces. I couldn't work out what was so funny. And then I realised; I had just walked across the restaurant with a Chinese waiter saying the word "toilet" very loudly and very badly and very often to him. He in turn had responded with the word "toilet". They had witnessed two grown men marching across a restaurant shouting "toilet" at each other. No wonder the patrons were laughing. Slightly embarrassed, I smiled at a couple seated next to the lavatory, pointed to the door and said "toilet" in Mandarin. I thought the woman would have a seizure. Her hand covered her mouth and she grunted and snorted, trying to give me the impression that she was choking on her food. The man stifled a laugh but nodded approvingly, simply, I hoped, because I had made an effort.

Ultimately, when we retire Mrs PM and I may want to spend a lot more time in France. If I can find the time beforehand, I will make an attempt to re-learn French to fluency. I may even have a go at improving my German. I don’t think it’s too late to try – I just need to fight another battle against my willpower and fill this particular void. I sense an oncoming war against procrastination.

Thankfully, this year our trips abroad include America and that’s a country where I can speak the language almost fluently. I need to get to grips with words like “faucet”, “sidewalk”, “diaper” and “garbage” to master the language fully.

Guitar Heroes - Ritchie Blackmore

Ritchie Blackmore is probably my very first guitar hero. In the late seventies, as my musical taste drifted towards hard rock and heavy metal, the virtuosity of Ritchie Blackmore was a beacon that drew me in.

Deep Purple, at this stage, had imploded and Blackmore had created a new band called Rainbow. Both of these bands were extremely popular within my school and I began to collect their LPs, with what little cash I made from a paper round.

Chief amongst those albums was “Made In Japan”, a live recording made by Deep Purple’s unbelievable “Mark Two” line up in Tokyo and Osaka in 1972. I played the album so much that the vinyl almost melted. I became Ritchie Blackmore’s evil air guitar doppelganger as I leapt around my bedroom to the brilliant “Child In Time”, “Smoke On The Water”, “Space Truckin” and “Strange Kind Of Woman”.

I progressed onto Rainbow and continued to be an imaginary air guitarist, ripping through classic albums like “Rising” and “Long Live Rock And Roll” in my room. My father used to despair that his eldest son, now a mad haired heavy metal teenager, was leaping up and down, screaming in to the sound of music played at a volume that shook the walls.

Fast forward to 1984; a day that almost made me cry with joy - the reformation of Deep Purple with the classic “Mark Two” line up, with Ritchie, Ian Gillan, Jon Lord, Roger Glover and Ian Paice. The first album “Perfect Strangers” was a triumph as far as I was concerned. I also liked the follow up “The House Of Blue Light”.

Sadly, as brilliant a guitarist as he is, Ritchie Blackmore seems to have a streak in him that makes him very difficult to work with. Ian Gillan has been a famous casualty and their volatile relationship, although producing some classic timeless tunes, has also resulted in the initial destruction of Deep Purple at their peak and the eventual final departure of Blackmore from Deep Purple.

I was fortunate enough to see Deep Purple “Mark Two” at the Manchester Apollo in one of the last concerts before Blackmore left for good. The tension on the stage was tangible and Blackmore seemed to be so lonely there, almost as if he was playing a solo concert that happened to feature the rest of the band. I have only seen Ritchie Blackmore perform twice, and this second time was a disappointment. Sure, he played his guitar like it was part of himself, but there was something missing.

I keep thinking to myself, if only Blackmore hadn’t been so difficult, we could have had decades of Deep Purple brilliance.

Don’t get me wrong. Deep Purple are still making decent music even today. The only problem is, Blackmore is not part of the band. Instead, he has become sort of medieval mandolin player in a band called “Blackmore’s Night”, a style I can’t bring myself to like.

Despite the rollercoaster of Deep Purple, I still have nothing but the utmost admiration for Ritchie and he is still a huge hero of mine. As part of Rainbow, he produced the best rock album of the 1970’s – “Rising” – and on that album, one of the greatest rock songs of all time – “Stargazer”.


My favourite songs featuring Ritchie Blackmore are:

(1) Child In Time – Deep Purple
(2) Highway Star – Deep Purple
(3) Strange Kind Of Woman – Deep Purple
(4) Perfect Strangers – Deep Purple
(5) Space Truckin – Deep Purple
(6) Stargazer – Rainbow
(7) A Light In The Black – Rainbow
(8) Kill The King – Rainbow
(9) Spotlight Kid – Rainbow
(10) Difficult To Cure – Rainbow

His style is unique and his talent is almost immeasurable. The man was and is a true rock god. I would love to see Ritchie Blackmore abandon his medieval Renaissance folk rock and return to the axe-wielding rock guitar hero of my youth.

Finally, if you follow the link below you will find Ritchie Blackmore with the greatest Deep Purple line up performing "Child In Time" way back in 1970:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnts-7uNbC0

Monsters Of Mock

On Friday last week, I went to yet another rock concert. However, this wasn’t just any rock concert; it was a party celebrating the first birthday of Rock Radio, Manchester’s very own classic rock radio station.

I’ve been moaning for years about the lack of decent radio in the UK. Most of the radio stations play meaningless, featureless, bland pap. You can imagine how delighted I was to discover that a new station was being created, playing decent music and in my very own city.

I have actually started to listen to the radio again because of Rock Radio, something I am delighted about.

The web site is here:

http://www.rockradio.co.uk/

Anyway, a mate of mine suggested we go to their first birthday party at a night club in Manchester called “The Ritz”, a place I used to go to occasionally in my youth (I may spill some stories about the place one day). The event was cleverly called “The Monsters Of Mock” because the organisers had chosen to book four tribute acts. I was a little sceptical to be honest – I prefer to see the real thing – but I thought, what the hell, it might be fun.

And it was.

The acts were:

(1) Fink Ployd (Pink Floyd)
(2) Rattle and Hum (U2)
(3) The Rolling Clones (The Rolling Stones)
(4) Limehouse Lizzy (Thin Lizzy)

We arrived at 0700 just in time to see Fink Ployd, come onto the stage. I didn’t really know what to expect to be honest but when I heard the opening notes of “In The Flesh” from “The Wall”, I knew we were in for a good time. The band belted out several classics in their set including “Money”, “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” and “Comfortably Numb”. They were superb.

Next up was Rattle and Hum. I’m not a huge fan of U2 but the band went down very well, playing songs like “Vertigo”, “Beautiful Day”, “With Or Without You” and “Pride (In The Name Of Love”.

The third band was the brilliantly named the Rolling Clones and they were very entertaining. The lead singer was particularly amusing, strutting about the stage just like Mick Jagger. I was delighted when they performed my favourite song by the Stones, “Sympathy For The Devil” and I whooped along with everybody else.

Before the final band came on, I went to the toilet and broke an unwritten man’s law – I spoke to a bloke. He asked me if I’d ever seen Limehouse Lizzy before. I told him that I hadn’t.

“You’re in for a treat,” he said. “The lead singer IS Phil Lynott; he will have the crowd in the palm of his hand”.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Limehouse Lizzy opened with “Jailbreak” and the singer sounded eerily like Phil Lynott; it was uncanny. The band belted through timeless classics like “Chinatown”, “Waiting For An Alibi”, “The Boys Are Back In Town”, “Dancing In The Moonlight”, “Emerald” and, my favourite “Killer On The Loose”.

It was the first time I had ever seen a tribute band and I really enjoyed it. Of course, I will never get the chance to see Pink Floyd or Thin Lizzy, and I doubt I will ever see the Stones or U2 so in that respect it was definitely worth it.

There are photos of the event on Rock Radio’s web site – I haven’t scrutinized the photos so there is a slight chance I may be lurking in the crowd scenes somewhere.

Thanks to Rock Radio for a surprisingly good night and here’s to many more years of decent radio.

Watch Out America - I'm Coming Over ...

Watch out America; the Plastic Mancunian is coming.

It’s been a while since Mrs PM and I have been across the pond, so we’ve decided to inflict ourselves on the United States once again. The last time I went to the States was a few years ago, when I visited Las Vegas. Mrs PM had been there for a conference and I decided to join her for an extra week. We had a fabulous time.

During that trip, Mrs PM and I flew in a helicopter for the first time. I was really excited and was absolutely fine until the helicopter pilot flew over the Hoover Dam. I took a photo of the dam but the pilot swooped in a strange direction and made my stomach lurch; consequently I had to stare at the horizon as we flew over the Grand Canyon (for fear of puking). Thankfully with the aid of a few deep breaths I recovered. Mrs PM, on the other hand, was horribly air sick. I thought she was going to throw up on a couple of occasions. Our pilot showed off his flying skills and dived over a particularly high precipice prompting Mrs PM to utter the only words she spoke on the entire trip:

“DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT AGAIN!”

The scenery was breath-taking and I was really buzzing when we flew back over Las Vegas. I don’t think Mrs PM enjoyed it too much and had to lie down for a couple of hours after we arrived back at the hotel.

I loved Las Vegas and we were sensible enough not to blow our savings. In fact, we broke even, thanks to Mrs PM using her luck and judgement. She won a few hundred dollars on the roulette table and walked away rather than blowing the lot.

The temperature was a tarmac-melting 45 degrees Celsius (we were there in August) and I have never been so hot in my entire life. We coped by hotel hopping. We were staying in the Monte Carlo hotel and spent our time wandering down the Strip, hopping into hotels when overcome by the heat.

Anyway, back to our forthcoming trip.

The suggestion came from Mrs PM after watching “Fringe”, a series where nasty and horrible things happen to people. For those of you that haven’t seen the series, it is basically similar to the X-Files, where a group of FBI agents investigate strange happenings in and around Boston.

“Let’s go to Boston,” said Mrs PM while watching a particularly gruesome episode that involved a creature that was a cross between a snake, a scorpion and an eagle attacking people and laying it’s eggs inside their bodies.

“So we can meet that thing?” I asked incredulously. Pointing at the creature as it was about to devour one of the heroes.

Actually, I leapt at the idea because Boston and New England is one of the places I have always wanted to visit.

We have now booked the flights and are coming over during the last week in September. We haven’t planned our itinerary yet, but the idea is, I think to spend three days in Boston and then hire a car and head off to Cape Cod for four or five days before returning home.

I’m really looking forward to it and so is Mrs PM and I am hoping to produce a huge portfolio of photos, some of which may appear on my photo blog.

Of course, we hope to be fairly flexible, so if there is anybody in the area (or elsewhere), who has any tips or recommendations for places we can visit, etc. then I will be very grateful. One thing I wouldn’t mind doing is enjoying a pint or two of Samuel Adams beer in “Cheers”. I realise that may be something that dumb tourists do, but I don’t really care.

I have to say, however, that any suggestions involving climbing up a tall structure (for me) or flying in a helicopter (for Mrs PM) will almost certainly be ignored. I am not going to allow Mrs PM to persuade me to climb anything that is higher than a three storey building (unless I am safely inside it of course).

I’m off now to try to practice saying “Fall” instead of “Autumn”.

Another British Post

Napoleon once famously said of England:

England is a nation of shopkeepers

Presumably the French dwarf was annoyed because we kicked his bottom at the battle of Waterloo in 1815.

Well, I think its time to tell you all a little more about Britain and I will start by categorically denying Napoleon’s claim – I am not definitely not a shopkeeper. To counter this, I’ve decided to relate a few more facts about my home country.

Monarchy

Britain has a monarchy; we are ruled by Queen Delia of Norwich, a woman who writes books about food. When she barks we all jump – this is known as the “Delia effect”. She once wrote a book called “How To Cook” and in that tome, she suggested that we all go and buy eggs. I still recall the fateful day when Mrs PM read the book – I returned home from work to find the fridge full of eggs.

“What’s for tea?” I said.

“Eggs,” she replied. “Delia says so.”

Now I have to say that I cannot say anything bad about Queen Delia. She loves her people. Here she is giving encouragement to her subjects:



Now, apparently she wasn't drunk; royalty don't get drunk do they?

Government

The government of Britain is an example of a unique form of politics: idiocracy.

Our most recent Prime Ministers have been:

Margaret Thatcher – also know as “Atilla the Hen”. She was also called “The Iron Lady”, because she liked to iron clothes. She frequently did this in the House of Commons while insulting the opposition. Mrs Thatcher (or “Thatch” as she was affectionately known) single-handedly destroyed industry in England, because she didn’t like seeing pictures of dirty miners on her television screen. Such was her ego that she considered herself to be two people. When her first grand child was born, she wobbled up to the camera and said: We are a grandmother.” Now I’m sure that Atilla considered this to be a profound statement, but in reality it was because she was in fact a man - here is proof:



Following her years of dictatorship, Atilla was replaced by a robot called John Major, otherwise known as “The Grey Man”. This man was so dull that he quite literally sent everybody to sleep as soon as he opened his mouth. John Major should actually have been an accountant; how he managed to accidentally become Prime Minister is anybody’s guess. I would post a link showing a typical John Major speech but I fear you would immediately fall asleep. Here he is:

After Major bored us all to coma, we were subjected to His Royal Tonyness, Tony Blair, also known as “Tony Bliar”. Unlike his predecessor, Tony has a smile so huge that crows often get stuck in his teeth. In fact, Tony’s teeth are bigger than his head (and that is big enough):

Tony was great; Tony was cool; Tony was in a rock band. Tony can sing. He even did a duet with George W Bush:

After His Royal Tonyness came the dour Gordon Brown, our current Prime Minister, a man who has more lives than a cat. Gordon the Gopher has led the UK into recession. He has a fake smile that can scare even the bravest warrior. When I first saw him smile, I fled from the room, screaming for my Mum. Those of a nervous disposition, please DO NOT click the following (no matter how tempted you are):

He is famous for saying “No more boom and bust”. I presume he wasn’t talking about the economy when he blurted out these ill-chosen words; I guess he was talking about his expanding waistline.

Patron Saints

The patron saint of England is St George, who is also the patron saint of binge-drinkers. On one particularly boozy night, St George hallucinated and thought he saw a dragon. He promptly slayed the imaginary beast with his wooden spoon and somehow managed to convince a whole nation that he had done so.

The patron saint of Ireland is St Patrick, who is also the patron saint of Guinness drinkers. Every year, on March 17th, the whole of Great Britain goes out and gets drunk, including Queen Delia of Norwich. The video earlier in the post was filmed on March 17th.

The patron saint of Scotland is St Andrew, who is also the patron saint of monsters. Every St Andrews day, the Loch Ness Monster, or “Nessie” to her friends, crawls out of Loch Ness and shares a haggis and a pint of “heavy” with the locals.

The patron saint of Wales is St David, who is also the patron saint of rugby. Every Saturday thousands of Welshmen sing their hearts out at rugby union games throughout the country and are generally happy (mainly because they don’t have to play English teams).

Major Cities

London is the capital of England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Londinium” which is Latin for “speakers of cockney-rhyming slang”. Romans found it difficult to understand the language, which hasn’t changed in centuries. I mean, do you know what the following sentence means?

“Would you Adam and Eve it? I was having my barnet cut and I had a butchers through the window when I saw this geezer fall down the apple and pears.”

It means:

“Would you believe it? I was having a haircut and looked out of the window just in time to see a man fall down the stairs.”

People from London are called cockneys and think that Great Britain is contained with the boundaries of Greater London. Everyone else is “from the Norf”. Here's a typical cockney:

Birmingham is the second city in England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Brummigumus”, which is Latin for “speakers of a poor pseudo Black Country accent”. Again Roman’s found it difficult to understand the language in this city – it is like Black Country accent – only far less classy. Birmingham people think that their city is at the centre of the universe. In reality, the centre of the universe is just a few miles up the road, in the Black Country, at a little place called Walsall.

Manchester is the real capital of England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Mamucium”, which means “City of Paradise”. Julius Caesar declared “Mamucium” to be the true capital of the Roman Empire and decreed that only the greatest human beings in Britain would be allowed in the city; something that still stands today. Manchester is home to the crème de la crème of British citizenship; only the most intelligent and beautiful people in Great Britain are allowed within the city limits. I sneaked in twenty four years ago, through the sewage system.

In Scotland, there are two major cities; Edinburgh and Glasgow. Edinburgh was discovered by Mel Gibson who promptly went to war with the English and then retreated to Edinburgh castle. Glasgow was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Glaswegia”, which is Latin for “wearers of kilts”. Nobody outside Glasgow can understand a Glaswegian. Listen to this:



Does it make sense to you? No, it doesn't make sense to me either.

In Wales, we have Cardiff. Cardiff was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Armus Parkus”, which is Latin for “Home of Welsh Rugby”. Cardiff is a fabulous city and I have always had a magnificent time there. On Saturday nights, the city is full of Welsh people singing in close harmony as they consume Brains Bitter. I was of course instantly recognised as an Englishman because when I sing, cats throw themselves under cars.

In Northern Ireland we have Belfast, which was discovered by the Romans. They named the city “Belfast”, which is Latin for “Home of Georgie Best”. George Best hailed from there and is one of the greatest players ever to grace the English football league. I wish George Best had been English.

Anyway, that’s enough for now. More may follow in later posts. In the meantime, if you have any questions about Great Britain, please fell free to ask me.

I may even tell you the truth next time ...

The Beast Within

In a restaurant last week, I ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter dutifully delivered a £30 bottle of rioja, opened it and poured a tiny amount into my glass. As tradition and etiquette dictate, I obediently sipped the wine to relay to the waiter whether it was acceptable or not.

It was disgusting; I stood up, spat the wine all over the waiter’s white jacket and screamed:

“This is revolting! How dare you charge £30 for this bottle of rocket fuel.”.

I snatched the bottle from the stunned waiter and poured it over his head.

I didn’t really. In fact, I didn’t even go to a restaurant last week. However, I would love to have the courage to do just that; refuse a bottle of expensive wine because the taste is not worthy of the asking price.

Furthermore, there are numerous other things I would love to do if only I had the audacity.

The beast within me needs to be totally constrained as does the mischievous imp. I long to unleash these dark sides of my personality on people who wind me up; I feel like Bruce Banner containing the Hulk within. The urge to unleash the beast and vent my fury on people who anger me is sometimes overwhelming. And sometimes I can barely contain the mischievous imp who yearns to conquer arrogance and stupidity with suitable punishments.

Here are a few examples:

(1) You see lots of men with long hair. I can appreciate that, having had long hair myself. However, when men tie their long locks into a ponytail, it makes me cringe. It may look cool to some, but I hate the style personally – and sadly, I know people who do it. And what would I love to do to these guys? Cut the bloody ponytail off and then see the look of horror on their faces when they realise what’s happened. If I did have a pair of scissors, the urge to act would be overwhelming.

(2) At a football match, when a player dives and feigns injury, i.e. cheats, all I want to do is leap over the wall and stamp on the imaginary injury and say “NOW, you’re injured you cheating scumbag!”

(3) When stuck in a conversation with the world’s biggest bore, I usually listen attentively, nodding at the appropriate times and pretend that I’m interested in the plot intricacies of Coronation Street. If I were to unleash the beast I would say:

“For crying out loud – GET A LIFE! STOP BORING THE ARSE OFF ME AND TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO CARES!”

(4) Have you ever found yourself next to a loathsome businessman on an aircraft who sticks his elbows into your ribs as he attempts to eat, drinks huge quantities of wine and ends up disturbing you every twenty minutes to go to the loo, talks inane crap peppered with business buzzwords and phrases, is rude to the stewardesses and treats them like skivvies and then falls asleep facing you, breathing his stinking wine-breath into your face whilst snoring so loudly that it drowns out the engines? Well I have and let me tell you this: all I want to do is haul that man out of his seat, frogmarch him to the toilet, crowbar his massive belly into the cubicle and shout:

“STAY IN THERE, YOU FAT OBNOXIOUS GIT!”

(5) A female friend walks into the bar wearing the most awful outfit you have ever seen. Instead of saying:

“Wow, you look fantastic”

Don’t you sometimes want to just tell her the truth? Wouldn’t it be better to say:

“You’re dress looks like a warped garbage sack and your lipstick makes you look like a tart. Your hair's a bloody mess and your perfume is so overpowering I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve left a trail of dead cats in your wake. I’m sure it took you hours to get ready but, let me tell you this, love; I’d just go back and throw on something simple – you’d look much better.”

(6) Picture the scene; you’re at an art gallery standing in front of a work of art by a contemporary artist, described in the media as a visionary. The piece is basically a pile of bricks thrown at random and covered with various colours of paint and has random bric-brac glued to various bits of it (eggs, jelly, cat fur, dog poo, feathers, tar, broken crockery, soup, dolls furniture, used tissue, mud and bits of car). It is called something like “Adventures in the Platinum Void”.

Two art critics are standing next to you. One says:

“It’s fabulous! It captures the essence of existence in a manner that is, quite simply, breath-taking. I feel privileged to see this beautiful piece. I’m moved to tears. I am a voyeur from an existential plane. This piece is the work of genius.”

The other replies:

“I totally agree. This magnificent sculpture explains the meaning of so many philosophical taboos on a level that is deeper than the world’s best thinkers can ever imagine. The intensity of splendour is daunting; I am but a microbe in its presence. The power is overwhelming and I am wholly inadequate, yet totally enthralled.”

One of them turns to you and says:

“What do you think?”.

Wouldn’t you just love to say:

“This is total crap! The artist is a genius but only in the sense of being able to con you two pseudo intellectuals that it actually means something. I’m sure the artist is laughing all the way to the bank. You are a couple of morons with more money than sense.”

(7) Back in the restaurant, I’ve survived the wine incident and I’ve ordered the gourmet dish, described in great mouth-watering detail. The dish has a fancy French name (that probably means “dustbin slime”). The waiter, having brushed himself down and changed his jacket, presents me with my main course on a huge plate; there is barely enough to feed a gnat. The meal is so tiny that I need a microscope to see it. And I’ve paid £25 for this useless gruel. Instead of saying “Thanks!” I long to say:

“What the hell is this? How have you go the gall to charge £25 for food that would leave a goldfish demanding more?”

I’m sure he would run for cover if I threw the plate at him.

(8) You’re in a queue at the ticket office in a railway station and your train is due to depart. In front of you is a man who is so dim it’s a wonder he can get himself dressed up in the morning. He says:

“So what time’s the next train to Liverpool?” he says. “I need to get there by 5:30. It’s now 1.30 so that gives me a few hours. How long does it take? I’ve heard its 35 minutes; is that true? How much does it cost?”

Don’t you just want to grab the idiot and shout:

“THIS IS A TICKET OFFICE WHERE YOU BUY TICKETS. IT IS NOT A BLOODY INFORMATION DESK. MY TRAIN IS ABOUT TO LEAVE AND IF I MISS IT BECAUSE OF YOUR IDIOCY, I’M GOING TO COME BACK HERE AND SET FIRE TO YOUR TROUSERS!”

(9) Don’t you just want to turn up to X-Factor auditions with a large bottle of indelible ink in your pocket? Why would you do that, I hear you cry? Well, you could stand up in front of Simon Cowell and when he asks what you going to sing, simply run up to him and pour the entire contents of the bottle over his smug head.

(10) You’re in a pub with your beloved lady having a wonderfully fulfilling conversation over a pint of the landlord’s finest ale, when all of a sudden, the place fills up with young people out for the Saturday night cattle parade and the barman cranks up the background music so loudly that you can barely hear yourself think. Worse still, the music is rap, r’n’b or boy band/girl band fodder. Wouldn’t you just love to walk behind the bar, lift up the offending music machine and smash it to the floor? Even better – walk to the pub with the world’s most powerful ghetto blaster and as soon as the music is cranked up, retaliate by playing a Metallica CD at three times the volume?

I’m glad that’s off my chest. The post may make me appear to be a savage, bent on the destruction of all that annoys or irritates me but I’m not really. I can tolerate almost anything; whilst my inner turmoil in trying to contain the beast and imp within is a struggle of monumental proportions, my outward appearance is one of calm and polite acceptance – just as long as the wine tastes nice.