Gove to Go.

I don’t know quit how but Michael Gove makes my ears feel dirty. I can somehow see his mind working and it’s not a pretty sight. In fact he’s a master of the bolloctical to quote my last blog. It’s typical of the Liberals to pin their mast to House of Lords reform, it being a political black hole since the turn of the last century. It’s a no win no vote concrete ticket to Davy Jones. The reason is simple. The commons is on its own cusp between elected commoners and professional politicians. Half are wedded to the idea of democratic elections throughout and the other half to it being the unique preserve of the commons. “You’re just Lords, we’ve been elected” is the elitist view from the commons but even though most Lords are approaching their incontinence years they represent a certain meritocracy in that their title isn’t easily come by and advancing years does bring with it experience and a capacity to gently reflect. In that sense it perfectly balances the testosterone filled heads of the commons gridlocked by fear of political failure. And what if the Lords became an elected chamber? They would be newbies and make the professionals in the Commons look strangely like political Lords. It might look like a capsize where the left of the boat, it now being upside down, appears on the right. ‘Come in number 91. But we’ve only got 20 boats.’ It would be good to have an elected meritocratic second chamber but there are two problems. No one wants to leave a successful career half way through and voters, evidenced by our current politics, wouldn’t know merit if it punched them in the face. So I suggest the Lords is a bit like democracy; it’s not perfect but it’s the best we’ve got. Unlike Michael Gove. I would personally paint his portrait and hang it in my attic if I thought he would spend his perpetuity teaching PE in an inner city sink school.

My New Word.

I have a new word. Mothermouse was in the kitchen singing, “I would catch a grenade for you,….” It’s a song about being in love. When challenged as to its value as a realistic sentiment MM, being an ex English teacher said it was metaphorical. I decided it was bolloctical; that’s my new word. It means ‘expressing one thing in terms of another in order to knowingly mislead.’ The young lady plied with this bolloctical statement will immediately picture herself as Whitney Huston being bodyguarded by Kevin Costner and probably burst into, “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeiii will always love yoooooooooooou…..” She will completely overlook the fact her adoring twerp fresh out of Y11 will be picturing Sergeant Diehard in Call of Duty II, Black Ops edition. He will completely overlook the fact that Call of Duty II, Black Ops edition doesn’t have a love interest, and perhaps more importantly that grenades in real life hurt. This young lad should also posit the question, why is someone throwing a grenade at his girlfriend? Is she trouble or Syrian? Conversely is she one of Bashar al-Assad’s elite mercenary troops? Does he really want to be in the middle of a blood bath? But I suggest the simple addition of ‘bolloctical’ to the English language will solve all these dilemmas. ‘Sorry dear it was just a bolloctical statement contrived in my immature mind to convince you that I fancy you in order that you provide me of your unique amenities.’ It would provide a usefully specific location for all our bolloctically-motivated declarations. End of coffee break; the car won’t clean itself.

Dressed for Summer.

Beginning to realise global warming is just shorthand for getting more of the weather you don’t want. I avoided the rain going to the bank and got wet from mugginess on the way home. Having fulfilled my fiscal duties I decided to get my summer wardrobe from St Luke’s charity shop half price sale. Being not as sexually segregated as Top Shop my transvestite tendency hovered between rails. There’s also a practical side to this. Women donate cloths when fickle fashion moves on where men’s cloths are more often than not donated after they have literally moved on or when there’s no body left in the material itself. So I kitted myself out with a pair of size 12 jeans, boot cut, and a men’s pale blue sleeveless tank top. Actually the rack said size 10, which I was dubious about getting in to, but as the waist is lower on women’s jeans it makes sense to get a size smaller. At home I excitedly tried them on to show Mothermouse. She liked the jeans, which I have to say fit much nicer than men’s jeans, but said the tank top was vile. It constantly amazes me that such a fashion conscious woman should know nothing about men wear. Granted it was tight, but ‘vile’? It’s such an ugly word. She could have just said it was snug and shows off my muscles and left it at that. Anyway she does take a size 12 so “blurgh.” Calculating half of £3.95 and £1.65 did tax me and the lady serving but we agreed on £3.25 and here I am kitted out for the summer that has never been. And come to think of it she threw away my bright yellow XXXL jersey with ‘Timberland’ across the front without telling me and won’t let me wear my ladies cream sailor top with ‘SORTED’ on the front. That woman knows nothing!

OD on TV OD.

Since when was the sole purpose of writing to flatter the writer in his own estimation? A few weeks ago Samleck Durkmire in the Guardian’s Guide ‘TV OD’ column acerbically deconstructed a program that acerbically deconstructed a group of people gathered together to comment acerbically on the general public. I picture a queue of people each chewing on the turds of the one in front. It seems few of the Guardian’s crew of unpaid interns have the flare of the columns creator. I’m only being obtuse because I’ve forgotten his name. There was always some point to his ballet of images constructed from razor blades. And this week Trevor Twink turned his dull gaze on some food program. It appears we love watching programs about things we ignore in real life. Cash in the Attic, what’s in yours? Cooking, mine’s a Tesco’s cottage pie. Moving house, what! That’s the most stessful thing you can do without actually dieing. So with TV budgets only achievable by unpaid celebs glad of the exposure, intern directors, a dog on camera and the public for the price of a release form we have programs that aren’t worthy of commenting on let alone watching. This is of course a good thing, but it doesn’t absolve Trevor Twink of his duty to entertain more than his personal pronoun. But such is my love for Charlie Brooker’s, there I remembered it, wonderful images I turn to his page like Pavlovs dog each week hoping they’ve found another quality writer. Not yet.

Jimmy's error.

So Allan Carr made a ‘terrible error of judgement’ trying to avoid paying tax. Actually when I looked him up on the net Allen Carr was the guru of giving up smoking and died of lung cancer in 2006 and thus not concerned with his tax position. Jimmy Carr on the other hand is. It doesn’t surprise me. Though comedic his snappy dresser sneering style has always struck me as ‘fuck you society.’ But I can’t blame him for his error. This is how it goes. You find through some freak of circumstance the holder of ever-larger paychecks. You spurn your local accountant, Ivor Calclator, for a larger firm, KPMFISSG who as part of their comprehensive tax planning service puts you in contact with pension consultants, investment brokers, sellers of forestry and planners of off-off shore arrangements in such places as Lilliput and Gormangast. These planners arrange for your money to not go to you; that would incur huge amounts of tax paying, but to a small office in Jersey that is the commercial address of a company in Liechtenstein who make absolutely nothing. They stress that this has to be ‘at arms length’ to avoid said tax and that you can trust them completely. You being a comedian, musician or other creative having not a clue about that which they are talking are engaged in their rapture as to the efficiency of the scheme and agree. Thus armed with a pension, which after yearly fees and commissions are taken off will reduce a six figure contribution into a four figure annuity, half a forested glen near Loch Alch and an unwritten agreement with a man in a lovely suit who you’re unlikely to see again. Yes Jimmy Carr probably did make a terrible error of judgment. He tried to avoid paying tax.

Golden Rule.

Gunnie Reagan, the core of the ancient wisdom behind the Mettis Medicine Society, is at last posting teachings from their manuals on Face Book, presumable for the evaluation of a broader public. It’s a move I heartily endorse. As this ‘Warrior’s Golden Rule’ suggests, it will be met with love, ridicule or indifference but at least will be tested for worth against the wider wisdoms of the world. For example I can imagine any drug dealer worth his salt heartily agreeing he’s the living embodiment of Gunnie’s Warrior’s Rule, that, “I do whatever I want to do and take full responsibility for my actions. I do this because this is who I am.” If you’re going to write a warrior rule at least write one that won’t make Tony Blair feel proud about himself! I believe I know what Gunnie’s got in mind but given the average person’s capacity for self-deception his rule could mean all things to all men, and given his implicit assumption, that as warriors “no matter how impeccable our behaviour, no matter how clear our intent we will experience one or all the following responses from others,” could, if one wasn’t scrupulously self critical, provide one’s ego with a field day. It could simply provide a wonderful opportunity to justify feel good about whatever you feel like doing, and as ‘I’m an impeccable and clear of intent warrior’ you must be a prat for trying to arrest me. This isn’t a good thing. The problem with pithy sayings with diagrams is that everyone will interpret them in the way that will give them most comfort. This will cause you to be revered and greatly appreciated for your generosity and wisdom, but the comfort you bestow can easily be the harmful antithesis of wisdom. And even assuming Gunnie’s impeccability and clarity of intent he could have done a better job of the wording. It really is open to misinterpretation. His rule has five ‘I’s and not one of them refers to my responsibility to others. So long as I am who I am, I do what I want and I’m responsible for it, then you can go fuck yourself. It neatly avoids the tricky discipline of being in context. It reminds me of a Tom Lehrer lyric, “I just make them go up, who cares where they come down. That’s not my department say Werner Von Braun.”

We won didn't we?

We won! Though according to Mark Lawrenson the result was only down to England being slightly less good at losing than Sweden. Ninety minutes of listening to Mark is as depressing as being water boarded in Abu Grabe. If racism needs to be booted out of football then surely Mark, by denigrating every action of the whole human race to the point that a permanent vegetative state would seem like a blessed relief, deservers to be expelled by a well primed cannon over the hoop of Wembley Stadium. If it had ever entered my mind to be excited by the many glorious things one can do with a football I imagine I would feel humiliated. Mark along with the other ex-players in the studio appear to view the meagre efforts of my TV screen’s little running-about-ers as Christ would say, “Forgive them Father for they no not what they do.” I on the other hand am constantly amazed at their feats of athleticism and artistry compared with my personal benchmark of running about in painful boots round a muddy field to no avail. There are three sorts of people one should never ask the opinions of; ex players, pundits and non players. It’s true for any discipline with the possible exception of politics. Ex politicians, free of their previous two-faced hypocritical manoeuvring context, often begin to talk sense again. Ex players compare you with the glorious perfection of their own game, forgetting they only achieved it 0.001% of the time, pundits are like ex players but who’ve never actually played, and non-players compare you with any old bollocks their fatuous mind happens to be filled with. It’s not for nothing that it was 1966 that we last won the world cup 4-2 from West Germany, (thank you Wikipedia) forty years on from John Logie Beard’s invention of television. (I know, it’s a joke) Forty years in which to inculcate in the British public the tenets of punditry where opinion is more important than actually doing anything. There is a discrete line between the slander and rapture of the Brazilian public’s response to their team’s efforts and our own. We expect the perfection of the ex players, we overlook the inconvenient reality that punditry never addresses and most of us apply any old bollocks as we aren’t either of the other two. This has had a bad effect on our little running-about-ers who’re actually, lest we forget, simply trying to kick a ball about and win games. We are 100% behind our players- with a knife. We must learn it isn’t helpful to cheer on our lads by shouting, “Come on you lazy good for nothing overpaid ignorant racist pansies, we’ll snap your metatarsals if you don’t win every game 4-2 like you did when we actually supported you properly.”