onwards and downwards

[alistair-green]

What have you seen?

Have you seen it? Oh I really want to see that. What have you seen that's good? What have you seen? What time is that, I really want to see that? Oh I can't I'm seeing something else. Shit that's so annoying I really want to see that. Yeh I've heard about that, I really want to see it. What have you seen thats good though? I mean really good. Are they're still tickets for that? I really want to see it.

PLEASE FILL ME UP WITH SOMETHING I AM EMPTY, VACANT AND VOID

[alistair-green]

Sign next to the banks of Duddingston loch and bird sanctuary within the landscaped gardens of Duddingston kirk in Edinburgh. This feels like a very tumblr thing to post but I like the poem so its staying.

[alistair-green]

Michael Gove and British Values

A couple of weeks ago when I was walking the dog I had to pick up one of his shits with a plastic bag wrapped around my hand. It was only then that I realised the bag had a hole in it and my hand was now covered in shit. Rushing home to clean it before anyone saw me I bumped into someone I knew who engaged me in conversation for a good 5 minutes while I anxiously hid my hand behind my back. The whole time we were talking he made no mention of the fact that I stank of shit.  Anyway, the only reason I mention this is because if Michael Gove is really looking to promote British values in schools I can't think of a better example than being polite enough not to mention it when you strongly suspect the person you're talking to has shit themself

[alistair-green]

Woolwich

"I'm sorry your women had to witness this", said delusional sociopath Michael Adebolajo as he waved a butchers knife about in Woolwich.  Just a small point Michael but they are not 'our women.' Any more than Muslim women are 'your women.' They are 'women.' And as the actions of those that confronted you demonstrate, they tend to do what the fuck they want.

[alistair-green]

Adolf Hitler And The Chinese Pig Farm

About fifteen years ago I had a job working at Madame Tussauds. Like most service sector jobs it was pretty mindless stuff; processing entry tickets, directing people to lost property, stuff like that. As it was an international tourist attraction the daily tasks would occasionally rise above the mundane; explaining to a Japanese tourist who Timmy mallet was for example, or stopping a party of school children from touching Jimmy Savile. (oh the irony).

There were only two working positions, inside or outside and your position would determine whether you were going to have a shit day or a good day. Inside was worse because it involved interacting with the visitors which was a pain in the arse. On top of that it also had the dirtier jobs. I can remember quite clearly coming into work one morning and being asked if I wouldn’t mind cleaning the spit off Hitler’s glass case before opening. He used to be out in the open like the other statues but over the years visitors had gobbed at him so much that the curators were forced to construct a specially made cabinet to house him in. I haven’t checked but I assume they’ve had to do the same for Chris Moyles.

The outside position was a breeze compared to that. Most days you could just wander up and down Baker Street smoking and chatting to your mates and no-one would check up on you. It was on one of those days I met Thomas, a Hungarian graduate about the same age as me. He had a job holding one of those golf signs right on the corner where Baker Street meets Marylebone Road. I was on my lunch break, leaning against a railing and watching the mid morning traffic, when Thomas came up to me and asked me for a light. We got chatting and it turned out that dead end jobs and Marlboro Lights weren’t the only thing Thomas and I had in common. I was living above an off license in Romford at the time but Thomas managed to trump me by admitting to squatting in the basement of a shoe shop in Shadwell. I was delighted because it meant that along with tramps and entombed corpses he was one of the few people who lived in a more depressing place than me. We were both art graduates too (obviously, look at our jobs) and by the time I had to go back we’d already decided to meet for lunch again the next day. The following day I made sure I was standing outside at the agreed time but Thomas wasn’t there. He wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after that. Eventually I realised he probably wasn’t going to come back and I felt slightly annoyed with myself for not getting his number while I had the chance. About ninety per cent of the people I’ve met in my life have been absolute dicks so I was disappointed that the opportunity to make an actual new friend had slipped through my fingers. I left Madame Tussauds shortly after that, or I was sacked, I can’t remember which now.

            About four years later (I can’t be more accurate than that as my CV is essentially a compendium of lies) I found myself working in the art gallery at the barbican. I liked the barbican for it’s weirdness - a self contained world of concrete and carpet that’s both futuristic and dated at the same time, like a science fiction film from the 1960s. As usual my exact job responsibilities were vague so I spent hours wandering around Scandinavian furniture exhibitions reprimanding people for taking photographs as I wasn’t sure what else I should be doing. It was summer and there were only a few staff in to oversee the turnaround of exhibitions in the gallery. This meant the previous exhibition had to be dismantled, packed up, and carted off to wherever it was going next, and the new one had to be assembled. Anyone could work as part of the team responsible for this job; lecturers, artists, students, terrorists, they’d take them all. As long as you had a set of basic DIY skills and a few spare weeks in the summer they’d employ you. I was walking past the team one day on my way to lunch when I heard a voice I thought I recognised call my name. I took a second to respond because I was so taken aback when I saw who it was.

‘Hi Al’, said Thomas, pausing momentarily from sawing a piece of chipboard.

‘Thomas?’ I said, incredulous. I tried to look casual as he clearly wasn’t as freaked out by this coincidence as I was.

‘How are you?’ he said, and offered me a takeaway coffee from a cardboard cup holder. We sat down on a nearby bench and he filled me in about what he’d been up to. Having trumped him four years earlier I was anxious to learn whether his current living arrangements had improved. I was relieved to hear that although he had progressed from the basement of the shoe shop, he had only got as far as renting a room with severe mildew behind Sainsburys in New Cross. Not that I was in a position to gloat. I was living with seven Chinese medical students in a council flat in Poplar at the time so we agreed to call this one a draw. We’d only just started talking when his boss called him over to finish putting up a partition wall, so we arranged to go for a pint on Friday after we’d both finished work instead, and catch up properly.

  I went to the staffroom and ate my sandwich. I suppose it wasn’t that much of a coincidence seeing each other again. People with shared interests visit similar places and move in similar circles. It’s not like we’d bumped into each other on a pig farm in China or something. By the time I’d eaten my lunch Thomas had apparently already gone home. I asked after him the following day but was told he hadn’t turned up. He wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after that. Two weeks went by and still nobody knew where he’d gone. I began to get paranoid and after imagining all sorts of reasons for his disappearance I managed to boil it down to just two possible scenarios, one of which was a lot more disturbing than the other; either he’d been kidnapped and murdered by a psychopathic killer, or he thought I was such a cock that he’d walked out of two separate jobs just to get away from me.

  Thomas didn’t return to the Barbican and I left about 6 months later. I never saw him again. My only hope is that the police managed to catch his killer.

[alistair-green]

Eulogy To HMV

I expect that today will always be remembered as the day the music died for a lot of people of my generation. We will all remember where we were when the news came through that British high street music retailer HMV was to go into administration. I know I will. I was listening to my iPod and listing my cd collection for sale on eBay. I had just sold Transformer by Lou Reed for 99p when I heard. In a way it was worse than the day Diana was killed. The world had changed, a little piece of England had died, and things would never be the same again.

I’m sure I can’t be the only person who gets a little misty eyed when recalling my first trip to HMV. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was VE Day and there was a party atmosphere on every street corner. My father had just been demobbed, Queen Victoria was on the throne, and Britain had just successfully defended the Falkland Islands from the Argentine army with ease.

‘Come on’, shouted my father as he descended the stairs in his pith helmet and different coloured fluorescent socks, ‘We’re going to HMV to buy a vinyl record!’ We didn’t even own a record player, but given that Nelson had just defeated Napoleon at the Battle of Trafalgar it hardly seemed to matter!

I remember my father deliberately leaving the back door open as we left the house as there was no such thing as burglars back then. He still had soot on his face from the highly profitable coal mine he worked in and was just telling me about the cordial industrial relations that existed between his union and the government when the bus came. We boarded the No.1 Routemaster bus to London Town and went up to the top deck to find a seat. Barbara Windsor was there, dressed in a tight fitting conductors uniform and punching tickets. Naturally my father gave her a playful and entirely appropriate slap on the backside at which she shrieked and cackled loudly like a really happy witch. William Shakespeare, who was sitting in front of us in a deck chair with a knotted handkerchief on his head, nearly jumped out of his white British Caucasian skin in fright! But given the news that Cliff Richard and Eddie the eagle Edwards had just defeated the Spanish Armada in the British channel, he was soon rejoicing again along with the rest of us. It really was a different time.

We soon reached our destination and as we disembarked to the strains of Jerusalem played live by the Beatles, my father and I saw the hallowed doors of HMV for the first time. As soon as we entered, a ghostly, ethereal calm descended over us and we were bathed in a soft golden light. We browsed the sacred aisles in awe and wonder; rock, pop, DVDs, games, even the deserted boring sections like country and classical seemed to gently vibrate in unity with us. In front of us rows and rows of cds extended as far as the eye could see with every kind of music we could ever dream of; from Transformer by Lou Reed, all the way to Transformer by Lou Reed, each with a beautiful ‘3 for £5’ sticker on them. I had just picked up a copy of Transformer by Lou Reed, when one of HMV’s well informed and polite employees approached me. It was Jesus Christ and he was dressed in that union jack dress that Geri Haliwell wore at the Brits that time. He was in high spirits having just returned from the Olympic opening ceremony where Queen Boudicca had successfully parachuted out of an aeroplane to the delight of the stadium below. HMV employees were renowned for their in depth knowledge and the son of God was no exception! After patiently explaining the Third Law of Thermodynamics, Christ moved on to the album in my hand.

‘I prefer Metal Machine Music’, the saviour of all mankind said, ‘it’s really fucking uncompromising.’ 

And with that he turned into a pedigree British bulldog and disappeared in the direction of the storeroom.

 It’s a day I shall never forget and can only pity the next generation who will never be able to experience what I did. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this HMV. It was a different age.

[alistair-green]

3 Ways To Tell If Your Man Has Been Cheating

Uh oh. This is the one question that us girls dread asking. But if things seem strange at home, and you and your man aren’t exactly getting on like a house fire, it’s time to face up to the truth- he could be a cheater. And as much as you may want to pretend its not happening, trust me, once you know the truth you’ll feel a whole lot better! So let’s have a look for those tell tale signs that always give away a philanderer.

1. He comes home late at night.

 If your boyf keeps coming home late at night stinking of perfume and with his own semen spilled all over the front of his trousers then you have every right to be suspicious. He may well try and sweet talk his way out of it by saying things like ‘she said she’d swallow’ but don’t be fooled. That smooth talking cavalier may not be the man of your dreams you thought he was.  But don’t confront him yet; keep on rooting till you get some hard evidence to nail him with!

2. You find several receipts for a well known brothel that operates in your area in his trouser pocket

  Does your joint bank account keep mysteriously draining by the same amount every week? Does your guy keep saying things like ‘Have you get any rubber johnnies I can borrow?’, and ‘Can you lend me £75 for a hooker’, as he leaves the house for the fifth night in a row? If so then its time to take off those rose tinted glasses and put on your detective hat. He could well be seeing someone else.

3. He’s fucking someone else.

This is one of the key signs so look out for it carefully. If you come home from work one night and find him in your bedroom putting his penis in another woman’s vagina repeatedly, I’m sorry girls, but this probably means he’s not being faithful to you. Oh sure, he’ll probably try and explain it all innocently away (he’s a guy right?! Lol), by saying things like ‘fuck off’ and ‘shut the fucking door’ but don’t be sucked in by that silver tongue charmer- cos that guy may well be playing you for a fool.

 So after making a checklist of these 3 possible leads you should have your answer. It would be easy to dismiss all these signs as nothing more than your own paranoia but believe me, its way better to keep your feelers open and find out the truth!

[alistair-green]

Attitudes Towards the British Monarchy Part 1

Oh isn't she marvellous did you see her did you see her with her hat it rained though didn't it but that can't put us Brits off we're so plucky aren't we us Brits so plucky that's the Dunkirk spirit isn't it we 're so wacky aren't we us Brits I saw a man on the tele who had 4 dogs on John Bishops Britain can you imagine what are we like eh didn't she looked marvellous though eh didn't she and Harry he looked handsome he's not like the others of course he's his Mothers son isn't he they killed her you know Phillip had her bumped off poor Phillip eh where's Cliff eh oh isn't Cliff funny good old Cliff eh such a character so funny like that Keith Lemon oh what are we like us Brits eh so marvellous isn't she.

[alistair-green]

Plebgate

Below is the transcript of the actual e-mail sent by the entirely credible eyewitness to the Andrew Mitchell affair (the fact that he's a policeman is of course entirely irrelevant) to his local MP John Randall

Dear Mr Randall,

As a resident of the constituency which you represent, I have long supported you and the tireless work you do for the area. I have lived and worked (as a plumber) in Ruislip all my life and cannot praise you highly enough. You are brilliant.

However, it is with great sadness that I write to you today as on Wednesday 19th December I witnessed the most disgusting, immoral behaviour by your fellow member of parliament ANDREW MITCHELL. I don’t think its an exaggeration to say that it was the WORST THING I have ever seen.

I had just finished work (I’m a postman), and was with my 3 year old nephew visiting the usual tourist hotspots in and around Westminster, when he expressed a desire to stand outside Downing Street in the hope of catching a glimpse of one of his favourite politicians; like all boys his age he is OBSESSED with members of the cabinet, (when I gave him an Andrew Lansley 2012 calendar for Christmas last year he cried with joy). So you can only imagine how excited he was to be there with the chance of seeing one of his heroes. Suddenly a door opened and we saw someone coming towards the gate on his bike. ‘Is it Philip Hammond? Oh please say it’s Philip Hammond?’ my nephew cried. As the man approached we realised it was none other than the right honourable Andrew Mitchell MP, one of my nephews favourites. By this point, a crowd of approximately 3-400 people had gathered to watch as the celebrity MP made his way down the short hill to the gate. But as he came closer we realised something was wrong. Despite the roar of traffic behind us, the crowd of 6-700 people gathered outside the gates heard quite clearly the following exchange;

Nice Policeman 1 – Excuse me Mr Mitchell sir, would you mind terribly if we asked you to dismount before exiting the gate both for the safety of the public outside, but far more importantly for your own safety m’lud

Nice Policeman 2 Who Was Only Doing His Job – Yes be careful sire, you may fall and hurt yourself

  Andrew Mitchell MP – FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING PLEB WANKER COUNCIL ESTATE SCUM PRICK. YOU PLEBHEAD FUCKING PLEB. PLEB!

  Nice Policeman 1 – I say, that’s a bit jolly strong isn’t it?

  Andrew Mitchell MP – FUCK OFF AND DIE AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE HELPING ME YOU WASTE OF SPACE PLEB. I OWN YOU PLEB! PLEB! PLEB!

Well, needless to say I have never heard such shocking language in my life, and as I’ve already pointed out, I’m a publican by trade.  The 12-13,000 members of the public amassed at the gates were equally shocked. I have not seen such an outpouring of grief since Lady Diana died. Several hundred were so distraught that they actually threw themselves into the path of oncoming traffic rather than live another day in the knowledge that this terrible altercation had taken place. My now inconsolable, weeping nephew attempted to follow suit but fortunately I managed to take a tight grip on him. About three hundred black youths from Brixton or Tottenham or whatever were standing next to me and started chanting. ‘Leave the police alone!’ they sang at Andrew Mitchell as he sped away into the night. ‘Did Operation Trident mean nothing to you?!’ they sang in unison, before popping cyanide pills into their mouths and falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Is this really how we want our MP’s to behave Mr Randall? Is this what Britain has become? I realise that nothing will come of this e-mail, (despite my outrage its probably best you just destroy it after its been entered as corroborating evidence to the police log), but I felt I had to write to you to express my dismay at the behaviour of the WICKED AND CORRUPT ANDREW MITCHELL MP.

Keep up the good work,

Anon

(Butcher, definitely not a policeman),

Ruislip.