Jubilee

And so, in the UK, the last bank holiday weekend of the first half of the year starts, and this year we get an extra day, in celebration of the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee.

There’s only one song to post to mark such a momentous occasion:

Blur – Jubilee

I say “there’s only one song”, but of course, I have some others (and count yourself lucky that I couldn’t think of an hour’s worth or this post would be appearing as a mix tomorrow night).

Let’s start with that image up top, HRH beamed onto Stonehenge. What is the fecking point of that? What are we trying to say? That she’s been on the throne so long she was around when those stones were put in place? That she was created by druids? That she looks particularly fine at the summer solstice? That she has lots of nice hats?

Regular readers will not be surprised to learn that, screaming lefty/woke snowflake (delete as applicable) that I am, I’m not exactly the biggest fan of the Royal family. Give me The Royle Family any day (Everton fans, I do not mean Joe Royle, although I’m sure they’re lovely).

Even if I was, I think I’d find it in rather poor taste that, as we go into a cost of living crisis, we’re – to use a phrase coined by our (at the time of writing) #CrimeMinister – “spaffing” millions of pounds up the wall to put on events up and down the country which even she can’t be bothered to turn up to is too old and unstable on her feet to attend. Of course, chuck in a few horses and Alan Titchmarsh and she’s up and out of bed faster than if somebody had wafted some gin in front of her sister.

Still, I suppose with street parties being thrown up and down the country, perhaps the pressure on food banks might be temporarily relieved…

The Housemartins – Flag Day

“It’s a waste of time if you know what they mean
Try shaking a box in front of the Queen
‘Cause her purse is fat and bursting at the seams
It’s a waste of time if you know what they mean.”

There is, of course, a Platinum Party At The Palace, and here’s who’s performing:

I suspect that HRH knows even fewer of those names than I do.

And frankly, with the exception of Elton (provided he’s not in Pub Singer mode) and Nile Rogers, I don’t think there’s anyone there that I’d change channels to watch either. (In case you were thinking of challenging me on this, I’ve seen Diana Ross before, and I’m not overly keen on repeating that…)

The Venn diagram, if I were to compose one, of Conservative voters/supporters of the #CrimeMinister, would doubtless show a large overlap where those that think he is doing a good job intersect with those who bloody love The Queen. Which is odd when you think back a few months and recall that he has had to apologise twice to Her Madge: firstly, for the ruddy great parties that were held in Downing Street on the eve of Prince Philip’s funeral, when he said: ““I deeply and bitterly regret that that happened…I can only renew my apologies both to Her Majesty and to the country for misjudgements that were made, and for which I take full responsibility.”

“Renew” is an interesting word there, because of course this was not the first time that he had to apologise to HRH; back in 2019 he apparently rang the Queen to personally apologise for embarrassing her after the Supreme Court ruled his prorogation of Parliament was unlawful.

He didn’t apologise for doing it, mind, oh no. He apologised for any embarrassment him doing it caused her.

What I’m saying is this: if you still support our #CrimeMinister and are celebrating the Platinum Jubilee, then congratulations. In psychology, this holding of two opposing ideas in your mind at the same time is known as cognitive dissonance. But to quote F. Scott Fitzgerald: “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless yet be determined to make them otherwise.”

Truly, you have “first-rate intelligence”, unfettered by logic or reason. Well done you.

So when over the weekend I will doubtless see footage of people waving Union Jack flags, dressed in Union Jack apparel and scoffing some sausage rolls at a street party as they cheer HRH, this song will be playing in my head:

The Housemartins – The People Who Grinned Themselves to Death

“The people who grinned themselves to death
Smiled so much they failed to take a breath
And even when their kids were starving
They all thought The Queen was charming.”

Earlier, I touched on the cost of these celebrations, and there is another point which you should consider here: it was only a matter of a few months ago that HRH reputedly paid £2 million ($2.7 million) so that Virginia Giuffre would drop her civil sexual assault case against non-sweaty poster boy for Pizza Express (Woking branch) Prince Andrew. Which, of course – same as Michael Jackson did with all those families claiming he was a a paedophile – one would do if he was totally innocent of all charges, as claimed…

The Smiths – Nowhere Fast

“I’d like to drop my trousers to The Queen
Every sensible child will know what this means
The poor and the needy are selfish and greedy on her terms.”

One song to go, and it’s an obvious one that I doubt I will be alone in posting today:

Sex Pistols – God Save The Queen

But with all that said, I’ll gladly take the extra day off work. In other words: Happy Platty Joobs, Ma’am.

More soon.

Christmas Eve Music Club

A couple of weeks ago, I had the dubious distinction of co-hosting this year’s Christmas Party at work.

This involved me and three others planning and then hosting the event, which got moved to an online virtual party a little more than a week before it was scheduled for, due to the latest Covid strain and the advice to avoid face-to-face meetings unless they were absolutely necessary. This meant a lot of frantic rewriting, but it all went well in the end, with remarkably few technical issues. I’ll maybe write some more about this later.

You won’t be surprised to learn that my main contribution with regards to content was a pop quiz, in the form of a Spot the Intro round. The organisers last year had done one about Christmas Number Ones, so I had planned to do one about Christmas Number Twos, mostly so that I could make a particularly lavatorial joke.

However, you’d be surprised how many records which were #2 in the UK charts on Christmas Day are not particularly Christmassy at all, so it got changed to The Not The Christmas Number One Quiz, which isn’t a particularly snappy title, I must confess.

I prepared 20 intros of Christmas records and invited the attendees to name the song, the artist, the year it was originally a hit, and what was actually #1 that Christmas.

This allowed we to slip in a few gags when delivering the answers: “That was Coldplay with Christmas Lights, setting the template for the soundtrack to every M&S advert since” and, my favourite, “From 2008, that’s It’s Christmas Time by Status Quo, which was kept off the #1 slot by Alexandra Burke’s Hallelujah. That, and 38 other records.”

Anyway, that put me in the mood for doing a Christmas mix, remembering that this time last year Christmas was cancelled and I posted a very long and defiantly un-Christmassy mix.

My brother is picking me up to go to be with our parents later today, so this mix is intended to be played on the journey over there (you’ve been warned, bruv!), and then when we arrive too. As such it’s geared towards Christmas Eve, travelling home, Santa visiting (and what the randy old dog gets up to when he does) and the hope that this Christmas is better than last year. It’s full of slightly obscure tunes and the occasional cover of a Christmas favourite. And you’ll be relieved to hear that, unlike most of my mixes, it’s only about an hour and a quarter long. There’s only so many jingling bells one can take.

The length doesn’t seem to have effected the occasional skip or jump (my usual disclaimer) but having listened to it through that shouldn’t spoil your enjoyment too much.

And yes, of course The Wedding Present and Status Quo (R.I.P. Rick) make appearances.

I’m having fun guessing at which song my father will try to work out how to turn the volume down a little, and when exactly my mother will ask just what on earth we’re listening to. I reckon if it’s not when Helen Love is covering Merry Christmas (I Don’t Wanna Fight) then it will certainly be when Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo makes his annual appearance. And so we’re back to Christmas #2s.

Here you go:

Xmas Eve Music Club

And here’s the tracklisting:

1. Saint Etienne – Driving Home For Christmas
2. Summer Camp – Christmas Wrapping
3. Low – Just Like Christmas
4. Cuckooland – Silver Bells
5. Charley Pride – Christmas In My Home Town
6. Bruce Springsteen – Santa Claus Is Coming To Town
7. George Jones – My Mom And Santa Claus
8. John Prine – I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
9. Bob Dylan – Must Be Santa
10. Girls Aloud – Not Tonight Santa
11. Eels – Everything’s Gonna Be Cool This Christmas
12. The Ronettes – Sleigh Ride
13. Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings – White Christmas
14. Joey Ramone – Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)
15. Helen Love – Merry Christmas (I Don’t Wanna Fight)
16. The Housemartins – Caravan of Love
17. Cocteau Twins – Frosty The Snowman
18. South Park – Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo
19. The Wedding Present – Step into Christmas
20. Fountains Of Wayne – I Want An Alien For Christmas
21. Shonen Knife – Space Christmas
22. Ash – I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday
23. Julian Casablancas – I Wish It Was Christmas Today
24. Status Quo – It’s Christmas Time
25. Darlene Love – Marshmallow World
26. Weezer – We Wish You A Merry Christmas

I haven’t had time to prepare anything else to post over the Christmas weekend, but I’ll probably be back before the New Year, so for now I’ll just wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

More soon.

Rant

I’m not sure at what point I became embarrassed or awkward to be associated with the English flag. If I wasn’t already, then that image above would have done it.

I know I’ve always been a bit embarrassed about the English National Anthem, which compared to other nations – Wales, say, or France, or Germany – is such a dirge. I remember watching An Audience with Billy Connolly back in the 80s, and thinking he had it spot on:

Although, over the years, I’ve come to think of this as a decent substitute (not necessarily this version, mind) although in the back if my mind there’s a good reason why it shouldn’t be this, which I can’t quite recall at the moment:

Fat Les – Jerusalem

Actually, if I’m totally honest, I’d much rather this was the National Anthem:

Fat Les – Vindaloo

But we’re not going down this route this morning, otherwise I’ll be talking about Keith Allen, his involvement with New Order’s World in Motion and then comparing it to Three Lions, and you’ve probably read articles discussing which is best 1000 times already this summer, and every summer a major football tournament is on.

No, I’m here to talk about the appropriation of the English flag by wrong ‘uns: your bully boys, your beer boys, your fat bald tattooed cheerleaders, your racists, your…dare I say it…Brexit voters, your Conservative MPs.

And so probably the first time I was aware of the bad connotations, of the gangs it was associated with, was when Morrissey flounced on stage back in 1992, at a gig where he was supporting Madness, who – much as we love them – have a higher than most ratio of skinhead fans, which I’m sure is in no way related to Suggs being a Chelsea fan.

I’ve never quite understood why that association survives; ska music is a perfect blend of cultures, tapping into reggae rhythms and often lyrically articulating the woes of the forgotten working classes, and yet still there they sit, the racist fuckwits, loving the music but utterly missing the point.

The sort of person who, for example, will claim to be cheering on the England team, but will boo the team’s decision to take the knee before games, in a show of unity against all forms of inequality:

When Morrissey came on stage at Finsbury Park that day, he was waving and wrapping himself in a St George’s flag, seemingly, it would seem, to provoke that small section of the Madness crowd. And he performed this song:

Morrissey – The National Front Disco

Now. If I were being kind, I’d say that is clearly written in the third person and is not necessarily representative of the writer’s views.

But.

There is no challenge to lines such as “England for the English”, or “You want the day to come sooner when you settle the score”; there’s no pay-off explaining these are hideous views to hold in these modern times.

And so people began to look back through his work, and found songs like Bengali in Platforms which includes the lyric: “Life is hard enough when you belong here”.

And to old interviews, when he was quoted as saying things like “All reggae music is vile.”

And because at the time he was the darling of the indie-world, nobody challenged him on these points.

Until that day in Finsbury Park, when, credit where credit’s due, the NME went: hang on a minute….something’s not right here.

And then, twenty odd years later, having stropped and refused to speak to certain publications, and protested his innocence – “My mother’s Irish, how could I be racist?” – he turns up on TV wearing a For Britain pin badge:

• 

For those unfamiliar with it, For Britain is a far-right political party. Even Nigel Farage believes it is made up of “Nazis and racists”.

But I haven’t come here to talk about Morrissey.

The English flag has become a focal point again, all because of not just our beer-swilling racist football fans, but because of things that members of our current Government have said.

Here’s Tory MP asking new director-general Tim Davie why the BBC’s annual report does not feature any images of the union jack:

Answer: because it’s a report, not a picture book.

Shortly afterwards came a whole slew of Conservative MPs being photographed or screen-grabbed from Zoom conferences, with the Union flag displayed proudly in the background.

Here’s Robert Jenrick MP in an interview with the BBC:

And here’s everyone’s favourite smirking bully Priti Patel in an interview with LBC:

And here’s…seriously, there’s loads of these, and the message they were supposed to send was clear: being a Conservative is your British duty. And if you don’t have a British flag, then you’re unpatriotic.

Around the same time, and amplified more recently, we heard new rhetoric, where various issues – the customs border between England and Northern Ireland, the issues with exporting sausages to Ireland, the problems our fishermen and farmers now face are all the EU’s fault.

That’s right: their fault for implementing the “oven-ready” deal Boris agreed and signed up to, either without reading and understanding it, or with no intention of upholding it – I’m not sure which is worse – just so he could add Prime Minister to his CV, along with the stuff about being sacked twice as a journalist for lying, for agreeing to help have someone beaten up, the infidelity and lies (of course he couldn’t sack Hancock for having an affair, this is the very stuff that we’re supposed to admire in Johnson) – the usual stuff one expects a PM to have hidden in his closet.

And then there is James Wallis.

Wallis is the Conservative MP for Bridgend in South Wales comprising mainly of farmers, Young Conservatives, young Conservative farmers, and slightly more dyed-in-the-wool Conservatives who have moved out of Cardiff because there are too many ‘ethnics’ there nowadays. On Thursday, Wallis stood up in the House of Commons with the notion of giving a rousing speech about the Union Jack. He began by bemoaning the “fact” that the Senedd (the Welsh Parliament) had banned the display of the Union Jack, which wasn’t strictly true: they have banned the display of all flags, not just the Union Jack.

He went on, dressed like this:

Out of shot: Union Jack socks and matching Y-Fronts.

He went on to say how despicable this untrue thing was, because people “across Wales are proud” to fly the Union Jack, which represents all four nations of Great Britain: England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and….oh….perhaps just three then. His speech stumbled to a halt and he sat down again.

Some flag songs:

The Housemartins – Flag Day

British Sea Power – Waving Flags

Remember how we used to be able to spot Donald Trump dog-whistling the lowest common denominator from his following, calling them into action? Remember how we laughed and said that couldn’t happen here?

Well, that’s exactly what this sabre-rattling, flag-promoting is, a call to arms for those thick enough to follow, but a little more subtle and easier to say “Who me? I never started this” afterwards.

Just ask Chris Whitty.

More soon.

Rant

I’m not going to attempt to defend the actions of Martin Bashir in securing that infamous interview with Princess Diana twenty five years ago. He hasn’t, so I see no reason why I should.

What I would say is this: the idea that this interview led to her death two years later seems to me to be stretching a point a little too far. At the time, we all knew the marriage was an unhappy one. We also knew that Charles had continued his affair with Camilla for some time. There has always been doubt about the identity of Harry’s father. Frankly, it was only a matter of time before the marriage collapsed allowing both parties to hook up with whomever they chose to.

I understand and empathise with where Princes William and Harry (is he still a Prince now?) are coming from, with their statements and interviews about how the BBC are culpable. They’ve been fighting against press and media intrusion ever since their mother died, and rightly so.

The release of the Dyson report into the interview and how it was procured, along with the subsequent BBC Panorama programme which aired on Thursday night, gives them the scapegoat they so desperately need. Let them have their moment complaining about the way the BBC went about things back then: twenty five years have passed, none of the people involved are anywhere near the BBC anymore.

But what it also does is add more weight to the Government’s argument that Auntie needs reform, and by reform they mean never criticising them.

It always annoys me whenever I see some right-winger complain about left wing bias at the Beeb, for at the same time there is usually an opposing voice complaining about it being too right wing. And to my eyes, that means that the BBC must, generally, be getting the balance right: it simply isn’t possible for both viewpoints to be correct, so it must be the case that both left and right are getting equal coverage and criticism.

That said, the BBC’s political editor, Laura Kuenssberg, is generally perceived as a conduit to all things Tory. But for every Kuenssberg at the BBC there is at least one other journalist with the opposite political leaning; the problem is that the BBC are so scared of riling the Tories and being reformed they rarely dare let these voices bubble to the top.

What sticks in my throat is the way that the printed media has seized upon this, attacking the BBC, like they had absolutely nothing to do with Diana’s death. “It wasn’t us that chased her in cars and on motorcycles through Paris to her death, desperate for a snap with her and her current beau (not that any of them will mention this, of course), it was them bastards over at the BBC what done it.”

The Housemartins – Freedom (Janice Long 6/1/85)

(Purists: Yes, I know that version isn’t on the Live at the BBC album, it’s on the Deluxe Edition of London 0 Hull 4, but posting a BBC session version was too delicious a prospect for me to resist and I needed a cover pic.)

Of course, our glorious leader was quick off the mark to criticise the BBC (dressed in what appeared to be a costume at best, his pyjamas at worst, with the words Prime Minister sewn into the breast, like a weird boy scout badge he’d earned; it may as well have said “Done a big boy’s wee” for all the gravitas it afforded him), stating that he hoped there were lessons the corporation would learn from the report.

Which, if you know his history, is a bit rich. For this Boris lecturing the BBC on journalistic standards, is the same Boris who, in his pre-political career, was sacked from his job at The Times over allegations he fabricated a quote from the historian Colin Lucas, for a front-page article about the discovery of Edward II’s Rose Palace.

After being escorted from the building at The Times, Johnson moved to The Daily Telegraph, where he worked as the publication’s Brussels correspondent between 1989 and 1994. It was here that he penned many of the “Euromyths” which entered into common parlance, including plans to establish a “banana police force” to regulate the shape of the curved yellow fruit, and the introduction of a ban prawn cocktail crisps, since they contained neither prawn nor cocktail in their ingredients. None of which were true, of course.

What the Dyson report does is to allow the Government to indulge in a bit of deflection. I’ve written before about the dead cat scenario, where, in times of trouble, a government or ruling body will say or do something so utterly strange as to make that the talk of the tabloids rather then the thing they were (probably) about to write about. This, however, doesn’t qualify for such a description, it doesn’t even qualify for “what-about-ery”, where one acknowledges something bad has happened but asks you to look at something if not worse then equally controversial instead (Example: “Yes, Labour did very well in Wales in the latest by-elections, but have you seen what happened in Hartlepool?”*).

No, the Dyson report comes at an absolutely perfect moment to allow the Government to move attention away from another report which was due to be released this week, but was blocked by your friend and nobody else’s, Priti Patel.

This report took an independent body eight years to complete, and looked into the private detective Daniel Morgan in 1987, who was found dead in a south London car park with an axe embedded in his head, and the subsequent botched attempts to solve his murder. No one has ever been convicted of his murder, but interestingly key suspects are alleged to have close ties to News International, and police investigations are thought to have been deliberately ineffective.

In case you’re unaware, News International is the company owned by Rupert Murdoch, under which such luminaries as The Sun, The Times and, at one time News of the World were published. You will doubtless recall the Levison enquiry, which found evidence of links between the press, the police and the Government, and which was supposed to have a second leg of the report until that was also shelved by the Conservative government. A bit like the report into Russian collusion into our elections, which was finally released in July 2020, albeit redacted to within an inch of its life.

But this report was looking at something far more sinister than phone-tapping: it was considering whether News International and the Metropolitan Police were complicit in actual murder.

Now what on earth could cause Patel – who has read the report – and who is part of a Government for whom Murdoch and News International are established cheerleaders – to react in such a way?

Morrissey – Hold On To Your Friends

There’s also the small matter of the investigation into corruption and cronyism with the award of billions of pounds of contracts to companies with no experience or means to produce PPE items, which is going to happen, but not for another year, and even then Johnson will have the final say as to whether the findings should be made public or not.

It’s depressing, isn’t it? The way this Government is lining the pockets of their BFFs (and probably their own – there has to be something in it for them, right?) and yet certain pockets of our society see that and think: “Boris is funny and has funny hair. I’ll vote for his lot again”.

So perhaps we need a moment of levity, and thank the Lord, here to provide it is none other than oily snakeskin and pipedream salesman Nigel Farage.

For it emerged this week that good old honest pint drinking and self-proclaimed Fisherman’s Friend Nigel is currently touring America, giving talks to theatres he expected to be packed with Trump devotees, about how he is “Mr Brexit” – not exactly what I’d call him, to be honest – and how successful a politician he is *coughs*. It’s a self-congratulatory lap of honour of a slippery conman. Presumably his teleprompter at the speeches doesn’t scroll on as far as to mention the seven times he stood for election as an MP and was defeated, and definitely not far enough to reveal that on one of those occasions he was beaten by a man dressed as a dolphin.

And, thanks in no small part to national treasure and lead singer of The Charlatans Tim Burgess, the first night of Farage’s tour was a sell out. The problem was, that only 21 people actually turned up; it later transpired that of those, 6 were part of Farage’s group, and one was Farage himself, who had to deliver his speech to an auditorium designed for 3000 people but which actually contained just 14 people.

See, for once, Farage wasn’t looking to make money from the actual tickets – doubtless there was some merch available though: a pipe, a beer tankard with a frog’s face on it, a burning cross, you know the sort of thing – for he had made tickets free.

Cue Tim:

The Charlatans – Weirdo

And my, how the (mostly) British public reacted:

Just glorious.

Which seems to answer the question raised in this song:

Heart – Alone

More soon.

*What happened in Hartlepool was this: Labour lost their seat for the first time since it was created. General consensus though, obtained via vox pops and exit polls, was that the good people of Hartlepool voted Conservative because they wanted change, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the very people they were voting in to bring change, just happened to be the same people who have been in power for the past eleven years. No wonder they hung that monkey.

Sounding Off on Saturday

Well, what a week. Where to start…?

Well, on Sunday, The Queen addressed the nation. 24 million people watched.

I wasn’t one of them. Not a big fan of the Royals, me.

I want to make it perfectly clear that, having read the transcript of her message, I have no problem with it. (This is merely an opening clause, bear with me.)

Turns out I didn’t need to watch it, because both the mainstream and social media were all over this. It was a timely reminder, it seems, on a weekend when various parks were closed because people weren’t using them in line with the current rules.

The current rules are not complicated: the parks – presently – are there for people to get their daily permitted exercise, provided they socially distance themselves from others doing the same thing.

So, if you decided to go and have a picnic or sunbathe: you’re a dick and you’ve spoiled it for everybody.

Speaking of dicks, later that evening it was announced that Boris Johnson had been admitted to hospital with the coronavirus. And suddenly, my timeline on Twitter was awash with people wishing him well, hoping and praying for a speedy recovery.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish the man dead. But this is the same man who only weeks ago was boasting about visiting hospitals and shaking hands with coronavirus sufferers, willy-wanging about how he wouldn’t stop doing this; who implemented a plan of allowing the virus to spread through the country so that we could develop “herd immunity”.

A policy which leads us here, to where we are today (I’m writing this on Friday, so this will have changed in the interim), with 65,077 confirmed cases, of which 7,978 have died.

I’m not claiming that all of those deaths were avoidable, but some of them definitely were.

And then we were asked to #clapforBoris, a most unfortunate hashtag, given his legendary if unfathomable reputation as a pork swordsman.

I don’t know of anyone who did this; the only footage I’ve seen was on The Telegraph website, depicting folks clapping and cheering, which turned out to have been filmed two weeks earlier, actually depicting folks clapping and cheering the NHS.

So, no: I don’t wish Boris dead. But I’m definitely not going to applaud the venereal old warthog, and I certainly wouldn’t shed a tear if he died as a result.

Oh no, wait: maybe there would be some tears, because it seems that if Boris did croak, Dominic Raab would be in charge.

That’s Dominic Raab, he of restricted understanding, who announced that he didn’t fully understand that the UK is an island, that Dover is a port, and that France is our nearest trading partner.

There’s so much to say about how thick Raab is, but I’ll let the master of takedowns do it:

Anyway, in Boris’ enforced absence, Raab has been hosting the daily updates, and – credit where credit’s due – has been championing the work of our keyworkers, the NHS staff on the frontline.

Have they got proper PPE yet? Or enough ventilators? I’m not sure. Probably not. But champion them he did.

Many of them the very people that Priti Patel wants to have removed from the country.

Ah, Priti Patel. I should add something about all that the Home Secretary has said or done in the past few weeks, but she hasn’t been seen for ages. Just what you need at a moment of national crisis. But as I write this, she seems to have re-emerged, giving a speech about how the police should just chill out a bit.

And then there’s Matt Hancock. Matt Hancock is such a mouth-breather I’m surpised he isn’t hoovering up all the Covid-19 droplets on his own. In a “Who looks the most gormless?” competition, he would potentially only be beaten by former snooker player Neil Foulds. Or Baldrick.

Schnozzeling up all the bad droplets would be a good thing here: we already know he has super-human qualities, given that he self-isolated for just three days – in direct contravention of the Government’s policy – after he began displaying some of the virus related symptoms.

But anyway, Hancock popped up at the start of the week moaning about how much professional footballers are paid, and saying that they should be contributing more to help the NHS.

Now I don’t disagree that professional footballers are paid way too much, but – Thatcherites take note – the market is what the market is. But they’re a bit of an eaasy target here. Why single them out and ignore…oh, just off the top of my head…Google, Amazon, Starbucks and Vodafone, all of whom avoid paying billions into the public coffers, or any of the billionaires who donate to the Conservative party? It seems spectacularly selective at best.

And let’s not forget that Hancock also said this week that now is not the time discuss increasing health workers’ pay. Actually, now is exactly the right time to discuss it. And this was particularly rich, given that MPs were told they could claim an additional £10,000 in expenses for working from home. I’ve been working from home for almost three weeks, where’s my extra ten grand?

Which brings me back to Our Liz. (See? I told you to bear with me.)

Why is the Royal Family not taking a hit here? The monarchy cost British taxpayers £67m during 2018-19, a 41% increase on the previous financial year.

They won’t be travelling abroad much, if at all, in 2020. There’s a saving there, right?

Two of them, and their child, have just renounced their position, moved to Canada and been told they will no longer receive payouts from the public purse. So what’s happening to that money?

And is Prince Andrew still getting his full whack, despite everything? I know his birthday party was cancelled, bless him – there was a balloon sculptor booked and that’s his favourite – but are we still funding the (alleged) paedophile? Is Woking branch of Pizza Express that close to bankruptcy we have to make sure he can visit there as often as possible?

But they bring in so much revenue through tourists, is the usual defence that gets trotted out in such arguments. Not this year, they won’t.

We should be getting some money back off them, surely?

So forgive me if, when I read the words of the Queen’s broadcast to the nation, where she evokes the Blitz spirit, and asks us all to come together and act appropriately to overcome the common enemy, and then I read how wonderful her speech was received, I just think of this.

Play the tune, Paul:

The Housemartins – The People Who Grinned Themselves to Death

More soon.

Tuesday Short Song

Mental note to self: if you’re going to start a new series, best not to do it just before Christmas, New Year and when the January Blues kick in.

To make up for that, three songs for the price of one, all by the same band, all instrumentals, one of which encouraged me to play my guitar faster and more janglier than I had before, and at least two of which persuaded me to liberate my Dad’s harmonica, learn to play both songs on it, and then manage to lose it somewhere. I don’t know where. If I did then it wouldn’t be lost, would it?

First up, this from their much loved debut album, it’s only The (ruddy) Housemartins:

The Housemartins – Reverends Revenge

And then there’s this, a B-side to the mighty Happy Hour single, which I was delighted to inherit the 12″ of from my brother a couple of years ago:

The Housemartins – The Mighty Ship

And then there’s this, which crops up on the B-side of their Think For a Minute single:

The Housemartins – Who Needs The Limelight

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Housemartins: truly the kings of tunes you could squeeze on the end of a mixtape.

More soon. Next week, even.

Rant O’Clock

You may have missed this, but last week UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson insisted that “…Melton Mowbray pork pies, which are sold in Thailand and in Iceland, are currently unable to enter the US market because of, I don’t know, some sort of Food and Drug Administration restriction.”

The thing is, Melton Mowbray pork pies are not sold in Thailand and Iceland, as confirmed by The Melton Mowbray Pork Pie Association, who probably know what they’re talking about.

The pie currently holds EU protected status, which means that only 10 manufacturers can legitimately claim to produce the most famous of pork pies. Ironically, this protected status will, in all likelihood, be lost if the UK leaves the EU without a deal, leaving the door open for any number of non-UK manufacturers to claim they are the real purveyors of pastry products whilst actually making piss poor parodies of the pork pie, and thereby increase the risk of job losses within our own proud ground pork industry.

“Why are you talking about pork pies, Jez?” I hear you ask. I bet you’re thinking it’s just an excuse to post this:

Well, you’d be wrong.

It’s because, deliciously, Johnson had been caught telling pork pies about pork pies.

Question: How can you tell when Boris Johnson is telling a lie?

Answer: His lips are moving.

As I write this, our undemocratically elected Prime Minister Boris Johnson (remember when Brexit was all about standing up to those pesky, supposedly undemocratically elected EU ministers?) has stepped out of No 10 to make an annoucement, which had widely been expected to be that he was calling an election.

Of course, he said the opposite, and that he really, really doesn’t want to have an election. No: what he wants is to either be able to negotiate a new deal for Brexit with the EU, or failing that, to leave on October 31st without a deal.

That would be a different deal to the one which he voted in favour of at the third time of asking, by the way.

I think what he wants is a little more complicated than that, though.

What I don’t think he wants is to go down in the history books as the Prime Minister who took the UK out of the EU without a deal, because deep down he knows just how catastrophic that would be for our economy.

And how do we know that a No Deal Brexit is going to be catastrophic? Because today the Goverment launched its campaign to get us all ready to leave the EU at the end of October. It’s called Get Ready for Brexit and is reportedly costing the taxpayer around £100 million. That’s roughly double what the National Lottery spends on advertising in a whole year. Call me a cynic, but you don’t spend that kind of money on something which is going to be as great as leaving the EU was described to us as being in the build-up to the referendum.

The Housemartins – People Get Ready

For example: you’ll recall how former Brexit Minister Dominic Raab was derided for failing to understand the importance of the Dover-Calais crossing? Well, his replacement, Steve Barclay doesn’t seem to be that clued-up either: just last week he tweeted this:

Good idea Steve! Best to do it now, with two months left until the deadline, rather than, say, at any other time in the last three years!

It’s not just the Dover-Calais border which is going to be problematic post-Brexit, of course. The main bone of contention, of course, remains the Irish border, where the back-stop is written into the Withdrawal Agreement which Theresa May failed to get through Parliament on three not-very-different-really occasions: Johnson wants it scrapped, but the EU insist that there must be something in place to maintain the integrity of the Republic of Ireland, who will not be leaving the EU anytime soon

The Sunshine Underground – Borders

Johnson insists that he has several viable alternatives up his sleeve – I actually saw one (not credited to Johnson, I must admit) which suggested that the Republic of Ireland should temporarily give up its EU status so that no border checks are required, like the problem was all their making – and he told EU leaders as much when he did a flying visit last week, along with his attendance at the G7 summit. Their unified response was: “Okay, let’s hear them then”. Given that most of these have already been suggested, and dismissed as unworkable, I think we can understand their scepticism.

Nothing has been forthcoming as yet.

So what we have here is the biggest game of chicken you can imagine; Boris doesn’t want us to leave on No Deal, but he believes that to have any kind of leverage with the EU, he has to make them think that we are prepared to walk away without a deal, and that as a result they will make concessions. It’s a case of who’s going to blink first.

But it isn’t simply a case of staring down the EU, for there is – at last – some cross-party unity in trying to prevent the UK leaving the EU without a deal, and there can be little doubt that blocking them was the reason that Boris got the consent from Her Maj last week to close down (prorogue) Parliament in an effort to shut down any opposition to the UK leaving the EU without a deal.

Don’t forget, that after the recent by-election in Brecon, the Conservative Party has a majority of just one, so he cannot afford any dissention amongst the ranks.

Obviously he didn’t say that was the reason for doing it (although he inadvertently alluded to it a day or so afterwards), because to openly admit it would be accepting that, having banged the drum in the build-up to the EU Referendum in 2016, citing “taking back control” of our sovereign Parliament as one of the main reasons for leaving, it would be rather inconsistent to then close Parliament to prevent it doing the job he claimed he wanted it to do.

It was interesting to note that certain Conservative MPs – Gove, Rudd, Javid, Hancock, Leadsom, Truss, Morgan – who, in the race to become leader of the Tory party, or since, had all been quite out-spoken against and critical about the idea of proroguing Parliament, now, satisfactorily bribed with positions within the Cabinet, were suddenly unavailable to do any press interviews.

Eddie Mair invited the seven Cabinet ministers who previously criticised the proroguing of parliament on to his show, but all seven refused. So how was he going to fill that time? 😂😂😂@eddiemair | #Prorogation pic.twitter.com/4YDprgsrZu

— LBC (@LBC) August 30, 2019

I do love someone who uses pop records to make a point. It’ll never catch on though.

What I think Johnson massively underestimated was the outrage which prorogueing Parliament provoked across the country, and the determination of those MPs who wish to prevent No Deal are. For just because Parliament isn’t sitting, there is nothing preventing them from meeting elsewhere, which is exactly what I have read they are doing, the resourceful little scamps.

Over the weekend, there were whispers and rumours that any Conservative MP who rebelled against the Goverment by voting against them would have the whip withdrawn; in other words in the event of an election, they would not be permitted to stand as Conservative MPs. Instead, they would be replaced by a candidate who is fully on board with the party’s position.

And this tells us a lot. It reminds us that all of this has never really been about the EU, that’s just the backdrop against which all of this has been played. It’s never really been about curtailing immigration either, as there’s been nothing stopping us doing so for years had the inclination been there – certainly nothing the EU is insisting on anyway – our governments simply haven’t bothered to implement the rules which the EU have introduced. It hasn’t even been about dodging the EU laws to close tax-avoiding loop holes, although that’s certainly a benefit the likes of Jacob Rees Mogg would enjoy.

No, all of this has been about the survival of the Conservative Party, firstly in the face of the challenge from UKIP which led to then-Prime Minister David Cameron (who, allegedly, also had a somewhat unsavoury relationship with pork), and now it is about the challenge from the party which has replaced UKIP, The Brexit Party, led by the same (self-appointed, undemocratically elected to the position of party leader) foe, Nigel Farage.

It’s not just the EU that Boris is trying to out-stare: it’s the whole of the British electorate, or, more specifically, those who are likely to switch from voting Tory to Brexit Party. He needs them to think that his position on the EU is the same if not stronger than theirs, which he hopes will nix any allegiance swapping ideas those pesky pensioners might be having.

And that’s why I think we’re probably going to have an election before the 31st October, whilst Johnson can still maintain the facade that he wants No Deal, and whilst he can point the finger elsewhere: he’s told us he doesn’t want an election and now, if the cross-party conglomerate are succesful in blocking No Deal before Parliament closes, then the finger can be pointed squarely at them.

Whatever happens next, the sad thing is that it’s too late to put all of the division, the hatred, the racism which Brexit has unquestionably stirred up back in the box.

Blondie – Island of Lost Souls

The Adventures – Broken Land

More soon. Undoubtedly.

A Surprise Discharge

There’s not much more to tell you about my time in hospital, or rather there’s very little left that I can wring a bit of humour and/or a tune or two out of. So I’m going to rattle through the rest of the incidents of note and wrap things up.

Firstly, there’s something I omitted to tell you; in between the nurse’s call to my folks and them walking in on me mid-grease, there is some news as to what exactly I’m still doing there.

The nursing staff remain concerned about my vomiting episode. It is thought that I may have a tear ‘somewhere’ which has led to any liquid I’ve consumed to fall into places not intended to store liquid (you’ll let me know if I get too technical, won’t you?). I am to remain on a water only diet for the time being.

Added to that, and more definitively, on a couple of occasions, it has been observed that I get short of breath rather easily. Test results are now back in and I am told I have a pulmonary embolism, which is a blood-clot on my (left) lung to you and me. As a result, I am placed on a oxygen mask, which makes talking to my parents when they visit rather difficult.

Radiohead – My Iron Lung

For the record, I am not placed on an iron lung, but this post needs breaking up a little bit and I can’t think of any other songs which are even vaguely appropriate.

Although, maybe this:

The Sweet – Love is Like Oxygen

or perhaps..

JJ72 – Oxygen

In other news, in a conversation with one of the consultants, I am told that my “sepsis is now under control”. This is a condition which has never been mentioned before and doesn’t crop up again; I assume at the time it is to do with the alarm over my blood tests which first led me to hospital, but it is also omitted from my discharge report.

However, a little research tells me that sepsis is not necessarily, as I thought, a blood problem, it’s a serious complication of an infection, which, if untreated, can lead to multiple organ failure and death. Not so funny anymore, right?

Symptoms of sepsis include:

– a high temperature

– chills and shivering

– fast heartbeat

– fast breathing

…all of which I have presented with or complained about at some point during my admission and stay in hospital.

Although it’s not specifically mentioned in my discharge papers, it seems pretty clear to me that the alarm the hospital showed when they got my blood tests back just before I was admitted was because I probably had sepsis due to the pulmonary embolism.

(After I’m discharged, I go to stay with my parents for a week or so, to convalesce. During that time, various family members visit me, including an aunt who for many years was a nurse, and whose opinion is gratefully received. She reads my discharge papers, and mentions that it was a pulmonary embolism that killed my grandmother. Later, she sends me a message where she mentions me having had a “near-death experience.” I show it to my mother, and flippantly comment that she’s exaggerating things a tad. “No,” says my mother, “I don’t think you realise how serious things were.” Having done the research, I get it now.)

No clever song for this bit, so you can let it sink in just as I did.

Oh ok, maybe one:

The Housemartins – Think For A Minute

For the rest of the week,  friends visit: Hel, Kay and Ian on Monday; Richie on Tuesday, Jo on Wednesday. It’s absolutely love to see them, to know friends are true friends concerned for my well-being (that’s not to sound like I’m dissing those who didn’t visit; I got texts from everyone who knew I was in hospital asking how I’m doing and wishing me well). I am snowed under with fruit, magazines, books and an ipod charger.

This last thing is essential as by Monday evening I’ve decided that the in-house entertainment leaves a lot to be desired. There is a television in my room, attached to one of those moveable crane-arms. But here’s the thing: you can only watch the terrestial channels (which is fair enough, I suppose a Sky subscription is a little too much to ask of a cash-strapped NHS), and you can only watch those between 7am and midday.

My morning routine now includes being woken and the lubed up, catching the end of the BBC’s Breakfast show (I’m ill, but not so ill that I’d choose to watch Piers Morgan on ITV), followed by a progam about celebrities tracing family members who fought in the First World War, followed by Homes Under The Hammer (seriously: what is former Manchester United striker Dion Dublin doing on that show?), followed by the first fifteen minutes of some sort of ‘criminals caught on CCTV’ show, hosted by short-arse slaphead do-gooder Dom Littlewood, and then the screen is filled with a message asking me to purchase credits if I wish to keep watching.

I pay my TV licence, and I pay my National Insurance contributions, so I feel a little put out by this demand. I decide I’m not sufficiently obsessed with Bargain Hunt or Flog It! to pay for (what I consider to be) a third time for the privilege of watching them. Thankfully, the radio is free, but none of the digital channels are provided as options. No 6Music then. I end up listening to Radio 2 from mid-day onwards, to idiots calling in to Jeremy Vine, and then Steve Wright, who I find hasn’t changed since the last time I listened to his show, around thirty years ago on the bus home from sixth form (this is not a recommendation).

Alarmingly, repeated exposure means I find myself quite liking the new Michael Buble single. Ipod it is then.

Over the course of the week, I have some physiotherapy, designed to help me walk better again. This is more because I have been laid up and have not actually used my legs for days, rather than addressing the pain, loss of strength and grip in both my hands. But still, on the second session, I progress from standing and walking from my bed to the door, to completing a circuit of the hosiptal floor.

R.E.M. – We Walk

Helen Shapiro – Walkin’ Back to Happiness

On the Wednesday morning, I go to have a scan on my left arm, to see whether or not I have a blood clot there too. As I am wheeled out of my room, my physiotherapist happens to stroll by. He tells me that he probably won’t come to see me again today (as we had arranged) but he would definitely be back before I am discharged. He gives me the impression this is not going to be soon, that there’s no real rush, and that I’ll be here until the weekend at least.

Back in my room, I’m visited by a consultant who rather sheepishly tells me that they may have lost the results of the biopsies they did the week before. I think she is expecting me to kick off, but it’s not in my nature.

“Ah well, these things happen,” I say. “So you’ll need to do them again, I suppose?”

She looks at me, somewhat surprised.

“If we can’t find them, yes. We have got somebody going through all of the results trying to find them, though. I must say,” she adds,”you’re taking this very well.”

“Well, what’s the point in getting angry about it?” I reason. “It’s not going to make the results magic themselves back into existence. It’s an admin error, as far as I’m concerned, and I’m always blaming admin for things going missing at work, so I can’t really complain when I’m on the receiving end, can I?”

But the following day, before I can have any more physiotherapy, or find out whether my biopsy results have been located, I am told I am to be discharged. Given everything that has been said or alluded to previously, this comes as a bit of a surprise. But several hours later, after a lot of paperwork is completed (the discharge report lists not just the pulmonary embolism and the vomiting event, but also tells me I had pneumonia in my right lung. As far as I can recall, this is the first time this has been mentioned during my stay. I am given a load of medication and creams and strict instructions about how to use at least one of them, and then I am waiting outside for a taxi.

Simon & Garfunkel – Homeward Bound

And that’s it.

But.

I can’t leave it hanging there, so let’s rewind a few days.

It’s just after my first session that my physiotherapist suggests the catheter should be removed so that I can build my strength up by actually having to get out of bed to go to the toilet. The day before, I had summoned the nurse and advised her that having not had a bowel movement of the solid variety for several days, the urge was now not quite overhwelming or urgent, but certainly imminent. She provides me with a bedpan, offers to help me position myself upon it (“No thanks!”) and then leaves me to my own devices.

I climb on board.

Have you ever tried to use a bed-pan? It’s really difficult. For although you know that everything is in place to catch whatever emerges, your mind remains resolute.

“You learned a long time ago”, it says, “that having a shit in your bed really isn’t the done thing.” I’m not Spud from Trainspotting, for God’s sake. I have control.

And so my body resists, and I have to ease myself back off the bed-pan and admit defeat, mission unaccomplished, .

The next day the catheter is removed. Just so you know, it hurt more coming out that it did going in. Ouchies.

And the combination of these two events (the failure to crap, and the begrudging knowledge that I now have to get up to pee) leaves me with a song in my head, the title of which explains my thought process now I have to actually get up to perfom my daily ablutions in a normal way:

Slim Whitman – I’ll Never Pass This Way Again

More soon.

Ba Ba Ba Ba-Ba Ba Ba Ba

Every Monday morning, I post a get-up-and-go tune, selected to help you, well, get up and go.

Because almost without fail, this is how I feel at around 7am every Monday:

The Housemartins – We’re Not Deep

More soon.

The Election Section V2.9

A change of plan, a Dubious Taste U-Turn if you like.

Instead of presenting “an overview of what the main parties are offering” – what’s the point? You all know what I’m going to say – just a few songs which sum things up for me:

The Housemartins – Sheep

Billy Bragg – Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

The Redskins – Keep on Keepin’ On!

The Style Council – Walls Come Tumbling Down

Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine – The Impossible Dream

Oh and this:

More soon.