Sorry Mr. X but you are over-qualified, have too much experience, live in the wrong country, look a little left-wing, voted the wrong way in the last election, support the wrong football team...
etc etc.
When you are on the other side of the world, the things that you took for granted take on a different importance, the things you'd forgotten come crashing back and the things that you love amplify themselves to a fever pitch! However, not everything is beautiful, not everything is great and not everything can be forgiven. Such is the life of a Flâneur...
Sorry Mr. X but you are over-qualified, have too much experience, live in the wrong country, look a little left-wing, voted the wrong way in the last election, support the wrong football team...
etc etc.
Having spent the majority of life in media, I'm looking at broadening my horizons. Current roles I'm looking at (in no order of preference).
Pros
Welcome to 2025, a bright new year. One full of hope, promise and opportunity or so I am told. However, I suspect it is easier to think of a new year in such terms when you have a little security (i.e. when you have a job).
I had a job but now I don't. My position was made redundant in the face of some tough economic conditions, I don't blame my former employers, in fact I would have done the same (maybe even earlier). The fact that I knew it was on the cards, meant that I've been looking for a new role for a few months. The problem is... my age.
I'm now of the age where I have to delete it from my CV and condense my early experience to avoid revealing the fact I was already working when Margaret Thatcher came to power. So, the chance of landing an age (and salary by experience) appropriate job is going to prove a challenge.
Anyway, I'll keep you posted, in between redrafting my CV, bodging covering letters and contemplating which petty white collar crime will cover my rent on a monthly basis.
And so that was 2024.
Thank you so much for continuing to visit this site.
I'll be back, for as long as I can in 2025.
X
the kitchen floor needs a wash…
Ah, that’s where the butter knife got to.
I really must fix the light in the fridge
when I get a chance.
Was it crispbread or was it Ryvita?
The stuff that gets stuck in the teeth and roughs up the tongue.
Moonlight enters
I reckon I can make it
to the bathroom – if
I pace myself
when I get a chance.
A multi-coloured ice lolly.
Dripping down wooden stick onto small tanned hand, in shade of Princes Park Cafeteria.
Backlit
a quiet life
betrayal, exhaustion
another misstep
will I get a chance.
I was supposed to meet you.
By Eros, Piccadilly and I forgot, you’d travelled up from Shrewsbury
Neon bounces off
Rain clouds in distance
Night temperature falls
Traffic fades
I never stood a chance.
We weren't the Wrecking Crew, Old Town Tooled up Mob, Bunch of Nutters, Beachy Headcases, South Coast Psycho Gang, The Crumbles Rumble Squad or even The Sussex Naughty Boys! We were simply loyal supporters on our way to see our team (albeit in 'enemy territory').
Truth be told thought, we were just out for a pie, a pint & hopefully 3 points! And remarkably we carried on like this for a few years, a little rowdy now and then (especially the time we headed up to Old Trafford under the guise of Jaap Stamm's Transit Van Gang) but we never threw a punch or copped a hiding.
Not even the time a Man City crew attached themselves to our party and offered to show us round Manchester... that was a close call!
However, it all went smoothly until Mr White joined our happily little band of travellers.
He started turning up to the bigger games (notably a Cup Semi-final at Villa Park). He'd loiter at the back of the Executive mini-bus, hang around in Inter-City toilets and leave powder traces in the stadium bogs. After these trips, the chaps started to get a little more intense, a little lary (if you will), a little more wankerish. Small schisms would appear.
The cost of a match day was getting steep... Ticket, Tube, Train, Beers, Food, Charlie, Taxi's to & from the ground, more food, more beers, more Charlie... Looking at the wrong end of £500 just to go and watch a 1-1 draw at Middlesborough!
And then things got a little tastier - We started going to Europe!
Tbc...
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Martin Webster (NF) and young friend... |
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Stop the NF - Nigel Faragists! |
Year | Total votes | Vote % | Seats % | Seats Won | House Total |
1928 | 810,127 | 2.63% | 2.44% | 12 | 491 |
1930 | 6,379,672 | 18.25% | 18.54% | 107 | 577 |
1932 | 13,745,680 | 37.27% | 37.83% | 230 | 608 |
1932 | 11,737,021 | 33.09% | 33.56% | 196 | 584 |
1933 | 17,277,180 | 43.91% | 44.51% | 288 | 647 |
1933 | 39,655,224 | 92.11% | 100.00% | 661 | 661 |
1936 | 44,462,458 | 98.80% | 100.00% | 741 | 741 |
1938 | 44,451,092 | 99.08% | 100.00% | 813 | 813 |
So, we do not have an option. We must confront this threat at every turn. Through the power of our imagination, the force of our arguments and our commitment to building a brighter, better, more inclusive and vibrant country. We must not let the Faragists take a single step more towards power.
By now I was suitably ride-fit to be able to cover 60-90 miles a day and still stop off at the John Snow Pub* to demolish a couple of pints of Stella Artois before meandering via Piccadilly, Trafalgar Sq, Whitehall, Westminster (complete with the Westminster Bridge sprint), Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, The Oval, Brixton, Shower, Kitchen, Fridge, Lager…. Sleep. Repeat ad nauseam…
As the day-by-day calendar pages tore towards Christmas Day, a number of couriers decided that they had made their money for the month and started to pick & choose which days to work. I wasn’t in that space, in fact, the more pink dockets, the more likely I’d be able to make it down to Eastbourne for Christmas with at least a couple of presents.
So, whilst others started to embrace the festive season, I was splashing through oil covered puddles, jumping onto/off of pavements, sliding round Hyde Park Corner, hopping on the Circle Line (you could take bikes then), hacking my way up to Hampstead Garden Suburb and generally skidding round inner London. The major problem was the tourists who hadn’t worked out which way traffic came from and the part-time drinkers who hadn’t worked out how not to step into the road.
Everyone finally made it to Christmas Eve and I was all set to clock off around 4:30pm when the Slim Controllerä popped his head through the courier room hatch and said “Andy, 3 jobs for you in Westminster… all on your way home”. Fantastic, other than getting a delivery to my own home, this was the next best thing.
I popped the envelopes into my fluorescent Guardian Bag, bade farewell and Merry Christmas to the assorted post-room characters (inc. Chris the Slim Controllerä, Eddie Schwindling & Crazy Dave (who used to ride the Wheel of Death down at Southend wearing a white tuxedo and holding a red rose between his teeth - allegedly)).
With the sound of ring pulls being pulled and general guffaws echoing down the stairs. I slipped into reception and out into Soho. My bike was (as always) locked onto a parking zone sign. No flats, lights on and soon rolling through the pedestrians only (NO BIKES) epicentre of faux-Mod culture – Carnaby Street (#NOTwhatitusedtotbe). The ride down was suitably uneventful, nearly took out a pensioner stepping off the pavement outside the Café Royal, avoided a Financial Times liveried London Taxi and swore at a white van (with a St Georges Cross – even then a tell-tale sign) who got a little too close to the kerb (let alone me).
However, once I’d nipped over Trafalgar Square, memories of the mass CND march that culminated in The Pop Group playing ‘Jerusalem’ underneath Nelson’s malignant gaze filling my head, I was on Whitehall and heading to 10 Downing Street.
10 Downing Street, the real seat of power. 10 Downing Street, the head of the British Government. 10 Downing Street, where there be monsters. 10 Downing Street, Thatcher’s Den!
The Cenotaph twinkled in the damp night, illuminated by small spotlights, traffic reflections and the dull tangerine low glow of GLC street lighting. A couple of London life-stained bouquets of by now black paper poppies clung to the base of the memorial of those who served (and died). I swooped in front of a couple of red (Khaki under this light) buses and mounted the pavement.
As per my earlier journey to Buck House, I fully expected to be redirected to a postal out-house, where they could examine the contents of my incendiary Christmas cards (at least that’s what I always assumed they were). But no! A cursory glance from Constable Bootboy (at least that’s what I had always assumed that Met PC’s were called) and I was told to leave my bike against a wall near the gate** and to simply walk up and knock on the door.
Knowing not to bother to ask him to keep an eye on my bike (see Tea at the Palace), all would be well under the alert gaze of Inspector Bastard and his trusted crew of belligerent psychopaths. So, I set off down the street, my by now rather squelchy and knackered old black 10-hole DM’s*** making barely a sound.
I had expected a policeman at the door of no. 10 but no. So, I reached out but before I had had time to tap out ‘The Red Flag’ on the door, it swung open. I was greeted by a suited chap, in a rather ill-fitting suit.
“I’ve got a delivery for the Prime Minister”
“Thank you. I’m authorised to take that”
“Can you sign my docket please?”
“Ok”
“Do you also take deliveries for Number 11?”
“Yes”
And with that I stepped forward half in/half out, one foot on the doormat and saw the black and white chequered floor… I handed over the two envelopes.
One was marked for the attention of: The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland Mrs Margaret Thatcher, 10 Downing Street. The other marked for the attention of: Mrs Geoffrey Howe, 11 Downing Street, London INNIT!
The chap in the ill-fitting suit, signed and handed back the dockets. I thanked him and glanced back into the hallway. Bodies were flying everywhere, trying desperately hard to look double busy, lest a member of the voting public (i.e. me) questioned their diligence. And to think that, if I’d been doing the job some 30 years later during lockdown, I’d be met with a chink of glasses and a prat in a party hat!
I stepped back and the door closed effortlessly behind me… 2 down and only one more delivery to go before. I checked it was still safe and it was. The neat calligraphy, the expensive vellum envelope and the hackle raising name… the Rt Hon. Edwina Currie, all still in place.
Confession time – I cannot deny that the temptation to meddle with all three of the envelopes, once they’d been handed to me, was immense. However, the desire to get the job done and get home was even greater. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure that a homemade Sarin attack was really practical, sensible or even ‘fair’. Whilst the moral dilemma rattled round and round inside my head (like ‘Crazy Dave’ on the Kursaal Wheel of Death).
I crossed Whitehall and slipped into the Parliament Grounds. I was directed to Incoming Goods’. PC Jobsworth greeted me with unconcealed distain – at last a copper one could take an immediate dislike to. We were both back on familiar territory. I proffered the envelope and he took a step back. “We can’t take any deliveries unless it has been scanned”. He explained. “and…. scanning is only open Monday to Friday 10am-4pm”. He smirked.
“Well, what should I do?”. I asked rather meekly.
“I dunno. Take it to the Post Office?”
I looked at the clock on the wall behind the very slappable face of PC Jobsworth. No self-respecting Post Office would be open at 6:40pm, at Christmas Time, on a Friday, with rainclouds gathering overhead, under this administration, at the height of Old Ma Thatch’s evil regime… I thought to myself.
“Oh well, fuck it”. I responded with all the maturity I could muster. I slung the envelope back in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, slung my bike back around, slung myself on the saddle and slung my hook… Back to Broadwick St, all locked up. Apart from a very miserable security guard.
The guard (Charlie? Charlie something… Himmler? Maybe not) reluctantly opened up and I asked him to sign for the envelope. He looked and pointed out that he wasn’t farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie. You couldn’t fault his logic – unlike his dress sense, haircut, body odour and extreme politics, all of which were grotesque and could be very harshly questioned. But his logic, in this instance was spot on. He would never be mistaken for being farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie!
Anyway, after 2 minutes of one-way (the wrong way) banter, Charlie (Chuckles? Von Bismark? Bormann? – it’ll come to me) finally signed the chit and I headed back out of the building.
I stood under the Carnabition Lights and wondered if the girl from Cosmo was still in the pub with the rest of the fashion desk. I went to tuck the pink slip away and only then noticed the signature ‘Edwina farkin’ Currie’!
I smiled to myself, at the same time as vowing revenge… the West End lights flickered again in the Soho rain puddles, the lost voice of Malcolm Owen echoed in my head…
“Lights are burning red and white
Lost on an island in the night
Rescue me or here I'll stay
A traffic island castaway…
…Out in the dark and on my own (shine on me)
I'm stranded here with no way home (shine on me)”.****
Back on my bike, my legs push again… Merry farkin’ Christmas!
Ends
*The John Snow was named after the renowned English Physician who made the link between a particular public water pump and a Cholera outbreak in that there trendy Soho. The particular pump was in Broad Street (latterly Broadwick Street) and the John Snow pub was located on the self-same corner.
I was initially drawn to the John Snow because I had hoped it was in honour of the finest fast bowler Sussex & England has ever seen (Ok, maybe The Burnley Lara, aka Mr Jimmy Anderson, aka Timmy Banderson - #tailendersoftheworlduniteandtakeover) has a decent claim to be above him. Nobody else though, nobody else.).
Anyway, it was my pub of choice for the first couple of years working in that there trendy Soho. Until Samuel Smith brewers took it over and shattered the lugubrious/down at heel ambience that we revelled in. The appearance of their rather ghastly Alpine Lager very swiftly led to a migration to The Old Coffee House (and that is a whole different story/history/blog/podcast/TV Series/Netflix Special).
** The gate at the opening to Downing St was a relatively new thing. Because I distinctly remember previously strolling back (well, speeding off my tits to be honest) from the Jazz Rooms at the Wag Club to get the Milk Train, via Whitehall and finding ourselves halfway down Downing St before Constable GBH asked us to turn around and toddle off home.
*** When I first became a courier, I was determined to not allow the job to compromise my style choices. So, first few weeks involved black only cycle gear with occasional band T-shirts slung over the top and Adidas Samba (when they were stylish and not worn by numpty PM’s). However, as nights drew in and rain accompanied the shrinking of daylight, I embraced a more practical dress-code and after a while my DM’s became perfectly adapted to the rough ‘n tumble tarmac action – especially when my breaks stopped working and I rode without brakes for 3 months and only braked by slamming my right foot down.
**** West One (Shine on me) – The Ruts
An ode to Soho (both beautiful and sinister). A top, top tune from a sadly short-lived band, due to the Heroin induced demise of singer Malcom Owen. The rest of the band were Paul Fox (guitar), Segs (Bass) and the incomparable Dave Ruffy (Drums). Gary Barnacle is featured on Sax too.
I was driving in to work listening to ‘Tailenders’ the rather splendid podcast from the BBC and it reminded me of nothing less than an old JM96* editorial meeting. Lots of genial banter, gentle teasing, obscure reminiscences and overall a genuine love and affection for the game we love – cricket!
If you fancy more of this stuff follow The Jardine Report
Of course, these rather dim-witted politicians ostensibly talk about Britain, when they are only talking to their English constituents. So much so, that I fully expect Ireland to untie & unite within the next 20 years and Scotland to return a Yes vote for independence (assuming that Keir Starmer’s continued plod towards power remains so relentlessly uninspiring). Leaving slack Ol’England floundering in the wake of its own self-importance.
The truth of the matter is: Nobody likes us and we pretend we don’t care, but we bloody well should. The English (and don’t forget I am one – have you seen the blog title?) do have an over-inflated sense of self-importance built on the shifting sands of history. The whole sun never sets on the Empire malarkey has long since evaporated and quite frankly the reparations for crimes committed in the name of the Union Flag have still to be tallied up.
Before launching into one, I should address the British v English thing. I genuinely only know of (or at least recall) a few people who truly identify as British (and they are virtually all arch-royalists or from non-aligned immigrant families), I have never met an Irishman (well maybe a couple of Mega-Oranj Prods), Welshman or Scot (Prods again?!) who declare themselves as British first. Even when corralled together in some hotchpotch sporting allegiance or two (The Lions/Olympics), being a Brit is rarely ever mentioned…
But the purpose of this piece is not to rehash the old school leftist view of Britain as being a washed-up colonial construct (even though it is #smileywhiteface). It is more about trying to embrace the reality of being a 21st Century Englishman and coming to terms with what that actually means.
I’m very aware that some of my writing illuminates an England that exists more in old photographs, unsent postcards, the distant embrace of young love, the scratched grooves of long deleted LP’s and discredited movies. My England, the one I inhabit from this distance is sinister, haunted, beautiful, idyllic, pissed, broken, vicious and only 24 hours away.
My England smells of burnt toast, cut grass, creosote and ozone. My England is cold, wet, warm, windy, freezing and has a leaking roof. My England is shuffling in the queue at the post office, hanging out by the off-licence and still waiting for the number 11 bus. My England still thinks it is good at all sports, despite the evidence.
You get the picture… I could go on forever (and I probably will elsewhere). But I’ll stop and try and keep focussed for the time being. What could the new English really become? The vague reference to Billy Bragg is very appropriate here because his book ‘The Progressive Patriot’ has led me to reappraise what being English could be.
For those unfamiliar with his book, apart from being part autobiographical Bragg explores the impact of the Magna Cart, the People’s Charter, Civil War, the Second World War, the Miners’ Strike on the national consciousness. He also grapples with what it means to be a patriot in a country where (at the time he wrote the book) the BNP were running in General Elections. And now, given the invidious nature of the Savile Row besuited bigots (Anderson, Tyce, Farage etc.) the question is even more relevant.
It is a major challenge and one that I feel ill-equipped to confront head on. That being said, I’ll be jiggered if I’m simply going to stand back and hand over the country of my birth to those members of society whose crazed claims and warped world view makes us seem positively rabid. England isn’t as bad as everyone thinks… but it could well get worse.
But how can we make it better, without more bloodshed, an armed uprising or hiding in a small hut somewhere in the Lake District. Firstly, we need to be honest with each other and perhaps more importantly with ourselves. For too long the myth has dominated the reality and we cannot head somewhere new if we don’t know where exactly we are heading from. A journey cannot end without there having been a start point!
So, time for honesty. And that leads us to the second thing, we must confront the bullshit wherever and whenever we see it. For example, the neo-liberals who seem to have grasped the steering wheel profess to hate the nanny state. And yet, these bastards have got an uncanny way of trying to get involved in absolutely everybody else’s business: From who they sleep with to which pronoun they prefer, from where to go on holiday to which religion they can or indeed cannot follow.
These charlatans must be tackled on their view of England… they relentlessly tout ‘our values’, ‘our way of life’ and ‘our traditions’ and yet they can never name a single thing that reflects these indistinct ideals. Be it poor old John Major and his “Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county (cricket) grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers”. Or Farage’s updated “Respect”, “Decency” and “not talking down our great country” schtick that doesn’t stop him from buggering off to the States every time Donald McDonald clicks his fake tan stained little pudgy fingers.
Instead of their warped view, we should inspire each other to live up to a higher more honest set of social principles. In short, we should aim to live up to the mantra of several high-performance sporting teams and instil a simple ‘No Dickheads’ culture.
Glib? Well, a little, what did you expect – new patriotic zeal on a stick. Valid? I think so. A starting place for a New England? Absolutely! In fact, following that theme and re-writing one of the most shameful tropes of the early 70’s ‘No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs’ (sadly often displayed on houses for rent).
The New England mission statement should perhaps simply read as follows:
· No Racists
· No Bigots
· No Dickheads
... Oh and No Oxymorons!