Comedian

GENESIS - extracts from my controversial new book

David Backhim — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 09:28:23 GMT

ALCOHOL: THE BRITISH AND IRISH DISEASE
Oh yes there is scarcely a country or city on the planet that doesn’t have its very own resident drunkards, but ask almost any citizen of the world about the problems of alcohol abuse and anti-social behaviour, and regrettably the British and Irish ‘yoof’ spring to mind all too often. In the British Isles after all, such annual celebrations as New Year’s Eve, Christmas, St Guinness’s Day, St George’s Day, and the 12th of July are merely drinking festivals. It even seems nowadays that the obvious pleasure of enjoying the gift of summer is blighted by the prospect of young people in the neighbourhood congregating in the garden next door and swallowing copious amounts of poison at literally all hours of the day. One only has to randomly trawl through the Myspace, Facebook and Bebo personal profiles to disgustingly discover thousands of young people paying homage to various alcoholic drinks, not to mention countless photographs of them taken in night clubs with such beverages in hand.

Just how do so many under-18s get access to alcohol? Night clubs in a shameless quest for extra revenue will accept almost anyone of any age, with the result that the rest of us suffer the dreaded prospect of boisterous, out of control teenagers pouring onto the streets in the early hours with more drink inside them than their body and mind is equipped to accommodate. All night clubs without exception, like any other club, should be members-only institutions with members aged over eighteen, or better still 21 only admitted. Identity ‘prove it’ cards or passports should be required by any responsible night club before it sells its soul and allows its premises to become a playground for under-age alcohol enthusiasts. Such clubs should be infiltrated by plain clothes police who can spot the presence of under-age occupants and then prosecute non-complying night clubs. Ask night clubs to sign up to such suggestions and one is likely to receive not co-operation but hostility. Ask police to take a more pro-active stance in the war against under-age drinking and they will shrug their shoulders and complain of a lack of resources.

I have come to realise that the police are loath to seize and process the arrest of large groups of anti-social practitioners because of the potential tedium of paperwork. The police much prefer to take the easy option and target one individual here, one individual there. The very notion of challenging a mob of drunken youths is anathema to the so-called forces of law and order. Alcohol consumption should be confined to people of 21 and over, instead of which fifteen or sixteen year olds are already downing poisonous liquids.

What is even more ludicrous but potentially tragic are the glamorous television commercials in which dozens of beautiful people are ‘enjoying’ a cool, sexy Bacardi, Magners or Smirnoff. The trouble is that the models in these advertisements are filmed when they are stone-cold sober. It would be an eye-opener if such commercials were displaying people with a dozen or half a dozen spirits or pints in them. Such enthusiasts would not look so remotely attractive then. Alcohol advertising is massively misleading and should be banned. This will not happen, because in the final analysis, money talks and the rest of us will just have to grin and bear the spiralling problem of alcohol-induced anti-social behaviour. The alcohol manufacturers do include the drink responsibly suggestion in small writing on their products, but asking a young person to drink sensibly is akin to expecting a Formula One racing competitor to drive carefully.

PARTY ANIMAL
I occasionally get invited out by people, who obviously don’t know me very well. I mean I’d rather stick my head down the toilet than enlist in a lads’ night out bonding exercise. I’ve been there and done that. One goes out, drinks too much, spends too much, and unlike in the movies, comes home to an empty bed, having spent several wasted hours watching other people ‘enjoy themselves’. Oh yes, I cheerfully steer clear of that pathetic scenario nowadays.

Then of course, I don’t care much for socialising with a large group of people. Some people might prefer safety in numbers, but crammed in to a venue of ear-splitting, obnoxious music coupled with a large queue at the bar is not my idea of a good time. I even try to avoid work night outs or Christmas dinners which predictably are dominated by the loquacious few, in which several loud mouths hold forth on the tedious ‘I’ve done this and I’ve done that, and I’ve been here and I’ve been there, and I’ve seen everything and I know everything’, while the rest of the assembled mass hang off their every word. Meanwhile yours truly just slopes off to the periphery in self-imposed exile and protest at the proceedings. Worse still, once the drink starts to flow and the demons come out to play, then various people engage in a little light-hearted banter (or craic) in which friends and work colleagues tease each other. This evolves into sarcastic put downs. I mean there is only so much leg-pulling one can achieve, before the leg comes off. Ah yes, it all ends in tears and recriminations.

Ultimately, if you need liqueur as a means of seeking attention, you deserve pity. Can there be anyone more dreadfully dull than someone who needs alcohol to have a good time?

WEAKNESS
What exactly is weakness? Weakness is when you cannot devote yourself to one partner, even though you promised to do so. Weakness is when you cannot control your temper. There is nothing strong about acts of violent fury. Weakness is when one or two alcoholic beverages are not enough. Weakness is when you have to possess what everybody else seems to have. Weakness is not being content with what you own, and you crave more. Speaking of cravings, weakness is when you cannot resist such desires as smoking. I have tended to refrain from ranting about smoking, but all I can say is that when I see someone ‘coolly’ holding a cigarette, I think that the smoker should simply wear a tee-shirt stating that ‘I hate myself’. Weakness is simply a lack of self-control. You can be a muscular, powerful body-builder with bulging biceps, and yet be terribly weak. Ultimately we are all weak, but some people are weaker than others.

CONCERT CRETINS AND FESTIVAL FOOLS
I have to laugh at these people who state their dislike for religion before proceeding to follow the crowd and assemble in a muddy field, herded together like foul-smelling cattle as they pay collective homage to the pock-marked, acne, guitar heroes performing up high on the stage. These young idols fly in to the concert venue on their helicopter and then sing about their standard theme tunes of angst, boredom, depression, and despair before being flown back to their country mansion, whilst the ‘in-crowd’ spend several hours both queuing to get in and then dispersing at the end of the ‘fun’. No you won’t find me huddled together with fellow-believers worshipping that shambles. Yet again it all comes down to bragging rights. Person A wants to tell his or her mates that they saw U2 or Bruce Springsteen the other night. So, where exactly did you bump into them, then? Was it at the local off-license or were they waiting for their order at the local Chinese takeaway? No, they were up on a stage, seventy yards away in a big stadium!

The poor lonely crowd desperately attempting to re-create the next Woodstock are akin to the masses who chose to follow ‘Brian’. “Think for yourselves”, Brian urged his followers. How ironic that the bandwagon-jumping festival-goers who express their admiration for ‘The Life Of Brian’ are the living embodiment of Brian’s hangers-on, desperately seeking a flawed, human Messiah. It’s a pity that they are too pissed and stoned to realise that the joke is on them. Still, they’re not going to let the truth get in the way of their foolish escapism.

EMPTY GLASSES
There are a lot of silly people whose lives are like an empty glass…which needs alcohol to fill it. Give them a glass full of poison, they lose their inhibitions, start behaving ‘out of character’ and apparently have a good time, or what is known amongst the alcohol-addicted Irish as ‘craic’. They empty the glass down their stomach and then they too feel empty again. Ah yes, but help is at hand, as they proceed to fill their glass again and temporarily fill their life with this oh so worthwhile pursuit again. They repeat this exercise over and over in which the empty glass must be filled so that they too feel fulfilled, before the festivities conclude with empty glasses, as the empty people brace themselves once more for their empty life, which like an empty glass needs alcohol to fill it. Oh dear, how sad is this?

EMPTY FUTILE GESTURES
Oh crumbs, just as this book was progressing so nicely and I was destined for literary awards, critical acclaim, and a massive surge in my fan base, I go and sabotage all the glory by putting the following thoughts to paper.

Sorry folks but I feel compelled and duty-bound to scoff at the mass-produced outpourings of public sympathy that respond to such terrible tragedies as the news of a missing child, such as Madeleine McCann. Let’s get one thing straight: The abduction, assault, or murder of a young child is dreadful, evil, horrible, malicious, totally unacceptable, wicked. In fact there is a multitude of adjectives to describe such circumstances and one would not wish such a fate on anyone.

However, brace yourselves, for I am unmoved by the media-sponsored tidal wave of sympathy that emerges in such gruesome situations. Why do lots of people suddenly feel this urge to wear silly bracelets or armbands or tie ribbons round trees? Ultimately, these are token gestures which solve nothing. When a family is touched by the intense pain of a missing child, their profound sense of grief should not be violated by nationwide empty, futile gestures. Of course by all means any person with a morsel of information that could lead to the discovery of a missing child or the whereabouts of the culprits should co-operate fully with the investigation. This goes without saying. However, what should be avoided are the helpless people who try to help yet cannot and who only succeed in intruding on someone else’s tragedy. It’s almost as if the public relish the prospect of a hard luck story, so that they can rally together like London residents during ‘the Blitz’ of the early 1940s.

Oh come on, there are far too many bandwagon-jumpers around for my liking. May I remind you all that young children die in abuse, famine, neglect, poverty, terrorism, and wars every day, but of course non-British, non-white youngsters are not worthy of the same intense attention. Well, excuse me but the media and the sheep who follow them remind me of people waiting for a bus of misery to come along. Look everybody there goes another bandwagon for you to leap on. Too late, not to worry, I’m sure that there will be another one along soon.

PRETTY GRAVES
Have you ever visited the various military cemeteries dotted around Western Europe, the Far East, and elsewhere? Have you noticed how beautifully preserved the graves and headstones are? In fact, in most graveyards one will find a multitude of pretty graves. It is all the more ironic as lurking beneath the ground is a rotting, decomposing corpse who probably lived and died a life of pain and troubles. However, not to worry, we all may have to cope with a life of intermittent ugliness, but hey at least we will have a nice little plot with a lovely headstone, immaculately mowed grass and pretty flowers to ‘enjoy’ at the end of it all. I remain perpetually perplexed as to why we appear to care more for looking after the dead than we do for preserving the living. Come on folks. Let’s make one another’s life pretty, instead of devoting our energies to foolishly decorating each other’s grave.

DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION
In Norn Iron during the dark days of the 1970s and 1980s, there was a huge security presence in response to the various terrorist campaigns. Even though the war is over or the cessation of violence is ‘complete’ or even permanent, an increased police presence is once more required, I believe, for Northern Ireland’s continuing problem of careless, reckless and sometimes drunk driving.

There is indeed a new kind of terrorist plaguing the Six Counties (and beyond). He or she may be in a well-paid job, live in a lovely house, be well-educated, have wonderful children, drive a beautiful car and not possess extremist views on anything, but nevertheless this very same person could well be threatening the lives of other road users with his or her arrogant and defiant attitudes to road safety. Oh yes the accepted wisdom, reinforced by shock television advertisements, emphasises that the majority of road accidents are caused by young motorists and/or by newly-qualified drivers. I don’t deny this. It is hard to do so when the statistics speak for themselves. However, rather than clamber onto the young people are dangerous drivers bandwagon, I have seen sufficient evidence with my own two eyes to suggest that there are a whole host of vehicle users from all walks of life and more particularly from age groups who should know better, whose antics on the roads leave an awful lot to be desired.

For a start, I am exasperated as a pedestrian by the number of occasions when I have witnessed drivers speed through traffic lights as they are changing from amber to red. The amber light is a signal to warn motorists to slow down because of an imminent red light. Amber is not intended as a starting-pistol for impatient, selfish drivers to sprint through the lights in order to avoid waiting two whole minutes for the next green light to shine. An imminent red light denotes that an adjacent traffic lane or a pedestrian crossing is about to go green. Those road-users (not necessarily young in age) who dash through amber lights are an absolute menace. I would appeal for cameras to be fixed on top of traffic lights so that the chancers who actually traverse a red light are recorded and issued with fines. I believe that fines of increasing severity for each traffic offence might be more of a deterrent than the pointless points system. Allocating three points to a speedster is about as effective as handing out a hundred lines, stating ‘I shall not put other road users at risk by driving so dangerously fast again.’

I would also recommend that each and every one of us re-take our driving test every ten years. Why should that be a problem? If one is a competent road-user, then one has nothing to fear. The increased revenue from say a £10 fee for a ten-yearly test could finance road improvements, which themselves will contribute to greater road safety for all motorists and passengers. Besides, if vehicles are tested on an annual basis to ascertain whether or not they are fit for the open highway, then surely those entrusted with the steering wheel, gears and brakes should also receive a regular driving health check, so to speak. Regularly assessing whether vehicles are dangerous or not is commendable, but the continued absence of evaluating whether the persons (charged with the great responsibility of driving them) are themselves road-worthy or not only serves to negate the purpose of MOT tests.

I would also like to nominate for the hall of shame the drivers, especially black taxis in London who seem to take exception to any pedestrian who has the bare-faced cheek to step on to a pedestrian crossing. It would be nice to see drivers slow down whilst approaching zebra crossings in the expectation that one or two human zebras just might be on the point of stepping off the pavement. Instead of which I find motorists accelerating over the crossings whilst pedestrians are actually stepping on to this designated point of access. One of the great ironies of life is that the white van man and other rent-a quotes who are not shy at coming on to radio phone-in shows complaining about the state of the world and the ‘yoof’ of today are the very same hypocrites who drive irresponsibly and then have the nerve to highlight the failings of other people when they themselves would do well to set a good example.

Finally, speaking as someone who has been prone to driving fast myself, I would urge a greater police presence on the motorways to combat the Formula One wannabees who mistakenly believe that the speed limit is 110 miles per hour. On the occasions when I have foolishly been driving beyond ninety miles per hour, it is quite an eye-opener to find a number of motorists over-taking me! Only the deterrent of watching police, as opposed to imaginary speed cameras, might persuade various big adults to stop driving like big babies. Perhaps traffic lights should be fitted on dual carriageways at ten mile intervals to halt excessive speed. Ultimately, the police ought to stop making excuses about a lack of manpower or resources. Dangerous driving is one of the most serious crimes in our society and those forces committed to crime prevention need to be visibly confronting it. Instead of which, police cars perform endless laps of the city centre all day long while the motorway terrorists are allowed to misbehave, driving the rest of us to distraction.

OSAMA BIN LADEN

Did you know that dear old Osama Bin Laden is an Arsenal football supporter? No wonder he is wanted for crimes against humanity. Apparently Arsene Wenger in his quest to recruit even more foreign players to the Emirates Stadium wished to sign Bin Laden. Osama Bin Laden stated that he wanted to continue living in Afghanistan, but that he would fly to Arsenal’s home fixtures. Wenger then asked him where he proposed to land his private aeroplane. Bin Laden replied that he would fly his ‘plane into the Palace of Westminster one week and then next time he would fly into Canary Wharf.

I’ve never understood why Osama Bin Laden is referred to as the world’s most wanted man. I mean, who wants him really? I don’t want him at all. I don’t ever find myself thinking that I must summon Bin Laden when I want someone to weed the garden. Similarly, England football fans often want a new manager, but surely they don’t actually ‘want’ Osama Bin Laden. Mind you, his team-talk before an international against the United States would be delivered with much passion: “I want you lads to fight for this win. I want you to compete against them as if it were life and death. Don’t be afraid when you tackle to take both man and ball. In fact, forget about the ball. Just take the man. Show him no mercy.” I must confess that as an unwanted person, I envy Bin Laden for being such a wanted and much sought after man.

Apparently, Osama Bin Laden is held responsible in absentia for the 9/11 massacre in the United States. Put simply, Bin Laden was basically the travel agent who arranged for the flights into the World Trade Center. However, if you went on holiday and the pilot crashed the aeroplane, who would you blame: the pilot or the travel agent? Personally, I would be having it out with the pilot for careless driving. I would not be storming round to the travel agents to complain.

I actually feel quite sorry for any young Muslim who genuinely wanted to pursue a career as an aeroplane pilot. Their chances of securing such a position since September 2001 must rest somewhere between nil and zero. Can you imagine a job interview where a Muslim male waits to be quizzed about his application. He passes the time by pulling out a copy of the Koran and starts reading it. Then suddenly he is called for his interview and he absent-mindedly walks into the interview with the Koran in his hand. Oh dear, I don’t think he’s going to be short-listed, do you?!

So why has Osama Bin Laden never been apprehended then? Well, there are two main reasons. Firstly, he is being hunted by American ‘intelligence’ forces. He’s perfectly safe then. Secondly, think about it: what happens when you go on the run? Let me explain. You don’t just pop back to your abode and pack your belongings. No, in your desperate desire to go into hiding immediately, you simply don’t have the opportunity or time to collect such essentials as deodorant, a clean pair of boxer shorts, a fresh pair of socks, nor after shave, nor shower gel, nor the shower itself. As a consequence, Osama Bin Laden went into hiding with no toiletries or change of clothes. The guy obviously stinks. His cave must be filthy and rotten in the extreme. Thus when the intelligent American intelligence come near Bin Laden’s cave, they exclaim that “there is absolutely no way we’re going near that cave over there. There is a foul stench coming from it.” So, if you’re looking for old Bin Lid, the misunderstood travel agent, his cave is the dwelling with the unbearable odour.

THE MIDDLE-EAST: A CULTURE OF BRUTALITY?

I have just completed my reading of Robert Fisk’s epic study of the Middle East, entitled ‘The Great War For Civilisation’. The publication was a real eye-opener on a host of subjects, not least Mr Fisk’s revelation of the twentieth century’s first (secret) holocaust – the ethnic cleansing of Armenian Christians by the Turks. Mr Fisk also graphically recounts the deadly consequences of the ‘civilised’ west’s pernicious use of depleted uranium shells against Iraq, resulting in innumerable child deaths from cancer in a country where healthcare provision was drastically undermined by the impact of economic sanctions.. The agonising suffering of these innocent infants doesn’t get reported on the front page of British tabloids because these wretched children are not middle-class, blue-eyed white girls. Fisk’s book also reinforced my sympathy for the dispossessed Palestinian people at the mercy of the merciless Israeli occupation. However, more than anything, I came to the realisation that the Middle East, both Muslim and Jew (not to mention ‘Christian’) is an area afflicted by a widespread culture of barbarity and violence.

Take Iran for instance. I grew up in the mistaken belief that the 1978 revolution ushered in a period of repression, only to discover that life under the Shah was no more pleasant for police detainees than it would be during the reign of the Shi’ite extremists. If Iran has been devoid of human rights for more decades than the west cares to admit, then the picture in neighbouring Iraq is even more grim. There, anyone who suffered arrest would brace themselves for the likelihood of an early death, or merely painful torture if they were particularly fortunate. Fisk writes of one interrogation centre where pedestrians were not permitted to walk on the pavement outside, in case they should hear the screaming of the internees held within. For all their alleged devotion to Allah, I am overwhelmed by the intense pain and suffering that Muslims actually inflict on each other! So much for brotherly love and fellowship.

This brings me on to something else. Whatever regime one cares to mention, one finds the Middle East is weighed down by a plethora of violent organisations determined to wage a war of insurgency, and frequently on each other. Such is the sense of disunity among the Muslim peoples that off the top of my head I could list such fearsome phenomena as Al Qaeda, the Taleban, the Mujahideen, the PLO, Fa’ata, Hamas, Hizbollah, Islamic Jihad, and then throw into the melting pot such diverse groups as the Sunnis, the Shias, the Kurds, the Jews, not to mention the Americans, the British, and previously the Russians, and one has an almighty political volcano.

Of course there are many followers of Islam who are perfectly peaceful men and women, but I cannot help but draw the conclusion that that the Arab-dominated (or American-dominated?) Middle East is a region awash with brutality and violence. If I was to climb onto a stool in the centre of Baghdad or Beirut and repeat this remark, the likely reaction of the locals would almost certainly confirm my worst fears.

OLD TESTAMENT - extracts from my new publication

David Backhim — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 09:26:41 GMT

WALL OF SHAME

In Norn Iron, there are calls for a memorial to commemorate the terrorist dead and for a monument to celebrate peace. What is it with politicians and monuments? When it comes to a plaque, slab, tower, or wall officially opened by self-important public officials, self-seeking politicians would miss their daughter’s graduation to attend such an ego ceremony. Call me old-fashioned, but would funds for a peace memorial not be better diverted to healthcare instead of a bricks and mortar piece of Lego, designed to remind one and all of the greatness of various ‘statesmen’? As if this is not ludicrous enough, Irish republicans (and loyalists) are desiring a monument that fondly remembers their dead. I suggest a wall be erected, more for urinating against than wailing at, for such a purpose. After all, Belfast is renowned for its ironically-titled ‘peace walls’ while there is a tradition of urinating against walls that runs in parallel with the ‘marching season’. The inscription on the wall of shame should read as follows:

This memorial commemorates all those brave men and women who shot policemen and soldiers in the back, and then ran away hiding, as well as all those volunteers who planted bombs in hotels, bars, and shopping centres, with no regard for the safety of women and children. Also on this monument are listed the names of those courageous freedom fighters who fought to take away other people’s freedom of existence by killing unarmed Roman Catholics. This mural is a tribute to all those working-class heroes who created orphans, took husbands from their wives, wives from their husbands, and left grieving parents and children to pick up the pieces.

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FOOTBALL IDOLS

I frequently hear how impressive it is to see the Anfield contingent as well as the copycats of Celtic Park with their scarves held aloft in unison, as they sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. I find this whole scene, and similar slightly less passionate displays at other sporting arenas quite disturbing. There is quite clearly a religious fervour about the support that is offered by football followers to their respective clubs, while you won’t find any such demonstration of passion amongst the few football fans who go to God’s house to worship Him. It is all so reminiscent of the idolaters of the Old Testament. Excuse me for preaching, but could someone kindly remind football supporters that the Creator tolerates no rivals, yet it is abundantly obvious that many men (and women too) place their faith and trust ludicrously in flawed, inconsistent young men, barely out of school. It is quite clear where a lot of people’s worshipping priorities lie. It is frightening to think that God who created the whole world and everyone in it and then sent his Son to save all us sinners is less worthy of attention and praise than a young guy who sticks a ball in the net once every three or four matches. To add insult to injury, some of these young idols live an existence of questionable morals off the football pitch. Recurring stories of rape allegations and wild nights out do nothing to convince this writer that football ‘stars’ are worth worshipping for a second.

I also read with interest recently in a Sunday viewspaper about Harry Redknapp’s fury at the abuse he had been subjected to in a match against Aston Villa, whilst recounting a bad experience at Chelsea too. Redknapp was appalled that grown men were hurling obscenities at him in front of their children. Similarly, in the week-end after England’s Wembley debacle against Croatia, the Chelsea English contingent and Steven Gerrard were on the receiving end of verbal abuse. Commenting on Radio Five Live, Alan Green and Graham Taylor were equally horrified that adults were setting a terrible example to their youngsters with their shocking language and vitriol. Harry Redknapp suggested that football (or at least its supporters) was becoming ‘sick’. Quite frankly, if this is what constitutes being passionate about your club, then count me out! Some people, I believe, need to step back and come to their collective senses.

THE END OF A LOVE STORY

Get your tissues out folks, because this does not have a happy ending. Pathetic, sad, contemptible creature that I am, I have been ‘married’ to Chelsea Football Club for the best (or worst) part of twenty-two years. However, this battered housewife is belatedly filing for divorce on the grounds of the irretrievable breakdown in marriage relations. After years of abuse, as well as occasional good times, a painful experience on Tuesday May 1st 2007 has been the final straw.

On that evening of torment, Chelsea proceeded to lose their fourth semi-final in four successive years, their third consecutive Champions League semi-final knockout, and their third consecutive semi-final reverse to Liverpool. There is now an inevitability about Chelsea Champions League semi-final exits, reminiscent of Leeds United’s reputation as bridesmaids in the late sixties and early seventies when Don Revie’s outfit won less silverware than seemed frequently likely. Mind you, comparisons with that Leeds team and Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea hardly end there. Both teams have been short of admirers, at least amongst the Arsenal and Liverpool media luvvies, borne out of their uncompromising brand of no-nonsense football. However, the trouble with Chelsea in the Abramovich era is that the manager has had a ‘dare not lose’ mentality which on Anfield’s hallowed turf on the night in question produced a dreadful display in which the desire to avoid defeat stifled any attempt to win. The Blues failed time and again to stretch their hosts, resorting without exception to hoofing long balls to Drogba. There was no creativity, flair, or imagination, and if there was a Plan B, namely the introduction of Shaun Wright-Phillips, it was allocated a mere ten minutes to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

Of course Liverpool’s defence and goal-keeper excelled themselves, but failing to score once in three hours of football back in 2005, followed by a repeat performance in 2007 was simply too much to bear. Mourinho’s Chelsea were not attack-minded enough and yes I am belatedly waking up to the fact that Chelsea are boring. Mourinho fluffed his lines. Shevchenko’s goal return of four in his first Premiership season is a monumental embarrassment, but more significantly, while the manager had only two recognised central defenders in Carvalho and Terry, he had no fewer than four players for the lone holding role position. ‘Maureen’ was so possessed it seems with the need for defensive midfielders that any attacking impetus was clearly undermined. The greatest indictment was that while ‘the Special One’ refused to entertain Boulahrouz as a centre half, he played Michael Essien ( arguably his best player) out of position for a large proportion of the season. This re-shuffle was so outrageous that it was the equivalent of Ronaldinho playing centre-half for Barcelona, Gerrard playing in goal for Liverpool, or Ronaldo playing at right-back for Manchester United.

Chelsea and their manager have crossed the line as far as I am concerned. They have been boring and pragmatic, with a tendency to fluff their lines and shoot themselves in the foot in semi-finals. I am not a bad loser, I can assure you, although I have had plenty of practice. This is not a manifestation of sour grapes or a fickle football follower who quits when times are hard. Chelsea’s fortunes have been infinitely worse many times in my painful memory. However, there comes a time in any relationship where assessment is required. I have expended so much time, thought, expense, and emotional energy to a club that is no longer a pleasant distraction. Chelsea no longer make me feel good. Mind you, bragging rights based on the success of your football team is vastly over-rated. When all is said and done, you cannot take the silverware to bed with you or on holiday.

I was neither angry, tearful, nor sad at Chelsea’s routine Champions League exit. I felt nothing for a team who could not deliver a solitary goal in two hours of shambolic endeavour. Watching the stone-faced Steve Clarke and impassive Jose Mourinho perfectly encapsulated the proceedings. Sitting immobile on the bench, they had nothing to offer, pretty much like their hapless team. John Terry and Petr Cech deserve so much better, and so do the fans. This ex-fan could not even complain that Liverpool were lucky. Their penalty success was emphatic and merited. Chelsea no longer command my sympathy and respect. When one has reached this state of mind, it means that the spark has gone, the love affair is over, and it is time to move on.

‘THE DOC’: ANOTHER SPECIAL ONE

Long before the advent of the so-called ‘Special One’, there roamed another unique character in football management. His name was Tommy Docherty. Docherty had been an excellent servant of Arsenal, Glasgow Celtic, and Preston North End before he succeeded the admirable Ted Drake as a 33-year-old manager of an under-achieving Chelsea football team. By his own admission, Docherty (with no managerial record) was thrown in at the deep end and it was a case of sink or swim. Chelsea went backwards (via relegation) before Docherty getting into his stride advanced his ‘diamonds’ not only back to the top flight of English football, but the charismatic Scotsman launched a decade-long golden era at Stamford Bridge which his coach and successor Dave Sexton reaped the rewards from.

Docherty was hard work. He confessed to being a strict disciplinarian and like any good sergeant-major, he didn’t suffer fools. In the 1960s, long before football clubs recruited nutritionists, there was a drinking culture amongst the playing staff at Chelsea and other teams elsewhere. Docherty, no stranger to raising a glass or two himself, once infamously sent most of his team home to London from Blackpool on account of an alleged late night drinking session. Consequently, a patched-up Chelsea team were trounced 6-2 in their next fixture. The 1960s was a rollercoaster ride at Chelsea as Docherty and his young team quarrelled one moment and came close to success the next. The favourite story of ‘The Doc’ is undoubtedly his summoning of the local fire brigade to flood the Stamford Bridge pitch in order to oblige a postponement of a Fairs Cup semi-final with the mighty Barcelona, enabling one or two injured Chelsea players to recover in time for the re-arranged fixture. The Catalans were a trifle bemused that a bout of light rain should result in a waterlogged pitch!

Docherty left west London in October 1967 whereupon in his own words, he would accumulate “more clubs than Jack Nicklaus”. The Doc even managed his national team and I was startled to hear that Alex McLeish’s recent debut win as a Scotland manager was the first since Tommy Docherty in the early 1970s. Docherty, never far from the headlines, was appointed as a trouble-shooter at the ailing, post-Busby Manchester United where again the club went backwards (via relegation) only to advance back to Division One instantly, with glory in the 1977 FA Cup final thrown in to the mix. However, Docherty’s uncompromising attitude meant that the unreliable genius of George Best was dropped, transfer-listed, and eventually obliged to depart Old Trafford. Docherty’s own tenure characteristically was short-lived as his hero status was tarnished by tabloid revelations of an affair with the club physio’s wife. Never short of job offers or invitations for ‘after dinner speaking engagements’, ‘the Doc’ may or may not have been special, but he was certainly a one-off.

DO I NOT LIKE THAT

In my humble opinion, one of the greatest-ever television documentaries featured Graham Taylor’s ill-fated attempts to ensure that the England football team would qualify for the 1994 World Cup finals. The cameras followed Taylor around to observe at close quarters his foul-mouthed frustration at his team’s apparent under-achievement. It might have been shocking for the nation to hear what Graham Taylor referred to as “industrial language” but his vocabulary was the norm rather than the exception among the practitioners of soccer management.

Back in 1990 Bobby Robson bowed out as England manager after the national team had recovered from their failure at the 1988 European Championships and a sluggish start to Italia ’90 to reach the semi-finals for only the second time ever in the World Cup. Only penalty heartache (a recurring theme) prevented the English from playing in the final. The question was could the new appointment Graham Taylor build upon England’s quarter-finals and semi-finals appearances in successive World Cups? Taylor’s own reputation was based on outstanding service at Watford allied with taking Aston Villa to second place in Division One in 1990, their highest place since their championship-winning year of 1981.

The omens however were not encouraging when England yet again flopped in a European Championships, this time in Sweden in 1992. Prolific striker Gary Lineker bowed out prematurely from the England set-up after this tournament, vowing never to return. Nevertheless, with promising new striker Alan Shearer emerging to assist the likes of Paul Gascoigne and David Platt, England’s chances of appearing at the World Cup finals in the United States ought to have been reasonably good. However, the only concern was being drawn in a group that included the dangerous Holland and Poland, but it was Norway, not for the first time, who turned the form book on its head – at England’s expense.

By the early summer of 1993, the wheels were starting to come off the England World Cup campaign. Back in the spring, the Dutch had escaped from Wembley with a draw when Des Walker had conceded a penalty to Dennis Bergkamp. Worse was to happen when England first failed to score in Poland and then were soundly beaten 2-0 in Norway. Poor old Taylor lamented in the dug-out to his assistant Phil Neal about how his team were seemingly paying no attention to his pre-match instructions. On top of this major setback, England failed to impress on a brief visit to the United States. It was becoming increasingly likely that the national team would not be returning there in a year’s time.

On to the autumn and a resounding 3-0 home victory against Poland gave rise to hope that England would still be travelling across the Atlantic Ocean the following summer. Everything now rested on a trip to Holland, with Paul Gascoigne crucially suspended. On the fateful night in question, dubious refereeing decisions conspired against the visitors en route to a 2-0 defeat and as a tabloid headline subsequently suggested, it was ‘End Of the World’ for the England team – and not least the despised Taylor who had been slaughtered in the press as a turnip head whose strategy was exclusively one of ‘route one’ football. Taylor in a moment of supreme farce approached the official on the touchline and told him to relay to his colleague on the field the fact that his decisions had got him the sack. He wasn’t wrong. England had the remaining formality of overcoming San Marino in their last qualifying match but contrived to concede an early lead to compound Graham Taylor’s embarrassment.

I for one have much sympathy and respect for the much-maligned Taylor. He called it ‘the impossible job’ and claimed that Princess Diana thanked him for taking her off the newspaper headlines. Compared with Ericsson and McLaren’s under-achievement with a considerably more talented squad of players, the Taylor era doesn’t seem quite such a dismal failure. Furthermore, as a Radio Five Live expert analyst, Taylor talks an enormous amount of sense, though like many an English football observer, Taylor talks a good game, but then of course delivering it is not so straight-forward when confronted with the poisoned chalice of the impossible job. I’m sure this wise owl was relieved to be sat safely in the commentary box instead of charged with the task of justifying his team selections to a sceptical press conference or sitting in a dugout, cringing his way through a 0-0 with Israel or a 2-0 defeat in Croatia.

FOOTBALL CRAZY

Is it my imagination or is there a lot of stupidity in the world of football? Take football players first. How often do we read about soccer stars filling sports pages in newspapers in which they talk up their chances before a match while disrespectfully dismissing the possibility that their imminent opponents might actually play well and even win? Can there be anything more counter-productive than motivating your opponents by almost ridiculing the other team’s chances? If they had a modicum of sense, football players would pay tribute to the team that they are about to play, almost as a shrewd attempt to cultivate complacency. Unfortunately this level-headed approach is either conspicuously absent amongst soccer stars or else is frowned upon by newspapers that thrive upon gloating and provocative remarks from sneering sports competitors. Speaking of sneering soccer players, Ryan Giggs and his Manchester United buddies were less than generous when they narrowly succumbed to defeat by Chelsea in the FA Cup final. Bemoaning their luck and particularly a controversial refereeing decision merely confirmed them as bad losers who do benefit from the referee when they play at Old Trafford. Manchester United are certainly not alone in the predictable practise of paying tribute to the team they have just beaten but throwing their toys out of the pram when they have lost. It’s hard to respect soccer players who cannot admit that they lost to a better team and who instead resort to empty promises of revenge next time.

Let’s now examine the fans. Why do football supporters unleash a barrage of abuse on an opposing player on the premise that he used to play for their club but now has the cheek to play for the opposition? If a player has made a hundred appearances or scored dozens of goals for a club, why does its supporters single him out for vitriol during the course of a match, and not his colleagues who never played previously for that club? I’m sure that Leeds United fans would hurl abuse at Alan Smith for playing for Manchester United, but they fail to recognise that he gave more service to Leeds than all the other Red Devils put together, yet he is more likely to endure boos than say Ronaldo or Rooney from Leeds fans. It is as if football players are not permitted to change clubs.

Why also do so many men (and women) jump on the bandwagon and swear allegiance to the most successful football teams? Northern Irish people like to suggest that their support of Manchester United is based on the fact that George Best played for the Red Devils. However, there are dozens of excellent servants of the Northern Ireland team who played for other lesser clubs, so why not support them? Billy Bingham played for Luton Town but you will struggle to find many Belfast folk supporting the Hatters, while the late Derek Dougan’s service at Wolverhampton Wanderers did not prompt many Ulster folk to pay homage to Wolves.

It strikes me that people cling on to the bragging rights of their football team to camouflage the obvious lack of success in their own lives: “my team is better than your team”, “my club is bigger than your club”, “our home crowds are bigger than your home crowds”, “we have more history than you”, “we have a better manager than you”, “we have a better goalkeeper”, “ we have better goal-posts”, et cetera , et cetera, ad nauseam.It is a sad state of affairs when a person relies upon the fluctuating fortunes of their football club to ensure a sense of personal satisfaction. Following the biggest and best football teams is a strategy adopted by under-achievers whose own lack of qualifications, career progression and income necessitates the desire to look to successful clubs to compensate for their own sense of failure.

SNOOKER LOOPY

I remember my mother uncharacteristically writing me a note so that I could be excused from primary school one January afternoon, not because of a dental appointment, but because Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins was due to play in a Benson And Hedges match on television. Oh we all were bewitched by the remarkable Higgins whose style of play was ahead of its time, as his quick fire potting procedure was eminently more watchable than the deliberations of his contemporaries. In a snooker landscape of Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon, Cliff Thorburn, and Eddie Charlton, the Hurricane was the speed freak, who sent balls into oblivion in the blink of an eye. It was such a pity that ‘Hurricocaine Higgins’ (to quote Jimmy Greaves) failed to build on his World Championships of 1972 and 1982, as yet another Belfast prodigy started to make newspaper headlines, but not for sporting heroics.

If you liked Alex Higgins, you loathed Steve Davis, his nemesis. I too was initially swept along on the anti-‘Ginger Magician’ tide of emotion. However, whether or not Davis was Higgins’s polar opposite is questionable. In fact, to quote the old cliché, the Hurricane’s worst enemy or the person who most threatened his status among the snooker elite was the face staring back through his mirror. As for Steve Davis, he went from success to success in the 1980s, apart from unexpected reverses in the 1985 and 1986 world championship finals. As time marched on, my admiration for Davis increased. I myself was growing up and symptomatic of my increasing maturity was a respect for the prowess and apparent decency of likeable Steve. Mr. Davis found himself lampooned by Spitting Image as ‘Interesting’, but old ‘Interesting’ went on to star in ‘They Think It’s All Over’ as well as lend his considerable knowledge to the BBC snooker experts, so he did indeed prove to be very interesting. Only Stephen Hendry has probably eclipsed Steve Davis as the greatest snooker player of the television era.

It’s kind of weird how we all swear allegiance to one or two snooker or darts players while feeling distinctly cold about the other competitors. For example, I always had an irrational liking for Eric Bristow at the expense of his darts rival, John Lowe. Similarly, Stephen Hendry was one snooker player whom I never warmed to, for no apparent reason, yet like Davis before him, this Hearts football fan was a model professional and an outstanding player. Instead, I grew to like Jimmy White whom I initially ‘disliked’ again during my early ‘Higgins years’. Has there ever been a greater hard luck story in the whole of sport than the Whirlwind’s consistently spectacular near misses at Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre each spring? I can still remember Higgins embracing young White in a 1982 world championship semi-final after the Ulsterman had come from behind to sneak home 16-15 with the help of one of the greatest-ever clearance breaks in the history of snooker. Most people of course still recall the pain of Jimmy’s ritual defeats at the hands of Stephen Hendry. What is all the more remarkable was that Jimmy idolised Alex and then eclipsed the Hurricane as world snooker’s most eye-catching competitor, while Stephen idolised Jimmy, only to prevent his hero from ever seizing the world crown. Jimmy White is unquestionably the greatest snooker player never to become world champion, and I think we can all relate to his heroic misfortune.

Fast-forwarding to the 21st century and I peculiarly like both the unflappable Mark Williams and the show-stopping Ronnie O’Sullivan which is all the more remarkable, considering that these two snooker greats have little warmth for one another. Oh all the memories: ‘the grinder’ Cliff Thorburn collapsing in unbounded delight at recording the world championship’s first-ever maximum break; the farcical 35th and final frame between the likeable Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis in 1985: the John Virgo impersonations of his fellow professionals; the personal feuds and mutual admiration, they all confirm that the game of snooker isn’t a load of balls after all.

SPIN

The art of spin extends far beyond the cricket pitch or Downing Street nowadays. Take a look for instance at the world of employment to see how both employers and employees, not to mention the self-employed, put a spin on their job title. No longer are factory fodder the factory workers of bygone days of yore. Now they are termed as operatives. Gosh I loathe that word ‘operative’ – it’s just a euphemism for ‘dog’s body’. Can you imagine a new episode of Blackadder in these apparently self-conscious times: “Please allow me to introduce Baldrick. He’s my operative.”

As if this stupidity isn’t bad enough, one finds that shop assistants are now designated as ‘customer service advisers’. Do me a favour. Worse still are the job vacancies that advertise for ‘telesales executives’. Executives? Are you having a laugh? They’re just a bunch of gobby, pushy twenty-somethings fresh from university. Most ludicrous of all however are the silly contestants on The Weakest Link who describe themselves as ‘a company director’. Fortunately that nice Anne Robinson quizzes them about their job title: “So tell me. This company of yours; how many employees does it have?” “Er, two.” “Two?” “Yeah, me and me brother.” “What, and you call yourself a company director?” “Yeah, well we still have a company and I help to direct it!”

Dear oh dear oh dear. Britain is overflowing with a growing army of people who have an exaggerated sense of self-importance who blag their way through job interviews and pub conversations with their inflated nonsense. As far as I am concerned (and I am concerned), there is a fine dividing line between spin and bullshit.

FRIENDLY FIRE

It must be doubly upsetting for grieving relatives of British military personnel to discover that their loved one was killed by that most outrageous of phrases: ‘friendly fire’. What is it with American armed forces and friendly fire? It’s bad enough that their airport security was not particularly secure back in September 2001 and that their intelligence before and after has not been especially noteworthy for its intelligence. Therefore, I think that I will pay a state visit to George Dubya Bush at the White House. I will probably be stopped en route by airport security who will demand to know what the hell I am doing in possession of an automatic Kalashnikov-47 – to which I will reply, “Oh don’t worry, I’m only being ‘friendly’.”

REGIME CHANGE

It became oh so fashionable in the final months of the Blair premiership to pour scorn on the Prime Minister for his counter-productive pursuit of war in Iraq. Of course Britain went to war on a false premise – namely the need to seek out and destroy Iraq’s imaginary weapons of mass destruction. Mr Blair and his neo-conservative buddies across the big pond were however effectively engaged in a struggle to effect a regime change, and in this objective, they have hardly departed from the conventional approach to almost any war. Take for example the two world wars.

When Germany invaded Belgium in August 1914, British statesmen and people alike were not tossing and turning in bed at night, worried about the neutrality of Belgium. No, Britain went to war against the Kaiser to topple him and end his expansionist ambitions which had frayed the nerves of Europe for more than a decade. The First World War, like the conflict in Iraq, was fought to achieve regime change.

Even more peculiarly in the Second World War, Britain began hostilities against Nazi Germany in response to its invasion of Poland. Britain in fact was so upset by the territorial violation of Poland that it acquiesced in the Soviet Union’s acquisition of the Polish state at the end of the conflict. So much for concern about Poland. Yes the Second World War too was fought not for the stated reason. It was another attempt at regime change.

Tony Blair, for all his flaws, has only put into practice the much-used formula of going to war for false reasons. Every conflict, almost without exception, is designed to achieve regime change, irrespective of what excuse any politician offers.

NEW TESTAMENT - extracts from my funny/serious book

David Backhim — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 09:24:48 GMT

BETTING TIPS

Is gambling a mug’s game? Well, consider the following. Who backed Foinavon to win the 1967 Grand National at 100-1? Who had a punt on North Korea to defeat Italy in the 1966 World Cup finals? Who realistically thought that Sunderland would overcome Leeds United in the 1973 FA Cup final? As for Wimbledon’s victory against Liverpool in the 1988 FA Cup final, who saw that one coming? Then there was the 1999 and 2007 rugby world cup matches where New Zealand only had to turn up to beat France. Well they did turn up, but they didn’t win. Have you got the picture yet? One could go on and on. There are no such things as nailed-on certainties in gambling, in spite of the misleading advice of expert tipsters, some of whom couldn’t be entrusted to predict the weather in a hot country.

A punt is a risky venture, pure and simple. If the chances are good, the betting odds are a miserly price, so defeating the bookmaker is a task and a half. Incidentally, do not be fooled by the newspaper racing pundits who predict the winner in every single race each day. It is inevitable that the tipster will enjoy several wins out of about 25 or 30 farcical selections. One is then confronted with the racing page headline the next day of ‘champion tipster’s double at Newbury yesterday’. What the newspaper headline fails to record is the ‘expert’s’ losing selections in the other five Newbury races. Then of course, there is the recent invention of ‘virtual racing’, designed presumably for punters who back virtual winners. I’ve never put money on any ‘horse’ in the virtual racing – primarily because I’ve never heard of any of the listed jockeys! Anyhow, here are my racing tips for today:

Sandown, 2.00: Avoid backing anything in this maiden race. Maidens have never won a race before, and so therefore have as much racing credentials as a turtle.

Kempton, 2.15: Steer clear of this contest. It has a field of twenty-two runners. Have you ever tried to locate a needle in a hay stack? Picking a winner in this race is equally straight-forward.

Doncaster, 3.05: One horse is the clear favourite, but its odds are so ridiculously short that you should put your wallet away.

Hexham, 3.45: The runners and riders have to negotiate twenty fences over 3.5 miles. Fences are the great leveller. Even the most accomplished jumper can fall at a fence, so keep your money in your pocket.

Chester, 5.00: An amateur race. Horses nobody has ever heard of ridden by jockeys that no-one has ever heard of – virtual racing in all but name. Definitely an ideal opportunity to waste your money.

Brighton, 5.20: This is regarded as a wide-open race, with no clear favourites, so avoid it like the plague.

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POLE-DANCING

In the winter, provided that you are not suffering from German measles, why not pluck up some Dutch courage and bring a little warmth to those Chile nights with a spot of Pole dancing. Furthermore, with Christmas looming, a second income is necessary for those shopping trips to the local Iceland to buy a Turkey, Irish stew, Danish cookies, French fried onions, Spanish wine and some Brazil nuts for those Hungary mouths in your family. So while you’re up to your armpits in elbow Greece in a desperate attempt to buy the in-laws a piece of China for Christmas, why not consider Pole dancing. There is nothing more sensuous and satisfying as jiving the night away with someone from Cracow or Warsaw. Then when you Finnish your work, the boss gives you a nice, big fat Czech in reward for your services and you can then treat yourself to an Indian.

THE NEW ONE POUND SHOP

The following conversation takes place over there between him and me, while she wisely doesn’t want to get involved. I hope you like it.

Me: I’ve just had a brainwave idea for a brilliant new business venture.

Him: Oh no, not again.

Me: What do you mean, “oh no, not again?”

Him: I mean we’ve been here before – with your silly crackpot schemes.

Me: I beg your pardon. When?

Him: What about that time when you opened an American souvenir shop in Teheran?

Me: Oh yes, but apart from that?

Him: What about your great idea of selling sun cream and sunglasses at the Glastonbury Festivals?

Me: Okay, a minor aberration, I concede.

Him: Or the time you tried to sell Bibles on the street market in Karachi?

Me: Oh be fair man. I thought Muslims like Jesus.

Him: They do, I’ll grant you that, but they don’t care much for Moses or Solomon.

Me: Oh alright, clever clogs, but this retail venture is a certain winner.

Him: Go on then and bore me. What is it?

Me: It’s going to be a new one pound shop.

Him: What’s new about that? There are many stores knocking about which sell all items for one pound.

Me: Ah yes, but I won’t be selling my items for £1.

Him: I don’t understand. How can you call it a one pound shop, then?

Me: Well, I am going to be giving one pound change to each and every purchase.

Him: You mean that your items will cost £4 or £9 or £19 and the purchaser will give you a fiver or a tenner or a £20 note, thus ensuring £1 change.

Me: Not necessarily. The item may cost £2.99 and they give me a £20 note, so obviously they will receive £1 change, as stated on the shop sign.

Him: Your mathematics leaves a lot to be desired. What possesses you to think that this idea will work?

Me: Apart from demons, what possesses me is the realisation that shoppers like to know where they stand, and in knowing that each purchase entitles them to one pound, they clearly know exactly where they stand.

Him; It sounds to me pretty much like they will be standing on quicksand.

Me: Ah yes, but at least they will know where they stand.

THE BECKHAMS: MR AND MRS JESUS CHRIST?

Am I alone in being completely staggered by the grand arrival of David and Victoria Beckham in the United States? What exactly have they done to merit such a media-fuelled hysteria? If it had been Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa arriving ensemble, I could just about comprehend it. Instead of which, I am left to ask myself and you the reader precisely what have the Beckhams done – for anybody? No, seriously, tell me….. what have they actually done for the world? Please tell me. I need to know. From what I can gather, she is an average pop singer, with better-than-average looks. She is hardly a pop diva nor a pin-up beauty. David is an excellent footballer but would struggle to be chosen for a World XI.

Therefore, you can possibly understand my irritation when silly old Channel Five now want to annoy us all with ‘David Beckham Soccer USA’ on a regular basis, while ITV in their questionable wisdom screened and then astonishingly repeated documentaries on each of the Beckhams as they prepared to conquer the United States, en route to world domination. It seems that the broadcasting media surrender their integrity to the Beckhams’ megabucks public relations machine and over-nourish us with a junk food helping of Beckhams, Beckhams, and Beckhams for dessert. It is all so nauseating and sickening.

I repeat again in all seriousness, precisely what have the Beckhams contributed to humanity? What is their legacy? Please inform me. Judging by their landing in Californication, one could be forgiven for thinking that Jesus Christ had arrived. Are the Beckhams really the Second Coming, or should we be waiting for another Messiah?

THIS WEEK’S ITV EVENING PROGRAMME HIGHLIGHTS

MONDAY

7.00-7.30: Emmerdale – a murder takes place in the village

7.30-8.00: Coronation Street – a murder occurs on the street

8.00-8.30: Tonight with Trevor ‘I’m really satirical, y’know’ MacDonald, in which would-be comedian Trev puts on his serious hat and investigates the rise of violent crime (on television)

8.30-9.00: Coronation Street – the locals come to terms with this week’s murder

9.00-10.30: Rebus – Rebus investigates a murder

10.30-11.00: The News – including news reports about violence, and probably murder

11.00-12.00: This Is David Pest (who isn’t yet murdered)

12.00-1.00: Celebrity salsa dancing

TUESDAY

7.00-8.00: Emmerdale – the locals come to terms with murder in the village

8.00-9.00: Murder She Wrote – Angela Lansbury has to solve yet another murder

9.00-10.30: Murder City – apparently the detectives are required to investigate an unsolved murder

10.30-11.00: The News – featuring crime stories, including murder

11.00-12.00: This Is David Pest (mercilessly repeated)

12.00-1.00: Celebrity wine-tasting

WEDNESDAY

8.00-9.00: The Bill – another murder occurs in Sun Hill

9.00-10.30: A Touch Of Frost – Frost investigates a murder

10.30-11.00: The News - The Prime Minister answers questions in Parliament about the rise in murder

11.00-12.30: Cracker – Cracker tries to crack the mystery of a murder

12.30-1.30: Celebrity Pass The Parcel

THURSDAY

8.00-9.00: The Bill – the detectives desperately need to solve a murder before the next show starts at 9.

9.00-10.30: Blue Murder

10.30-11.00: The News – more news stories about…..murder

11.00-12.00: The Second Coming – A documentary on the Beckhams’ arrival in the USA

12.00-1.00: Celebrity snakes and ladders

FRIDAY

7.30-8.00: Coronation Street – The Duckworths stay in and watch a murder programme on ITV

9.00-10.30: Taggart – Taggart investigates a murder

10.30-11.00: The News – probably even more murders to report

11.00-12.30: Midsomer Murders – A repeat showing of a murder from a previous series

12.30-1.30: Celebrity bee-keeping

SATURDAY

6.00-7.00: Bear-baiting, presented by Jeremy Kyle

7.00-8.00: X Factor – Several would-be murderers attempt to murder the panel of judges

8.00-9.00: Stars In Their Eyes – Featuring nobodies doing karaoke impersonations of The Police, The Fun Lovin’ Criminals, and their own versions of ‘Smooth Criminal’ and ‘I Fought The Law’

9.00-11.00: Film – Murder On The Orient Express. Hercule Poirot investigates a murder.

11.00-11.15: The News – expect to find one or two items on murder

11.15-12.15: The Second Coming – A chance to see again the Beckhams prepare to conquer the USA

12.15-1.15: Celebrity egg and spoon race

SUNDAY

8.00-9.00: Heartbeat – A murder takes place in Aidensfield, some time in the 1960s

9.00-10.30: Wire In The Blood – more murder

10.30-10.45: The News – featuring a round-up of all the weekend’s murders

10.45-11.45: The South Bank Show – Melvyn Bragg quizzes the ITV programmes scheduler about the absence of comedy and variety on ITV.

SPOILSPORTS PERSONALITY OF THE YEAR

Is there anything remotely so tiresome as the regular rotation of rubbish that is otherwise known as television awards ceremonies? Amongst others, there is the Baftas, the soap awards, the Brits, the MOBO awards, Oscars, Sports Review of the Year, comedy awards, and other forgettable awards too numerous to mention and too tedious to recall. Take the BBC sports personality of the year ceremony. The award invariably is conferred upon the individual who has made the greatest sporting achievement during the year, which is fair enough, but why then call the award ‘sports personality of the year’? Should it not be re-titled ‘most outstanding achievement of the year’ award. I mean if we were really selecting the sports personality of the year, somebody like Colin Montgomerie would get my vote nearly every time. Perhaps the greatest-ever golfer to never win a major, this colossus at the Ryder Cups is sometimes grumpy and irascible on the golf course and he has been known to let off some steam. Well, bravo Monty, at least he has quite clearly got a personality, unlike many of the other sporting robots who perform their heroics on auto-pilot and are then curiously short-listed for sports ‘personality’ of the year.

It is my humble estimation that a new awards channel should be established so that all those wretched ceremonies where the great and the good congregate in their finest attire, eat a slap-up meal, drink themselves silly, and pay ghastly tributes to their fellow luvvies, can be shunted off to an exclusive pay-per-view channel. A typical day’s broadcasting schedule for an awards channel would look something like this:

00.00-02.00: Cat Burglar of the Year awards

02.00-04.00: National Insomniac awards for 2008

04.00-06.00: The Milkman of the Year review

06.00-08.00: Breakfast Television awards, sponsored by Kellogg’s

08.00-10.00: Wife-beater of the year awards, presented by Jerry Springer

10.00-12.00: Daytime television’s television awards, presented by Kay Adams

12.00-14.00: Spoilsports personality of the year awards

14.00-16.00: Award ceremony of the year awards

16.00-18.00: Richard And Judy’s Celebrity Book of the Year awards

18.00 20.00: Reality TV awards, presented by very special guest, Davina McCall

20.00-22.00: Prime-time tacky TV awards, presented by Graham Norton

22.00-00.00: Comedy (or farcical) awards, presented by Johnathan Woss

GERALD WILEY

The supremely gifted Two Ronnies, like many entertainers, were ably assisted by various comedy scriptwriters, including Terry Jones and Michael Palin of Monty Python fame. One such contributor who made a favourable impression was the writer, Mr. Gerald Wiley. In fact, one of Ronnie Barker’s bosses at the BBC was so fascinated by the material from the reclusive Mr. Wiley that he urged Ronnie Barker to introduce this Gerald Wiley. As a consequence, Ronnie Barker and his superior went out for a meal during which it had been arranged that Mr.Wiley would join them. As the dinner started in the absence of Mr. Wiley, Ronnie Barker was asked what had happened to this missing Wiley character, when the late great bespectacled one confessed to his dining partner, “well, actually, I’m Gerald Wiley!”

THE BEATLES: THE END OF THE DREAM

By 1966, even three long years after the phenomenon of Beatlemania, the Fab Four could still seemingly do no wrong. The Beatles had been awarded MBEs and showered with critical acclaim, not to mention riches accumulated from albums and singles that unerringly ascended to the top of their respective charts. However it could be argued that the growing disharmony that characterised the group’s later years could be traced back to 1966.

True, John Lennon cried for ‘Help’ in 1965 which maybe was a revelation that being a successful Moptop was not all that it was cracked up to be, but it was the following year when the unsinkable Beatles started struggling to keep afloat, though not financially. Instead, 1966 was a turbulent year that persuaded Liverpool’s finest to kick tours and concert appearances into touch – and with good reason. A bad experience in the Philippines where the four cheeky chappies had the ‘audacity’ to snub President Marcos and his shoe fetish wife led to the Beatles fleeing almost in fear for their lives. Worse was to follow in the United States.

Hailed as conquering heroes in February 1964, the Beatles now incurred the wrath of the ‘Bible Belt’ after John Lennon tactlessly, though perhaps accurately, was revealed to have stated in a newspaper interview that “we’re more popular than Jesus”. Those apparent Jesus-followers, the Ku Klux Klan were incensed, while public burnings of Beatles merchandise prompted the Fab Four to decide that their concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco at the end of August would be their final gig. By a curious coincidence, another questionably fab four, the Sex Pistols, would also play their last concert in San Francisco in January 1978 before a brief reunion occurred two decades later.

John Lennon later confessed that “this was the end really, but I was too scared to walk away.” Having known nothing else but performing and composing music for almost a decade, the Beatles soldiered on, on the understanding that they would devote their energies to the recording studio whilst also fulfilling their contracted film-making obligations. After John returned from his film role in ‘How I Won The War’ and George Harrison returned from India, the Beatles in mid-winter set about the difficult task of finding a suitable follow-up to their ‘Revolver’ album. The result was ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.

Released in June 1967 and following in the footsteps of the outstanding double A-side of Strawberry Fields Forever coupled with Penny Lane, the Beatles were scaling new peaks. With their new single, ‘All You Need Is Love’ broadcast via the ‘Our World’ television project to a massive global audience, the Liverpool quartet’s plans for world domination had apparently paid off handsomely. However, just as the end of touring had curtailed the group’s functions, they soon found themselves manager-less as their mentor Brian Epstein, recently marginalised by the decision to stop touring, was found dead from an overdose in August. It was a terrible end to a colourful ‘flower power’ summer of love.

The Beatles then made the grave error of persevering without a manager for almost eighteen months, choosing to run their own business affairs. The trouble was that their Apple project that included a boutique as well as signing new artists to their new record label proved that the ensemble were as talented at losing money as they were at accumulating it. The tempestuous year of 1967 also ended on a low note, arising out of a perfectly understandable public reaction to the television broadcast of the short Magical Mystery Tour film. All I will say is that while the accompanying music remained of the highest quality, the movie itself left an awful lot to be desired. It ought to have been ample evidence that the group were not film-makers, but it did not deter them from filming the recording sessions for the ‘Let It Be’ album in early 1969 for a project initially entitled ‘Get Back’.

This particular movie was a courageous if foolish attempt at cinema verite, in which the artists were to be screened warts and all. The problem was that relations had deteriorated to such an extent that the recording sessions were miserable, and even placid George Harrison was moved to tell a domineering Paul McCartney “I’ll play whatever you want me to play. Or I’ll not play at all, if you don’t want me to. Whatever it is that will please you, I will do it.”

Bickering in the recording studios is commonplace in every band, but the sight and news of the loveable Moptops quarrelling was hard for their adoring public to digest. Even easy-going Ringo Starr had cause to walk out on the group during the recording sessions for the ‘White Album’ back in September 1968. Not even enlightenment from their new guru, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, nor the continued success of their latest releases could bring a smile to their faces.

In an act of desperation at their state of misery, the group made a final impromptu public performance on the top of the Apple building in central London, causing the city centre traffic to come to a standstill, while work halted in nearby buildings, as the Beatles’ January 1969 concert reminded the public of their magic. It culminated of course in John stating that “I hope we passed the audition.” They did, but John and Paul failed two different auditions – namely their relationships with Cynthia Lennon and Jane Asher. Not only did the song-writing partners fall out of love almost simultaneously, but remarkably they both got married in quick succession in March 1969, thus providing the lyrics to their next chart-topper, ‘The Ballad Of John And Yoko’.

It was their marriages more than anything that spelt the end of the dream. Such was the intensity of their new passions that it would impact upon the tightly-knit group dynamic. In the case of Paul, he was strongly in favour of Lee Eastman, his wife Linda’s father, taking over the reins as the new group manager, but he was over-ruled by the rest of the band who elected the Rolling Stones’ hard-boiled manager Allen Klein. This decision did nothing for Paul’s affection for the other three. Worse than this, John alienated himself from the others by insisting that his new partner, Yoko Ono, be allowed to trespass the holy of all holies – Beatles recording sessions. Yoko’s presence at the construction of the excellent ‘White Album’, followed by ‘Let It Be’ and finally ‘Abbey Road’ antagonised the others whose collective policy of no wives or girlfriends in the recording studio had been violated.

The cracks were well and truly starting to emerge, yet for all the increased tension, the group continued to enjoy chart-topping success. In fact, it wasn’t until the release of George Harrison’s supremely beautiful ‘Something’ in the autumn of 1969 that the group ironically failed to reach the top three in the British singles chart for the first time in a staggering seven years. The song was issued to support their new album ‘Abbey Road’, which with the assistance of George Martin saw the group bury their differences and complete their swansong in August 1969 without the acrimony that had upset recent recording projects.

Nevertheless, when Paul suggested several weeks later that the group start touring again, John was having none of it. “I think you’re daft”, he reportedly replied. “I want a divorce”, he said, only for Allen Klein and Paul to talk him out of any public announcement. Paul, realising he could no longer cajole an unwilling group, set about recording his debut solo album, and when Ringo was despatched the following spring to urge Paul not to release his solo debut simultaneous to the belated outing of ‘Let It Be’, Paul apparently threw Ringo out of his house. The inevitable happened, though in unforeseen circumstances, when Paul announced the break-up of the Beatles which was all the more ironic since he was least in favour of a split. An incensed John retorted that “Paul hasn’t left the Beatles. I’ve sacked him.” By the end of 1970, Paul felt the need to take his old buddies to the High Court to dissolve the partnership. John in his track called ‘God’ subsequently sang “the dream is over.”

THE STROLLING RUINS IN 1967

1967 was a pivotal year in the evolution of the youth generation’s counter-culture. It incorporated the Monterey pop festival, the hippy pilgrimages to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, the ‘summer of love’, ‘flower power’, the emergence of a new guitar hero called Jimi Hendrix, and the explosion of psychedelic music and fashion, while Sergeant Pepper first saw the light of day and The Beatles reminded a worried world that ‘All You Need Is Love’. Yet for the Rolling Stones, 1967 was a year that they might prefer to forget.

Even as early as January, the omens of increasing notoriety were not good. Appearing on both the American Ed Sullivan show and ITV’s Sunday Night At The London Palladium in order to plug their latest single, the five bad boys of British pop were warned not to sing ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together’. In those unenlightened, pre-permissive times, Mick Jagger was required to mumble instead ‘let’s spend some time together’. In protest, the group refused to appear on the carousel of smiling, waving artists at the conclusion of the ITV show. A storm in a teacup, I think that you will all agree, but in those slightly dark ages, such an issue provoked a considerable controversy. Worse was to follow for the Stones….. much worse.

Apparently, wayward genius Brian Jones had let slip in a London night-club to an unscrupulous journalist drinking partner about his group’s fondness for unprescribed pharmaceuticals. However, all hell broke loose when the News Of the World mistakenly revealed that Mick Jagger had confessed the band’s drug habits. Jagger understandably threatened libel action for the falsehood only for the Sunday newspaper to retaliate by allegedly conspiring with the police to have the troublesome Stones arrested for possession of drugs on the following Sunday. Even forty years later, that infamous drugs bust at Keith Richard’s Redlands home on the evening of Sunday 12th of February remains one of the most remarkable episodes in British cultural history – ever. The police had been tipped off (by journalists?); George Harrison of the still wholesome Beatles had only just left; Brian Jones wasn’t even there; and then there was the presence of Miss X, naked but for a fur rug, subsequently revealed to be Jagger’s girlfriend and pop singer Marianne Faithfull. With a cast of celebrities and a huge portion of intrigue, I am surprised that this Redlands bust which was basically Celebrity Big Brother ahead of its time has never been re-enacted on film.

Consequently, Jagger and Richard were charged and convicted, and their briefest of incarcerations was overturned on appeal. Their co-defendant and art dealer, friend Robert Fraser wasn’t so fortunate, but then he wasn’t a celebrity. Indeed, the apparent prosecution or persecution of the ‘Glimmer Twins’ prompted a public reaction of sympathy. The Times’ editorial, of all sources, joined ranks with the underground press and rallied to their defence by asking ‘Who Breaks A Butterfly On A Wheel?’ The Who also lent their support to the poor little butterfly by releasing Stones cover versions in honour of Mick and Keef.

Meanwhile back in May, Brian Jones also fell foul of the law on drugs possession. His gig in court was scheduled for October. Against this background of upheaval, the Rolling Stones soldiered on with a new project, which was a poorly-disguised attempt to compete with Pepper and to climb on board the psychedelic bandwagon. The result was ‘Their Satanic Majesties Request’, a release that didn’t surface until December, partially on account of record company apprehension at the album title. I choose to depart from conventional wisdom on this Stones’ collaboration, believing that ‘their satanic majesties’ produced an excellent long-player. I furthermore find it disappointing, though not entirely surprising, that in the recently-published ‘Rough Guide To The Rolling Stones’, neither ‘She’s A Rainbow’ nor the marvellous ‘2,000 Light Years From Home’ are listed among the group’s fifty greatest tracks. ‘Light Years’ was all the more poignant as Mick Jagger wrote it as a reminder of what life behind high walls and locked doors felt like.

One other musical offering of note from that tempestuous summer was the single, ‘We Love You’. Its eventual chart peak position of No.8 represented something of a commercial failure for the high-flying Stones, but mercifully ‘The Rough Guide’ has recognised this song’s undoubted place among the group’s fifty finest. John and Paul were summoned to provide harmonies, returning the compliment for Jagger appearing on ‘All You Need Is Love’ and Jones blowing a saxophone on its flip-side, ‘Baby, You’re A Rich Man’. This historic record therefore represented the nearest that the friendly rivals of the Fab Four and the infamous five came to a musical collaboration. Assisted by the rattle of chains, a clanging cell door, and a remarkable promo film that ‘replayed’ the trial (and persecution) of Oscar Wilde, ‘We Love You’ occupies a special place in not only the history of the Rolling Stones but in the story of popular music as a whole. It was an oasis in an otherwise unrelenting year of misfortune and bad vibes for the Stones. Perhaps it was no coincidence that between 1964 and 1969, this was the only year that Mick Jagger and his associates didn’t create a chart-topping single in Britain.

Brian Jones meanwhile, like his ‘friends’ before him, narrowly escaped a prison sentence, but while Mick and Keith could rely on their powers of recovery, Brian Jones was on the slippery slope to an early grave. The footage of the blond bombshell in the ‘We Love You’ promo film was reason enough to doubt his future. Not even a VIP guest appearance at the Monterey pop festival in June could lift Brian’s spirits, because back in March another dark episode had cast a shadow over his relations with the band.

In an attempt to escape from the ‘heavy’ ramifications of the Redlands debacle, the Stones sought a temporary refuge in Morocco. However what was intended as a welcome break culminated in a holiday nightmare, as Keith Richard persuaded Anita Pallenberg to defect to him as a consequence of Jones’s unfaithfulness, unreliability, and violence. Jones and Richard, the group’s twin guitarists, were not on speaking terms for some time thereafter. My sympathy is with Keith on this one. Brian ruined his love affair and spent the remainder of his short life embittered by the apparent treachery.

With the burden of drug convictions and increasing group tension, touring commitments were kept to a minimum. Collectively, it represents a depressing chapter in the development of the Rolling Stones. With the law firmly on their backs, the Stones faced an uncertain future. For one protagonist that future was brief, but for the others their survival instincts helped them away from the abyss of 1967 and fortified the Strolling Ruins for the self-constructed pitfalls that lay ahead.

A TRIBUTE TO MADNESS

No this is not a bizarre commercial, endorsing the merits of insanity. Instead I recently watched my Complete Madness video compilation. It’s forty minutes well spent. I remain a little disappointed that the hugely popular septet from north London never received the critical acclaim that they perhaps deserved. After all, ask anyone on the street or in the music business about Madness and nobody it seems has a bad word to say about Camden Town’s finest. Yet for all the string of hit singles that began with ‘The Prince’ in the autumn of 1979, one will struggle to find a solitary music critic who recognises the impact that Madness had on British pop music in the 1980s and beyond.

It is probable that the group’s eye-catching, wacky videos perhaps deflected the fact that the group created outstanding records. ‘Baggy Trousers’ spent a remarkable twenty weeks in the singles charts and is a terrific social commentary on comprehensive education, while the group’s only number one, ‘House Of Fun’, is a light-hearted look at the coming of age. ‘Embarrassment’, ‘Cardiac Arrest’, and ‘Grey Day’ were also superbly crafted pop songs which nevertheless explored a darker side to the group’s collective songwriting formula, not forgetting the delights of ‘Wings Of A Dove’, ‘Uncle Sam’, and ‘Waiting For The Ghost Train’ which each covered politics without preaching or getting too inaccessibly intellectual.

Only Graham McPherson, under the alias of Suggs, has increased his profile since Madness became more sane in the mid-1980s, courtesy of a television show, followed by an excellent residency at Virgin Radio, not to mention a ‘This Is Your Life’ profile and a fish fingers advertisement. What a pity that the group as a whole never quite garnered the critical esteem that their musical exploits merited. Their influence almost certainly re-surfaced in such Britpop anthems as ‘Common People’ and ‘Parklife’, yet Madness probably suffer for the image they cultivated: fast-paced anthems performed by an unpretentious, down-to-earth bunch of lads, who didn’t take themselves too seriously. However, to ignore their music and its legacy, well that would be absolutely madness.

REVELATIONS - extracts from my semi-humorous book

David Backhim — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 09:22:09 GMT

PECULIAR FLOYD

I’ve just been reading my fourth Pink Floyd book, entitled ‘The Rough Guide To Pink Floyd’ by Toby Manning, following on from Nicholas Schaffner’s ‘Saucerful Of Secrets’, Nick Mason’s ‘Inside Out’, and John Harris’s ‘Dark Side Of The Moon’. Gosh the enigmatic Floyd are hard work. The group’s Dark Side Of The Moon album occupied a place on the American charts for an earth-shattering total approaching eight hundred weeks. It is widely suggested that somebody somewhere in the world is playing this record at each minute of the day. Far from being one-hit wonders, Pink Floyd’s output included Meddle, Obscured By Clouds, The Final Cut, The Wall, and Wish You Were Here, and many other albums and even singles which collectively turned on to varying degrees numerous music listeners and even critics alike.

Yet for all their unquestioned global success, Pink Floyd remained a miserable, some might argue thoroughly unlikeable bunch. On the credit side, the Floyd refreshingly side-stepped the standard, tedious histrionics of most other rock groups that indulged in heavy drugs, instrument thrashing, hotel wrecking, and high jinks at high altitudes on aeroplanes. Though largely avoiding whatever groupies dared to cross their path, the Floyd were not one woman men, yet by contrast to most other annoying rock musicians, they were gentlemen by comparison. For some immature observers who buy into the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll of rock Babylon, the aloof Pink Floyd were boring and a group that needed to let their long hair down.

What I find remarkable about the Floyd is how ungenerous they have been to one another. For two decades, the group were a relatively closed book that commendably gave a wide berth to chat show appearances and magazine interviews designed to ascertain their favourite food and their most embarrassing moments. Yet by the mid-Eighties when bassist and principal songwriter Roger Waters chose to dissolve the group in the firm belief that the others couldn’t assemble without him, all hell broke loose as his estranged musical partner David Gilmour proceeded to re-convene the band for the Momentary Lapse Of Reason project in 1986. As a consequence, the Floyd’s warring factions began washing their dirty linen in public in a media brawl that made the McLaren versus Rotten, Lennon versus McCartney, and Jagger versus Richards spats seem like a storm in a teacup.

For the best part of two decades, Waters on the one hand and Gilmour allied with drummer Nick Mason on the other traded insults or, put diplomatically, ‘unkind remarks’. Only their remarkable reformation for their Live 8 concert at Hyde Park in July 2005 appeared to bring the curtain down on one of rock music’s most notorious feuds. I have some sympathy with the hard to get along with Roger Waters who had visions in the 1970s which he was determined to musically implement. The trouble for Roger was that the others were less enthusiastic for Roger’s plans and they had to be dragged almost kicking and screaming sometimes to complete the ideas of Mr. Waters. What a real shame that a group which brought such pleasure or enlightenment to literally millions of people grew to despise one another. Rarely have the ‘fab four’ paid tribute to one another’s musical output or song-writing ability, preferring instead to devote themselves to character assassinations.

If ever there is an obvious commercial for how miserable and unfulfilled riches can render anybody, then the Floyd are the reference point. The Floyd were not so much Pink, personable, or pleasant, but peculiar is perhaps more appropriate.

SO HARD TO BEAT?

A twice-broadcast documentary on BBC1 Northern Ireland has been glorifying the apparent contribution of Ulster to the world of rock and pop. The programme has been mystifyingly entitled ‘So Hard To Beat’. However, the absence of any sizeable ethnic minority in Northern Ireland has ensured that the popular music that emanated from the north of the island has been almost exclusively performed by young white men for the benefit of white students and schoolboys. Groups such as Ash, Snow Patrol, The Undertones, and Stiff Little Fingers have just been standard-bearers of white boy music. With the slight exception of Stiff Little Fingers who ‘followed’ (a recurring theme in Northern Irish youth) their heroes The Clash in embracing reggae, there has been a notable absence in brass, strings, or keyboards, with the only instruments employed being the run-of-the-mill bass, drums, and guitars.

Northern Irish groups rarely think outside of the box and rely on formulaic indie sounds. How very original. How ‘so hard to beat’. Can you imagine something innovative like The Orb or The Chemical Brothers coming from Norn Iron? Could you imagine something progressive like Pink Floyd or avant-garde like Talking Heads originating from Ulster? Well, I certainly couldn’t. Tragically, Northern Ireland remains a cultural backwater where half of the population are still turned on to the sounds of the macho nonsense of loyalist bands who each compete to see who bangs their drums loudest. Half the population meanwhile dig the totally unfashionable, cringe-worthy Garth Brooks, Johnny Cash, and the Eagles, whilst sporting their Jack Sugden cheque shirts. Dear oh dear.

The youth scene remains mired in predictable indie sounds with no creativity, imagination, or original thinking – symbolic of Northern Ireland which culturally and historically follows trends instead of leading them. In terms of ‘yoof culture’, to suggest that the music or fashion of Ulster is ‘so hard to beat’ is plainly ludicrous.

DESERT ISLAND DISCS

Are celebrities really stupid or what? I mean, they are each allowed to take several records with them to a desert island, yet in their choice of luxury items, they don’t possess the good sense to take a record player with them. I mean, what is the point of opting for Radiohead’s ‘OK Computer’ if you subsequently fail to include an ipod or MP3 player amongst your luxury items?

As for me, if I was going to be stranded on an island in the desert, I would wish to have as a priority a flare gun so that I could fire distress signals. Mind you, in moments of distress my flare gun thus far doesn’t appear to have caught anybody’s attention. As a second choice of item, I would require a roll-on deodorant. It’s bound to be hot, sticky, and sweaty stuck in the middle of the desert. Unlike most celebrities, I feel the need for an item of personal hygiene because I’m hygiene conscious – conscious of the fact that I’m lacking in it.

As for discs, I would choose ‘Echoes’ by Pink Floyd, if only because it lasts almost twenty-five minutes. It would be tiresome to choose several three minute songs because ultimately they would be played repeatedly on a nauseatingly numerous scale. Mind you, in the absence of a record player, the disc that I would choose during my lone vigil in the desert would be ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, not because it is a great record, but because its cover artwork merits prolonged attention even if its hyped contents do not.

HORSES FOR COURSES

‘Horses for courses’ is one of my favourite phrases. I have occasion to recite it. For example, there have been periods in recent years when this loser was losing money, not to mention the will to live, and my well-intentioned family were suggesting all manner of occupations in a desperate attempt to rescue me from my slide into the abyss. However, although I actually respect each and every person who is able to perform jobs that I cannot, there simply are jobs that I refuse to entertain. No I don’t mean doing the washing up, or hoovering the carpet. Consequently, my family and I had a conflict of interests. They were interested in me working in any trade and I frankly was not.

I mean, could you imagine Tony Blair as a long-distance truck driver, David Cameron on a building site, Prince Charles as a milkman, or the Queen as a night-club disc jockey? Ultimately, we all have specific skills and few of us are a Jack of all trades, which brings me back to horses for courses. Again, can you imagine a twelve-year-old foxhunter competing in a five-furlong sprint or a two-year-old filly racing in a three mile steeplechase? Similarly, there are courses that this old horse isn’t fit for: namely working on a building site, or in a garage, or in an office, or in a bar, or in a warehouse, or in a shop, or in a bank – come to think of it: anywhere!

THE DEADLIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD

My favourite war story is of the killer German joke that resulted in the recipient reeling over in fits of laughter, before collapsing in a heap – in a heap of precisely what, I don’t know. I must strongly warn you that the joke that you are about to read has fatal consequences. I have seen its deadly effects for myself as I have sent several people to an early grave with it, and I am currently helping police with their enquiries. Anyhow here goes, so brace yourself for the joke that caused much loss of life in the Second World War: “Wenn ist das Nurnstuck git und slotermayer?” “Ja, es ist gespullt.” Whatever you do, don’t recite it to anyone – except perhaps your next door neighbour or your mother-in-law. Fortunately, as Eric Idol stated, “in 1945 peace broke out. It was the end of the joke.”

ANGELS

Do you believe in angels? My mother, God rest her soul (she’s still alive, but may God rest her soul nevertheless) recalls a story when on holiday in Switzerland with my terminally ill father, a man appeared from seemingly nowhere to help my Dad with one or two suitcases, and then this kind stranger just as quickly disappeared. Nobody is suggesting that this ‘angel’ vanished into thin air, but I too had an encouraging experience when, to paraphrase Blanche Dubois, I was able to ‘depend on the kindness of strangers’.

Foolish man that I am, I ran out of petrol about twenty miles from my destination of Belfast. However, I had no sooner parked my car by the side of the motorway than a passing motorist and his family offered me a lift to the nearest garage. By some peculiar fortune, we seemed to be as far away from a nearby petrol station as was humanly possible. I think that it took my helpers in the region of forty minutes to find a garage and return me with my petrol can to my car. Giving up a large chunk of their time at about nine on a Saturday evening was massive. If these residents of Carrickfergus who drove a silver Nissan are not angels, then who are?

IT’S A MIRACLE

Do you believe in miracles? Many times I have been in need of a miracle of some sort or another. I used to foolishly bemoan that miracles were only something that happened long, long ago in Capernaum or Jerusalem. However, if we look closer to home, in fact if we look in the mirror, we can see a miracle staring back at us. You see, humans are not machines that are purchased in a shop, complete with a box, to be brought out of the container and then plugged into the electricity mains. Nor are we battery-operated. We function by means of the most vastly intricate system of machinery contained within our bodies. Take such a vital organ as the heart. It keeps beating without fail, every second, minute and hour of the day, each day of every week of every month of every year for as many years as we dare to hope. Yes some hearts last longer than others, but have you ever stopped to consider that your heart could choose to stop at any moment. It’s almost a frightening thought, isn’t it?

Similarly there is something equally awesome about our consciousness. We go to bed, fall asleep and appear to be half-dead, and yet lo and behold several hours later we return to complete consciousness, ready yet again to confront the challenge of the day ahead. It’s remarkable how our mind can switch off and then on again. I could write a large volume about the complicated processes of the other vital organs. As for our legs, arms, fingers, feet, and mouth, isn’t it extraordinary how they are able to operate as we wish?

I have come to the awakening that my life (and yours too) is a miracle, not least in how we emerge from the womb and evolve from tiny little children into grown-up adults. So who or what is responsible for this phenomenal state of affairs? Well, I am more than ever satisfied that there is a God whose wonders are the very source of our existence. For all you God-deniers, what other possible explanation is there? Are you seriously telling me that a big bang has resulted in my body and yours functioning in the miraculous way that they do. No folks, there has to be a greater power providing the feat of engineering that has resulted in the creation and prolongation of the human race.

BEREAVEMENT

There is no manual or textbook that provides appropriate guidelines on how to cope with the enormous loss of a loved one. Responses after all vary from hysterics to morose behaviour, neither of which is good or bad, nor right or wrong. For everyone touched by the searing pain of bereavement, I would suggest the following two sources which in their own way act as an enormous comfort.

First of all, whatever misgivings many people may have about the Orange Order, the institution’s prayer for the bereaved is an excellent form of consolation. It runs something like this:

‘Grant O Lord to all who are bereaved the spirit and strength

That they might meet the days to come, not sorrowing as those without hope

But in thankful remembrance of Thy great goodness in past years

And in the sure expectation of a joyful reunion in the Heavenly places.’ Amen.

Secondly, I have always been struck by the reaction of King David to the loss of his wife Bathsheba. His entourage not unnaturally expected the king to be mired in the depths of anguish, and they were understandably anxious to avoid the king, lest they be subjected to any anticipated display of grief. Instead of which, David had a wash, put on his best clothes, emerged looking untouched by any personal tragedy and confidently explained to his startled onlookers that “she cannot come back to where I am. However, some day I will go to where she is.” Now that’s what I call faith!

BIBLE-BASHERS

I recently saw an episode of The Weakest Link where one particularly weak link expressed the hope that the person voted off in the next round would be the so-called “Bible-basher”. There is something nonsensical about the term ‘Bible-basher’, which just about sums up the anti-Christian bigots. They suggest that someone who has the cheek to quote from God’s written word is a ‘Bible-basher’. However, it is quite clear that any such well-intentioned soul is highlighting God’s word, and certainly not bashing it. After all, who bashes something that they respect? I mean, if someone liked to quote from the Communist Manifesto, would they qualify as a Marx-basher? Of course they wouldn’t. No it’s not people who dare to quote from God’s word who are bashing the Bible. It is instead those smart alecs who reject God’s word who are the real ‘Bible-bashers’.

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I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN”

My late father had been on his death-bed for several weeks, surpassing a previous medical prediction that he had about two weeks to live. There was no knowing when the end would come. I found myself having to return to work in England after a month of bedside vigils. It was with a heavy heart that I was abdicating any semblance of a duty of care to a loved one, but I had little option. When the Thursday morning came when I paid one last visit to the hospital before taking my leave of my Dad, it was potentially an emotional scene. As it transpired, my father chose precisely the perfect words for such a parting. It was almost as if he had given careful thought to what might be his final words to me and they have remained embedded in my consciousness ever since.

Having drawn closer to the Lord during his two-year struggle against terminal illness, Dad was able to elect a farewell that strikes a resonance with all Christians. He said, with calm confidence, “I’ll see you again.” I guess it is not far removed from the words of Jesus as He bade temporary farewell to His disciples and subsequently ascended into heaven. My Dad’s words always struck me as a remarkable declaration of faith, based on the likelihood of a heavenly reunion. After all, when one Christian leaves this temporary world and all its cares for the permanency of Paradise, then naturally he or she will bid a farewell couched in such positive terms. Christians don’t really believe in ‘goodbye’ because they anticipate a joyful reunion in eternity’s resting home. Therefore, my father’s words, “I’ll see you again” were not only inspiring but very much in keeping with a man confident about his eternal future.

HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE

With every day that passes, I am becoming more alienated and disenchanted with the rest of the people of Britain (and beyond).

Firstly, take the so-called ‘working’ class. I have grown to despise them. Your stereotypical working class alpha male or caveman, has to get his head shaven so that he can sport his ‘wee hard-man haircut’ to fit in with the hair fashion of his mates. He must also adorn tattoos to enhance his street credibility, while an ability to utter vulgarities in every spoken sentence is necessary too. When I approach two or three blokes on the pavement, busily engaged in yet another vacuous mobile phone conversation, I wonder if I can pass by without over-hearing a string of obscenities. I usually can’t. Throw in an enthusiasm for hard drinking and a passion for aggression and violence, not forgetting the need to read the obligatory tabloid trash, and voila you have your imperfectly formed, totally uninformed working class male cretin. Is it any small wonder that white working class men are regarded as the biggest under-achievers in our society? The very notion of trying to better themselves by reading a more informative newspaper or watching current affairs or nature documentaries would be anathema or too ‘cissy’ for these butch buffoons. Thus many Neanderthal tee-shirt wearers remain in the gutter, but they need not worry because there is an army of young clingy, desperate, insecure female admirers only too eager to fall for the ‘charms’ of these charm-less beasts. Ah yes, the working class deserve each other.

A step up from the white trash are the middle class – a thoroughly unhappy and mean-spirited lot. Just tell someone ten years ago that they would now be earning thirty thousand pounds or more per year and they would have been thrilled. Well, actually they aren’t. High earners look over their shoulders at their neighbours, work colleagues, and relatives, and the need to compete and achieve bragging rights is an absolute must. Therefore, if Mr and Mrs Well-Off are earning fifty thousand pounds per year, this counts for nothing if their suburban neighbours have completed an extension to their conservatory! Similarly, what good is earning forty thousand pounds per year if your wine-bar acquaintances are all buying up foreign properties in various places in the sun? Consequently, middle-class people plunge themselves into mountainous debts in a desperate attempt to maintain their place in the chasing pack of the rat race whilst spending their week-ends in shopping arcades on another outing of retail therapy. Added to this, middle class people are the most vocal in their opposition to rates increases, income tax, and anything which threatens their unquenchable thirst for more riches. Yes, the loathsome bourgeoisie remain as greedy and selfish as ever. Ultimately, if you are good to every person you meet, and you bring your children up to be good to everyone they meet, then this is the only bragging right you will ever need. Instead of which, the chattering class think that their suit, shirt, tie, big car, and power dressing affords them respect. Could I possibly respect any group of people less?

Well, the answer to that is yes. There remains the aristocracy and the new decadent aristocracy, namely celebrities, who all have more money than sense and who lavish one another as if they grow fifty pounds notes in their garden. I recently had the extreme misfortune of reading a horrible magazine extract in which Tara Palmer-Tomkinson recalled how she had had a bad day, so her friend Robbie Williams went and bought her an obscenely expensive watch to console her. Dear God, what planet are these people on? Are there any good, sane people out there, anywhere? I am afraid that I have to concur with Jean-Paul Sartre who stated that ‘l’enfer, c’est les autres.’

                                            APPLICATION FORMS
Application forms are an absolute drag. It seems that in some instances they are deliberately devised to deter people from completing them. An extensive application form with a multitude of questions to be scrutinised over is quite necessary for certain lofty positions or for public office. Otherwise, one frustratingly finds application forms that demand a plethora of irrelevant responses for jobs which are not particularly remarkable. I certainly have no sympathy for employers who ask downright stupid questions. I recently ‘applied’ for a role as an assistant manager in a Belfast wine shop, or off-license. One category included ‘Current Employment’, and perched immediately beneath was space for me to write my ‘reason for leaving’. Sorry, but if you are in current employment, then there cannot be a reason for leaving. I stated this in the appropriate space. Funnily enough, I wasn’t short-listed for an interview.
What is even more irksome are the silly questions, such as demanding the actual grades one achieved at the age of sixteen. How vastly different is my potential in the workplace if I attained a B grade in a geography GCSE instead of a mere C. The bottom line is that most employers don’t give a stuff what grades one achieved in GCSE biology or Spanish. These columns and questions on an application form, like much of the rest of the contents, are designed purely as an exercise in nosiness that bear no semblance of reality to the job vacancy. Application forms that demand information on everything, short of possibly shoe size or favourite colour, are an invasion of privacy and a thinly-disguised attempt to know one’s life story rather than ascertain a candidate’s worthiness as a potential employee.
Furthermore, organisations such as financial institutions that request your telephone number or email address don’t use this contact information, and one finds a mortgage application delayed because the would-be lender sends a second-class posted letter when a query needs to be addressed, even though they have access to your email address or telephone number. It is my humble estimation that tedious application forms are intended for information and intelligence-gathering. It would be perhaps more preferable if people volunteered to have their qualifications and employment history stored on a national database, thus sparing them the tedium of having to complete such sections in application forms, and thus enabling prospective employers to access this information before supplying dreadful application forms. We need to see the nonsense questions and irrelevant sections of application forms drastically curtailed in order to make them user-friendly for the poor wretches who are required to complete them.