Friday, July 16, 2004

Chickens coming home to roost…….

The other day I was having a bit of a do at my old blogging files. I started out at the beginning – to see my very first entry. I remember being real angry. Michael Carroll a yob from the County of Norfolk, with an offenders tag to boot and ‘form’ to the Moon & back had bought his very first lottery ticket – and won.

Not a tenner, not a hundred quid …… no, much, much more - he won £9.5 million.

It was strange though, no sooner had I picked thrrough old blog files and looked at my first ever entry… and there he was, there was Mr Carroll himself on the telly. Already serving porridge for white powder offences, he is reported to be the target of ruthless gangsters that he's managed to upset… Not a smart move.

Mr Carroll appears to have frittered most of his fortune away on white powder, gold sovereign rings and takaway pizza deliveries. He made the lives of his neighbours utterly miserable as his mates went tearing up the back garden with 4x4 races and torching battered old caravans at regular intervals – and now he’s getting some just desserts to go with the porridge.

Now he’s inside – and terrified – and skint (comparatively speaking) – and his house has been trashed - and all his mates have left behind the 4 by 4 by now.

But if it hadn’t been for him, I’d never have started blogging, thanks Mike.

First entry of AtOK, 3rd November, 2002.

So it goes …….

So, what’s it all about then? You work hard, you keep your nose clean – you have kids, raise them, struggle through debt. And then what?

You hit middle age, slowly like – it’s not like hitting a wall, rather a big soft fluffy pillow zzzzzzzzzzz and you keep dropping off. And then what?

Stuff starts to drop out and go south. Hair, sweat from upper lips and beer bellies. Chins have a breeding programme all of their own. And then what?

Challenges become threats, pop heroes become corpses and present tense becomes past participle. And then what?

Some 19 year old kid, with a criminal record volumes long buys his first ever lottery ticket – and wins 9.5 million quid. That’s what!

Thursday, July 15, 2004

The buck stops where Lord Butler says it doesn't.......

I was going to write something witty and pithy today - or at least try to. But after yesterday's episode of 'What the Butler saw' - (which was bugger all really) I just didn't feel like.

Obergruppenfuhrer Blair,
hail to the Chief,
land of the free,
Stig of the dump

My faith in our leader has quite simply hit rock bottom. I want to gob Tony Blair, to get up close and serious with his set of flashy capped 'sincerity' incisors - and demolish them, I really, really do. - I just cannot stand the man. The religious zeal, the skewed view of his importance in the world, his simpering brown nosing to Bush, the failure to offer any sort of apology, for anything, ever.

The contempt with which he treats the electorate. The mates rates freebee holidays he manages to blag for his family, every year. The fantastically salaried mates jobs he gives to his failed lawyer buddies. The gongs and Knighthood’s given out like cheap sweeties to his adoring clack of Party cash donators...

The two dimensional 'I'm Tony Blair - trust me' smile, the over sincere hand movements, the really irritating way he says "I say to you...", the emails to his Ministers demanding that they give him some good news to announce. The vacuous way he announces everything and anything to the public - then moves away as yet another major initiative goes tits up.

His horrible wife and her horrible lawyer friends from the Matrix Chambers - all now safely ensconced into cushy Government jobs with pensions to die for, his failure to censure or punish anyone under him for anything, ever - even Peter Mandelson.

His moronic and power mad Ministers - John Prescott, Charles Clark, John Reid and Alistair Darling, especially. His pathetic management of the Country's infrastructure, the concreting over of the South East as the rest of Country becomes ever more victims to the 'Southern Drift'.....

The appointment of 'homers' for his back of a fag packet inquiries and reports, the way he says how 'brave' he is sending our soldiers and countless civilians to their deaths on the say-so reports from sycophantic yes men......

The way that his rash and gung-ho expeditions have effected security measures to be installed in Westminster costing £6.5 million quid to protect MPs - whilst the rest of us will have to make do with putting on an extra cardy and wearing a stout hat for bomb blast protection.

Maybe I'm being too critical on Tone - after all, as the learned Lord Butler said yesterday, "No one is to blame"....

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Michael Schumacher – a grand prick ……

I watched the British Grand Prix on Sunday on the telly.

It was OK I suppose – in a eeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwww – mad-Murray Walker, Mansell-Mansell sort of way.

It was OK I suppose – in a "Oh bugger, has that German twat won again?"

I mean, watching it on the telly, you can follow all the action can’t you? Slo-mo’s, fast Germans, prancing ponies, faster women… It’s all there for the telly punter to view from the comfort of his armchair. With dynamic camera angles from tiny cameras stuffed into every orifice of Jensen Button’s anatomy, interest was kept to a fairly high level – even though you just knew what the end result was going to be.

But what’s it like to actually be there – at Silverstone? What’s it like to be stuck up in the stands as red, blue, green and yellow blurs career past you at the speed of Superman with a severe case of the Lex Luthor’s desperately searching for a bog.….

"Who was that?"………
"Who’s winning?"………
"Where’s Jensen?"……..
"I hate that German twat"……..

I mean it strikes me that you see about 5% of the race for the ticket that’s cost the same as a small semi-detached house. My advice is to save your cash – if you want all the thrills of Grand Prix racing, but on a budget, get your Scalextric out and shove your face right next to the track. It’s just phenomenal – and you get the added ‘danger’ bonus of the possibility of the car spilling off the track and smacking you full on the snozz.

The most controversial part of the race was Jensen Button’s decision to have a St George’s flag on his helmet – and not a Union Jack. Shock horror. The interviewer demanded to know exactly why Jensen had dumped Jack for George.

"So Jensen, why no Union Jack?"

Jensen stammered, and blustered.

"Just tell him Jense, matey. Tell him you’re bleeding English. You’re English and you’ve nothing to be ashamed of" I screamed. "Tell him to go and ask David Coulthard exactly why he has a Saltire on his helmet and not a Union Jack"…..

Jensen mumbled something about supporting the football team. Fortunately, just then, racing’s own little and large strolled into view. Bernie ‘the hobbit’ Ecclestone and his stratospheric wife, Amazonia gave a short – and long interview. The guy from ITV asked all the usual questions. Yawn. Why don’t they ask some real questions?

"Well Bernie, what’s it like earning over 100 mill’ a year, you smug bastard?

"Amazonia, are you really attracted to this old and short, but very, very rich guy?

"Bernie, can you fix it for me to be a racing driver?"……

I’d like to be a racing driver – the money, the women, the Monaco apartment, the women, more women. Until I do get spotted doing a racing start from the high street traffic lights, I’ll just have to content myself with the Scalextric. Eeeeeeeeeoooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww.