Prince Charles...

is quite the dimwit. Apparently the man is so lazy he has someone squeeze his toothpaste for him (this is no smutty 'oo err' reference, so stop that now) and once when he needed to give a urine sample some poor servant had to hold the bottle. He and his two pampered sons have just been on the six o'clock news on a skiing holiday at Klosters/Kloisters somewhere in the European highlands. He was asked a question and began to whine about reporters. He sat there and complained at having to answer a few suck up questions from an over respectful press before swanning off for a day's skiing. PAID FOR BY US!!!!!

I should have turned off the tv but like a fool I didn't. The Royals infuriate me. Apparently Buckingham Palace has 1000 rooms inside, why? They can't use them all, I bet the Queen has never set one foot in the majority of them. Most of us make do with a modest four, five or even six room houses, okay possibly even seven but 1000! The Royals however are not like us, the greedy blood sucking parasites. If the Royals want a home well then that'll be a thousand rooms thank you very much, and let's not spare the labour. A trip down the Mall in London or the west side of Hyde Park will show you some of the smaller palaces these fuckers own. Or rather we own and pay for and they live in. Oh dear, oh dear, I'm off on one now, an anti-royal rant is just too easy. Like shooting fish in a barrel. And speaking of shooting I'm with the Bolsheviks on this (as I am on most things). The best condition in which to encounter a royal is when they're in the shot condition, fiscally it's also very responsible because with shot royals maintainance costs are low.

And whilst we're on the matter of Klosters, or Kloisters, doesn't that name sound just a little too much like 'cloisters'? Public school, dark evenings, dim corners, sweaty fumbles, master coming, ears tweeked, swish of cane, voices 'eeeeked', sent on way, botty sore, maybe oh maybe wanting more...

In fact their discomfort on that bench in Cloisters is perhaps unsurprising. With head so far up arse who knows what memories were being stirred by sitting on treated wood.

I've begun to worry...

lately about covetousness. cov-ver-tess-ness. Bit of a mouthful. Anyway, whilst abed last night the thought ocurred that I covet my mate Clare's skills at blog design, and my mate Beth's ability not only to speak French but also fucking go there and having arrived snowboard like a bastard. I've started French lessons so in fact I only partially covet the multi-talented Beth's multi-talents. I partly covet my mate Karen's immense intellect and definitely covet my mate Sean's Alpha Romeo which is amazing from someone who is not an obsessive car boy. Sean drives this Alpha four door saloon that is the most gorgeous red colour. A red not from any other make as far as I can see. In those mad names that plague the paint world I reckon his car is coloured Red (Swoon) because it has depths to engulf the human heart and drown it in pleasure. It is a deep lustrous red that looks like it's more draped over than painted on. Bugger, I'm wondering now whether I covet the hue rather than the car. Actually this is good because it's commonly known that inviting car obsessives to dinner is a waste of time as they have no conversation. I can at least be certain about one thing, I do not covet my neighbour's wife but only because the house next door has been empty for some time.

The B of the bang...

is an enormous steel sculpture in East Manchester. It takes the form of huge metal spikes hundreds of feet high arranged like the explosion of a firework rocket. It is impressive. If I knew how to put photo's into this blog one would be posted here...............



............ But I don't, so it's not.

Anyone interested can go to Manchester City's website (the town not the football club, even though incidentally the sculpture is situated next to Man City's ground) and see a picture of said art...

Having left my job in Stockport and moved to work in Manchester I now drive each day past 'The B of the Bang'. Great sculpture but totally naff name. Unlike my favourite piece of public art 'The Angel of the North' located at the south end of Team Valley on the outskirts of Gateshead which is the southern half of God's own town, Newcastle on Tyne. The 'Angel of the North' is a magnificent structure, not sure of the dimensions but it's probably 200 feet tall and the wingspan approx 200 feet from end to end. Towering over the eastern shoulder of Team Valley just where the motorway plunges down to the valley floor before curving into Newcastle, the 'Angel of the North' faces south toward the cathedral city of Durham. A stunning location for a stunning sculpture.

I am a refugee from the north and have learned to love Manchester. However the 'B of the Bang' should be dignified with a better name. It could have been called simply Top Art, because that is what it is. And democratic art because everyone has an opinion about it. Fantastic design, and in public too.

Speaking of design, which is what I really want to talk about, I'm vexed by my inability to post photo's or even develop a pleasing background for this blog. My mate Clare, aka Boob Pencil has a wonderfully laid out blog, lovely colours (well blue mainly) and full of neat boxes, sort of tidy. Plus she has the skill to insert links into her prose.

As I stand in the shadow of great art then so I also stand in the shadow of a well crafted blog.

What is a boy to do?

I saw a tv advert...

for a kid's film today. It carried the logo 'Mild Peril', I presume as some kind of warning. 'Mild' and 'Peril', not two words generally found together in the same sentence. And then it came to me, bugger, I bet some scummy corporate lawyer thought of that. Currying favour with his bosses, covering all the litigate bases, earning his fucking inflated fee. 'Mild Peril', it's not even hyperbole. Grrrrrr.

Last night...

my friends Sean and Jo arrived as we were to meet other mates in a Nepalese restaurant later. They were returning from a walk in Lyme Park, a large country estate famous for the scene in the BBC adaptation of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' where shirt soaked and hair astraggle Darcy rises from the lake. Sean gave me a present of venison they'd bought in the National Trust shop as a wee gift, disappointingly the meat wasn't from a deer chosen by them. For one moment I embrace the forlorn hope that maybe they'd been invited onto a nearby hill to point out a beast of their choice and then followed the crack of a rifle shot that echoed over the rich dark earth of a valley verdant with spring growth. In scattered flocks birds leap skyward and with wild panic the heaving groaning pushing herd stampede until the thunderous sound of pounding hooves fade into the distance and evening quiet returns once more. But no.

Still, if it's good enough for lobsters...

Every Thursday morning on...

Radio 4 between 9 and 9:45 there is a discussion chaired by Melvin Bragg. The programme is called 'In Our Time'. This week it was about angels and how their purpose and image changed in relation to changes in the material world. Prior to the Babylonians angels were generally portrayed as ordinary folk set apart only by the message from God they carried. The old Babylonians who captured the early monothiests, i.e. those who believed in a single deity (do keep up at the back there!) had lots of walls and stuff adorned with winged beings. It seems that the early monotheists were mucho impressed with this and so the modern angel, he of the big wings and broad chest was born. To cut a long story short questions of angels (who they were; how they moved from the supernatural to the natural; how long they had been around; if they weren't gods themselves what if fact were they, etc) might also be questions about the real world and how it worked. The material world and its developments threw up issues that required solutions and some of those solutions could be addressed through the discussion of angels. For instance, if angels come from somewhere other than here can that place be knowable too? What appears as a theological question therefore, can also be an enquiry into the very nature of the universe itself. In a world without microscopes or telescopes you're a bit of a clever bugger if you're surmising the existence of a materiality that you can't see with your own eyes. Questions about heaven therefore can also be questions about earth. Phew. And I thought it was all about what you could do on the head of a pin.

The other advantage of this series is the programmes last for approx 45 mins which is just the right time for a day's rowing on my lovely machine. BBC online also means I can listen anytime, ah that technology thing again. Nuff said.

My mate Beth...

has split with her boyfriend. Had her round for dinner on Saturday night where she unfolded a tale of woe. This week she's snow boarding in France. Oh that we should all be so heartbroken. I am very jealous, especially as last time I split from someone I was crushed to the size of a small weevil.

Yesterday I was talking...

to someone about blogs and they were really sniffy. What, an online diary? Why would anyone in their right mind wish to do such a thing? Upper lip curled in sneer. Gaze skiing down aquiline nose trailing parallel lines of contempt.

It's fairly straightforward I said, personally I write a blog for whimsical reasons ocassionally political reasons and sometimes just because I can. I likened blogging to a message in a bottle which is then cast into the ether. As this explanation gathered pace my utilitarian cohort even more began to resemble Count Olaf, he of the high forehead and all seeing eye. Or perhaps it was Thomas Gradgrind from Dickens' Hard Times, a man to whom the only thing that mattered was the facts. No amount of lyricism could persuade her that blogging was a useful activity, no flights of fancy.

Miserable get. On dark nights I've noticed more than once the street lights dim as she passes. Hardly surprising.

The hinge fell off my front gate...

and if I was at all religious I might read that as a sign or portent. But I'm not, therefore I know its rusty knackeredness is the result of something that has happened rather than of something that will happen. We should all be grateful that history is ordered this way otherwise things might break first and then where would I be? Probably trapped under my front gate or under a pile of wood that was not my front gate first. Thank you athiesm, the friend of DIY.

Below the edge...

at Alderley Edge which is a place in the country south of Manchester there's the face of a wizard carved into a rock. Under the wizard's face are chiseled the words "Drink from this well and take thy fill for the water falls by the Wizard's will". Beneath this legend is a stone trough brimming with disgusting water that only a fool would drink. I know very little about geology but it has a track record in providing explanations for the appearance of water that witchcraft really does lack. Also judging by the state of said water the 'wizard's will' seems a pretty ropey affair as he demonstrably failed to factor in, when casting his spell, the small matter of public health. I'm tempted to return with a new legend along the lines of "If you believe this garbage and are tempted to drink thy fill don't come crying to me when you die of gut rot." And along the base of the trough in words that could only be read by someone who had collapsed would be written, "You truly are a bit of a knob. Are you from around here?"

Harsh but fair, I think.

Was texted today...

by my mother from St Peter's Square in Rome. She texted me to say how hot it was and then broke off. The next message said she had just been blessed, though I suspect as part of an enormous crowd rather than on a personal level. The pope believes in bulk.

Modern technology never fails to impress me. I mean my 75 year old mother txts me from the Vatican City and I receive the message almost immediately any delay being caused not by technology but a blessing. Wondrous technology is also used to persuade us that the old shit John Paul is not dead and turning whiffy. I texted mam observing that in such a large crowd the pope can be easily identified as he'd be the main one drooling. With all that saliva I bet they're careful he doesn't short circuit. Or maybe he does, a controlled dribble might just fire those arm muscles sufficiently to produce an approximation of a wave. He waves, he's not dead, QED.

They'll be telling us next that Elvis has passed on.

Don Giovanni was showing...

at the Lowry Theatre in Salford last night in a production by Opera North. I wasn't all that impressed, the singing was fine except for the lead who seemed to have little character. Not good when your supposed to be playing a grade 'A' lothario. The whole thing was a bit lacklustre.

We went for a pizza beforehand and the menu was pretty so so except for the references to 'torn chicken'. Torn chicken! What the fuck is that? I nearly missed ordering a pepperoni special by becoming locked into an obsessive hunt for other stupid descriptions, I also hate food that's been 'drizzled'. I think there's some crossover between estate agents and chefs where each develop ever more ludicrous ways of describing stuff that's really, and I mean really, basic. For instance when a house is advertised as 'of special interest to those who like DIY' you know the building has most probably been condemned and its current use is as a play ground for children who are strangely attracted to fire. Similarly with menus, what's advertised may not necessarily have any real link to what you actually get. I mean what exactly is a Whimsy of Brushed Ox? Or for that matter a Chinook of Flaked Moulle? Or stuff that's been 'shaved'? And in the starters whatever happened to the word 'soup'? A bold word, a word that once declared itself as honest and moral and true. Soup used to be worthy and uplifting, soup used to be broth. God, I can't even type the word broth without feeling cleansed. Soup though seems to have lost favour in restaurants, it has become other things, now it can be a tureen or a tranquility. Just below the headline consomme (which is an okay word cos it's French and classy by definition) can be listed such things as a Lutheran of Pricked Barley, or Leeks with Braised Mummer served on a delightful concatenation of agar and diesel.

They wish us to believe that restaurant food has not been cooked so much as wept over then shipped to the table on a river of tears. Oh yeah!

This afternoon I was in a

prison for teenagers, behind tall grey walls that shore up the outside world in an attempt to stop it from seeping in. Prisons are not one place but many places, many prisons. Inside the dirty concrete walls are laid out a series of cages, tall sheets of mesh with each horizontal narrower than a finger's width and topped with razor wire.

So I was led from door to cage, to cage to door and onwards into a place where everything is grey like the sky on this cold winter Monday. The cell blocks always smell sour, not like boiled cabbage or even stale piss, it's a smell unique to prisons and they all smell the same. A heavy smell that bears down and seeps into everything, it might be the smell of anxiety, or fear, or anger. I'm not sure. One thing I do know is it's wrong to lock up teenagers in places such as these as though they were cattle. Upon leaving I had to wait by a barred gate and on the other side a boy paced three steps one way then three the other. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight, on edge, he looked like he had been hunted. You don't believe me? Think I'm too fanciful? This is what prison does to people. Where young minds are squeezed and compressed into tiny spaces behind iron doors, inside large cages, surrounded by concrete walls, under razor wire.

They've put some plant pots here and there next to the walkways that lead to the visitors centre. I saw a flower with blue petals and a golden centre that was white along the edge. The boys are not allowed out except to walk from building to building so they never see the flowers or if they do I bet they never stop to look. In a place like that what's a flower supposed to mean? Amidst all that anger and fear what is anything supposed to mean? For some children it becomes too much and so there have been 28 deaths in custody since 1990 in this country including three suicides during the last 12 months. Of the three who took their own lives one was 14 years old. Along side this there are record levels of self harm among children in prison. Record levels of children in prison, record levels of suicide, record levels of self harm. New Labour? New brutalism more like.

Prisons are foul places and after all these years I'm glad I'll never have to set foot in another one.

I've recently handed in my notice at

work. I've been pissed off for some time now and two weeks ago like everyone else I received a memo telling me I was required to attend a course on how to ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!! This was to be a two day modular course on Customer Care. As a social worker by trade I'm fairly skilled at communicating with people (there's never been any complaints) but management said I must learn how to answer the phone properly. They mean within four rings, incidentally it was six rings only a few years ago so clearly a speedup is afoot here. It also pissed me off that they attempted to give this rank stupidity an academic veneer by dividing it into four 'modules' over two days. TWO DAYS!!! FOUR MODULES!!! I didn't go, I resigned. Colleagues who did attend and then challenged this nonsense were accused of being disloyal to the Council. DISLOYAL! The fuckwits who dream up this stuff wouldn't know loyalty if it jumped down off a shelf and kicked their knackers in.

So I've had enough. I am off.

Got into work on Tuesday of this week to be given a leaflet to householders from said Council stating that children were now forbidden to play football (actually all games) in the street and to do so would be to committ a criminal act. I am serious.

New Labour has criminalised children's play. They justify this by labelling street play as anti-social behaviour. I kid you not.

Having been shown this leaflet I stomped around the office swearing and shouting and then regretted resigning two weeks previously because in the doing I missed the opportunity to FUCKING RESIGN ON TUESDAY.

So outrageous is New Labour's anti-child agenda that I'm going to be bleeding exhausted come my final day. They'll have to winch my wasted flesh from our first floor office to the street below whence no doubt I'll be carried off by a horde of passing urchins trying to escape police attention.

Went to a...

party in Leeds last Saturday night to be fixed up by good friends, however they gave me the wrong clues about whom I was supposed to meet. God knows how many times I was told that she was wearing a pink top. Later on because I was being tardy and a bit slow they boldly introduced me to the mate of 'pink top' woman. Like a trooper I pumped her for information only to be told her friend was married and to the bloke with whom she was then smooching.

Hmm, a tough test.

In a single evening I was expected to ruin a marriage because 'pink top' wanted to cop with someone else. Having garnered every morsel I could from 'orange top' about her mate I went for a refill of wine. My two friends descend breathlessly asking how I'd got on. I said it was quite a challenge but if 'pink top' wanted a bit on the side then I was prepared to sacrifice myself to her carnal desires, the husband though might turn out to be a problem. Their puzzlement indicated they had no idea what I meant so I repeated myself this time more slowly to help them understand. It subsequently became clear that orange top woman was their target for me and not only this but that her orange top was in fact pink.

A long and hissed argument ensued about what constituted pink.

Either way I told them that orange top woman was not my type as she was a bit arrogant and prickly. Also during the short term of our conversation she must have tossed her hair at least 20 times and on each occasion it fell with a wisp that curled in over her lips and mouth. A fetching image you might think had she not reminded me so much of a horse. Indeed throughout the encounter intrusive statements like "six to one favourite in the three thirty at Ascot" tannoyed loudly in my head and proved to be a distraction. After all I'm not generally a gambler but the going was soft to medium and apparently she'd won her last two races.

I was driven home later by my very patient friend and put to bed. Spookily whilst slipping into unconsciousness I heard a whinny in the distance. It was only the wind... or was it?

My house faces...

west. This Sunday afternoon I was looking out of the bedroom window and saw high above in the distance an elongated V of birds flying north. Not sure what they were, geese? Ducks? I watched them for some time as the 'v' became bow shaped or broke up in parts and then reformed. On the edge furthest away from me a bird seemed to keep station for the rest as various sections of the line wavered forward and back. It made me lament being out of touch with nature because I wanted to know what they were and where they were going. Were they just flying within the UK from one spot to another? Or were they going further north? From all the nature programmes I've watched I have this idea that as we're still in winter there are no major migrations yet but hey, what do I know? So I followed their flight until they became the thinnest of lines in the cold blue western sky and were gone.

The downside of city life, of living in the fast lane is that I don't do enough looking up or give the the world the consideration it deserves. However the fact that I stood and watched is a good sign because a New Year's resolution is to slow down and appreciate life a little more than I've been able to manage so far.

Salford University...

was bathed in rain today. I was there for an introductory class on stuff. In a courtyard were two stone figures sort of like Mayan totem poles glistening in that fucking fine rain that gets into crevices and down your neck.

At moment listening to...

an excellent programme on the radio about Charlie Chaplin by the British comedian Mark Steel. Chaplin started his life in extreme poverty, was sent with his family to the workhouse in London and separated from his beloved mother, fortunately reunited later. Joined Fred Karno's vaudeville troupe and toured the US where he met the legendary director Mack Sennett and was recognised as a gifted comic actor. His iconic 'tramp' costume was deliberately chosen for its pathos and spirit. Writer, actor, director and anti-fascist. Incredible man living an incredible life in incredible times.

This morning it...

snowed in Manchester. Big white snowflakes drifting down.

Liverpool...

was mainly sunny today. At around 12 noon the outgoing tide was gathering pace as the water flowed seaward. I stopped about two miles upriver from the Pierhead where the Mersey is possibly at its widest. I reckon it must have been a mile or more over choppy brown water to the other side. About 200 yards out from where I watched on the north bank a green bouy secured with a chain was dragged onto its side by the tide's force. The river was so vast it looked unmoving but a seaward wake from the bouy swirled and plunged like a kite's tail kicking against the river's power. I parked on a raised viewing area so could see sunrays cast bright patches of light onto the water's flecked surface. Marvelous. Wasn't able to do it justice though because traveling back to the office meant being in more of a hurry than I wished.

Away you rolling river...