Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Never a frown with Gordon Brown

Brown says he never 'hit anyone.'

But he's not accused of hitting anyone.

He pushed them around a bit and roughed them up and yelled at them.

And he wrapped an aide inside a persian carpet and kicked him to death and threw his body in the Thames.

He punched a hole in a junior cabinet minister with a rawl plug, tore out his kidney, salted it and ate it.

John Prescott made a fair point about Andrew Rawnsley's lack of named sources on an excellent Newsnight on Monday, on which Paxman dropped the f-bomb.

I remember reading a piece by an Amercian journalist describing how she was schooled by her editors. 'Get names. Attribute your sources.' (As seen in the last series of 'The Wire')

She couldn't believe it when she moved to Britain and was allowed to accredit quotes and opinions to unnamed 'sources.'

Journalists here do it as a matter of course, but it is absurd when you stop to think about it.

Rawnsley is just putting words into mouths; that's been going on for thousands of years. But is he Thucydides or Herodotus? (both of whom usually named their sources, even if it was a bloke down the taverna in Herodotus' case.)

Hattersley and Steele both claimed that this story was evidence of a 'dumbing down' of politics, claiming that Abraham Lincoln* was a fiery old mongrel and no-one gave a damn. I've heard peole say the same about Churchill today.

But that doesn't wash. The world was a very different place then. In a stratified, paternalistic society aggression - or bullying - was acceptible. It's not now. If Brown thinks that it is, is it further evidence that he's out of touch with the real world?

Anyway, the next government is walking corpse already. There won't be a honeymoon.

There is no enthusiasm for this election outside of the sort of politico fanboys who read and write stuff like this on the internet.

They aren't going to be in a great state at all because while most other Western economies are climbing out of recession, Britain is stagnant & national debt is dwarfing Everest.

Bring back the corn laws.

* edited some weeks later to add: Lincoln was apparently short tempered because he took a medicine containing a high dose of mercury every day. Is this Gordon's excuse?

Sunday, February 21, 2010


I woke up on Saturday to find my bed full of broken glass

I'd been out drinking the night before

What I think happened is this:

On entering my room I had banged against my bookcase. On top of the bookcase is the vase that holds my pens and coloured pencils and the empty Hellmans mayonnaise jar that holds my tin whistles

I must have sent these flying. The Hellmans mayonnaise jar collided with the rail at the end of my bed and shattered.

Rather than clean it up, I must have just got into bed and passed out.

Some of the shards of glass were quite big. I was lucky not to cut myself.

The last thing I remember from the night before is being told that the girl I had been calling Angela all night was actually called Andrea. No big deal. God knows what happened after that.

Last night I left the movie, wandered the streets drinking whiskey from a hip flask, turned down an invitiation to a soul night, met Old Roger (from Leeds) who took me to the CCC club - The Catholic C-something Club? All drinks were two pounds. There were some fruity ladies there and Donna who didn't recognise me but then when I finally penetrated her alcoholic fugg loudly and volubly told me and everyone else around 'Oh I remember you! We made love once! Why did we only do it the once?' She's living with a fella now so after some ass-tappage (which stopped when she said 'Why are you tapping my ass?') I left.

I missed the last train again so sat with some drink and drug affected buskers in Cornmarket. The bloke was from Dublin and I stupidly encouraged him to play Irish folk songs which resulted in a few close confronations with meatheads in our welcoming, multi-cultural city. He made loads of money off hot ladies though. There's some unbelievably attractive women staggering about the snow filled streets of Belfast at witching hour.

Then I walked up to Botanic via the red light district and got propostioned by two prostitutes ('looking for business, love) before getting a £25 taxi home in the snow.

Another great weekend.