Respect.

Mid son mouse has a masters in maths and took the GovBribe to be a maths teacher. He did two and a half years and has now left to set up his own business. Thankfully he didn’t get to the point of attacking a pupil with a dumbbell requesting his immediate demise, but anyone with experience of schools will empathise with the teacher who did. Playing up in lessons is fun. Watching the teacher’s face turn from pink to red to white apoplectic heart attack inducing rage is a laugh. He’s easy meat, trapped and powerless; we’re like a cat playing with a mouse. And lets face it, there’s no consequences, we can’t get done for it but he can, and if push comes to shove it’s just his word against ours. You see adults are stupid and teachers are all wankers so it’s sort of right to fuck them up. They’re a waste of time, try to teach us useless things. What do I need that shit for anyway? What right have they to tell us what to do? All this ‘when you grow up’ shit is bollocks. I’ve got all I need, what do I need a job for? My parents both got dead end jobs till they’re like a hundred and I’m not fucking doing that. They don’t seem to realise I learn all I need from television; you know, get pissed, have a laugh and all that. I’m not like my parents at all; I’m like them on television. They don’t have jobs do they, and they got loads of money. Honest my parents must be thick or something to do shit jobs. I think the older generation just don’t have a clue about the real world, you know, like it is now. The younger generation know about shit; they can’t even use the fucking Sky remote, have to ask me. And now we’ve got rights we can tell the tossers to fuck off, right. Respect, that’s what it’s about. 

Gordon’s Gaff.

Oh come on, we’ve all done it. I remember going to dinner at a neighbours house eating venison around a big oak table, chittery chattering about the finer points of life and then slagging our hosts off something rotten on the way home for their filthy kitchen, avalanche levels of clutter and pretentious talk. Then having to go back for my house keys, all smiles and, “I loved your views about Hulkenburg’s thesis on how photography changed art in the early twentieth century.” “Oh thanks. You must come again.” “Yeh right, what and die of salmonella from eating Yugoslavian ostrich meat you pompous git. I don’t know how your pathetic wimp of a wife puts up with you, you arrogant public school twat.” Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry I’m having trouble with my speech marks. “Big smile.” No, Gordon not only proved he was human; he proved he was British to the core. For us British closing a door is like entering a decompression chamber, poof and all the pent up secret thoughts come out, eager to see the light of day. He could have said, “Why didn’t one of you fuckers cull that stupid cow before she got to me. You know I can’t talk to these northern retards. I hate going north of Watford.” That’s fine, it’s par for the course, but the weeklong repentant Haj he’s embarking on is a worrying sign of un-British-ness. Gone are the days of singing about our adversary’s uni- testicular condition and calling a spade a spade. Oh my God, did I just type that! Sorry, gone are the days of calling a digging implement a digging implement. It’s no use, it’s out there, done. News at Ten will be interviewing me, “Did you or did you not type bla bla and intend to suggest unfortunate smiley black people should in your estimation be stamped into the earth and are only good for shovelling shit, or do you deny it, thus proving the truth behind our assertions? Or would you rather try to talk about something important in a vain attempt to divert us from getting to the truth, that you think these squalid, ignorant people of inferior races should not be allowed into our wonderful country of high standards and superior Britishness?” Well I, you know, I was just joking. JOKING? WHAT IS THIS JOKING? DOES NOT COMPUTE. 

Who Rules Rules.

Lets say the rules of football state that if you’re wearing a red shirt you can punch the opposing team in the face. And that the referee must not run, only walk slowly, as might a monk to his place of reflection. Oh oh, and also that said red team can, when they consider it necessary, slip a blindfold on said ref. No arguing now, these are the rules, and as good and noble sportsmen we must play by them. The game begins and immediately the red team show their quality. Their first goal comes from a penalty that the ref was told about by the red captain because he didn’t see it due to experiencing a mysterious blackout. Their second went past the goalkeeper out cold by the striker’s right uppercut. Their third, …and so on. The blue team had two goals disallowed and were down to seven men by the final whistle. A resounding victory. Oh did I mention that the winning team could also introduce new rules as part of their winnings. Well as the season went on the red team went from strength to strength and won the league. They were revered as intelligent, insightful, tough but fair. They had played the game by the rules and won. From every game they took away their winnings leaving the rest to count their losses. Clubs became destitute, their players redundant, grounds sold as managers scrambled to deal with mountains of debt. But as whole national leagues were decimated all had to agree that the red team played by the rules. Until, that is, one day a man asked, “Shouldn’t the game of football be fair?” the red manager said, “I don’t understand the question. Don’t we always play by the rules?”

Wealth Wars.

Sunday, Imperial War Museum north. Well worth a visit, especially prescient in these days of impending ration books. Hitler was just sooo obvious! His, “I’m coming to get you” tactics was like so old school. Of course the people of Britain would turn on the searchlights, beat aluminium pans into fuselages and protect London by hundreds of giant floating condoms. Of course the Americans would see it as a wonderful business opportunity. We’re plucky, we’re up for a post match punch up with Borussia Mönchengladbach, even if it does mean eating less and growing potatoes in the bath. Seeing the museum reminded me of our wonderful spirit “to do something” individually and cooperatively when needs must. But today the battlegrounds have changed fundamentally. We have moved to a time of covert challenges. Why invade a country when you can quietly take over the ownership of it? The fifteen wealthiest individuals have a joint wealth of $450 billion, which is about the same as the current deficits of the UK, Greece, Spain and Portugal put together. It would seem that the mechanisms of money flow have allowed it to collect in pockets. This time we didn’t turn on the searchlights; we didn’t see this invasion of our wealth happening. Thousands of troops are one thing but thousands of constantly evolving mechanisms in markets to deviate money flow is very different. It is based on a never-ending loop. Money brings power, power gives the ability to make the rules of money flow, which provides more money, which gives more power, and so on. It is the ultimate triumph of the intellectual realm over physical reality. When the last fruit grower in Africa is made destitute by the wealthiest man in Christendom, the wealthiest man in Christendom has no fruit to eat. But who needs fruit when you’re the wealthiest man in Christendom? So bear in mind in this election when they offer you a ration book to help pay off the deficit, there’s a war on.

Weekend with Mothermouse.

Mothermouse Donkey Poo Wed. Aniv. Pres. A weekend adventure to Old Trafford to see Man U play Tottenham. I love football on TV but to get into Old Trafford after my abysmal two games in sixty years was like being smuggled into Bohemian Grove. Google it, you’ll see what I mean. 75,000 wealthy aficionados congregate to feel emotion. On TV football is a fast moving game full of incident closely examined, slowed down and replayed from multiple angles from which one can form a considered judgment. From Block NW3435, row 27, seat 109 it’s 22 men running about on a field. Make that 19 as the two goalies and Berbatov rarely broke into a trot. In fact Berba’s whole technique revolves around being so slow and incapable that on the one or two occasions he does make an effort the other team are completely flummoxed. Maiming tackles that make me wince on TV, when viewed from seat 109, look like men simply falling over. And if you happen to be dipping into your crisps packet at the wrong moment you miss the goal that wins the match. When Tottenham scored their only goal, their supporters being half a mile away in the opposite corner, there was so little noise compared with the drink spilling crisps dropping jubilation of Man U’s three, I was left genuinely wondering why they were all trotting back to the centre circle. But being there with Mothermouse was an amazing experience; the atmosphere, the wonderful stadium, the stunning view and the emotion of the crowd. The man next to me had brought his seven-year-old daughter. It was lovely to see until he opened his mouth and I realised the poor girl will be left with permanent ear damage. In fact the emotion of the crowd made me realise why the game refuses to use video evidence when resolving fouls and penalty disputes. The game is all about emotion and there’s nothing that rouses emotions more than unfair decisions. A good half of the heated post match debates would be lost if the ref wasn’t visually impaired and the linesmen could see no lack of straightness in a donkeys hind leg. But Man U won by two penalties, which were obviously correct. A pint in the Kit Room bar, several overlooking the Manchester Ship Canal, a carvery and off to bed to watch the slow motion replays, which we missed because MOTD started early.   

The Sky Debate.

First has anyone got an answer to a sticky keyboard? I sprayed mine with WD40 yesterday and it’s even worse. Anyway nice to see the old adversarial politics returning. Three men saying ‘I have all the answers and this is how it is.’ It’s like three men seeing an object on a table and arguing over whether it’s a TV, a bucket of lard or a small stoat. Surely if they find so much divergence there must be still more questions that need to be asked, like ‘does it have a tail?’ or ‘what happens when you plug it into the mains?’ By being so positive they are only indicating their confusion, like three Y9’s arguing that 3, 7 and 9 are the correct answer to the same maths problem. One can only assume either their parents did their homework or they were absent for that topic. In contrast there are no acrimonious debates on Gardeners Question Time. The panel of experts are usually in agreement and only differ by their choice of extra morsels of information they feel like contributing. One only has to imagine taking one’s car into a garage and being faced with three mechanics arguing over whether it’s the carburettor, the gearbox or the steering wheel. “But I brought it in because the brakes weren’t working.” “Please shush, we’re the experts.” No, there are two sorts of people. Ones that know all the answers and ones that keeps asking questions till they know what they’re talking about. But under our system we’re unlikely to vote for a leader who just says, “I’m not sure, but I’ll try my best” or “your camellias would do better in a sunnier spot.” We would feel short changed by anything less than absolute certainty. But rather like the clock that’s only right twice a day, absolute certainty is tantamount to perpetual ignorance that is wrong most of the time. We are though creaking slowly towards consensus politics as the traditional left/right political ground becomes meaningless. Today the ground is micro versus macro, you and me versus Toyota and Tesco. Not forgetting Goldman Sachs and RBS et al. 

Thought for the Day.

Many years ago I remember a very dear friend popping his head round the door of my office as if it were yesterday. He asked me gently for a stapler which I gladly gave him. It’s in these small moments of friendship that we come together, as it were. Small ordinary moments in our everyday lives of kindness, of sharing what we have. God is like that; a friend who will gladly lend you his stapler to help you join together parts of your life that have somehow come apart. He doesn’t try and fob you off with a paper clip or a hole punch, he gives you a stapler. It doesn’t sound much does it, but, well I mean how many staplers does God have? And do we return them? Think about it. If we don’t might he run out? You see God has as many staplers as we need even if we don’t return them, but when we do he is grateful. It probably means just one less trip to office supplies. And if we don’t he will forgive us if we ask him. That’s the beauty of God; he lends and he doesn’t get angry or upset even if we go back time and time again. But that was a long time ago and God changes as all things change. In these days of e-mails and Facebook we don’t go to him for staplers anymore. Somehow we’ve forgotten how useful they are, how central they were to us. People laugh, we think we’re modern, we don’t need them anymore but there comes a time in all our lives where nothing else will do. And it’s then that God is there for us holding in his gentle outstretched hand. A stapler.