A Kiss is Just a Kiss?

Today it was my great misfortune to find myself standing outside a women’s clothes shop waiting for 'The Nemesis’ (my wife Carol) to purchase the whole shop's stock. She is, after all, down to her last 400 pairs of jeans, the poor love!

While I stood there, soaking up the much-needed sun, I noticed two young men walking down the road holding hands and showing lots of affection towards each other. They then stopped by the shopping centre and kissed, before going their separate ways.

I’m so pleased to see just how far my tiny little home town has moved on in my life time.

When I was a young child Huddersfield, my home town was then a typical northern industrial town; cotton and wool were its mainstays.

The older generation had left school early and then went off to work in the mill at a young age. Foreign travel was out of the question, unless they were sent off to be killed in a war.

So, it’s fair to say that their outlook on life was limited. Some made the Taliban look like moderate free-thinkers!

Racism and every phobia you can think of was normal. Young children like me were taught these same values so we could grow to be bitter twisted individuals. You see, if you fill a child’s mind with rubble only weeds can grow through it!

Most people thought that a gay man, a paedophile, and a rapist were the same thing. Any poor man who didn’t talk with sufficient testosterone was held in contempt, and suspicion.

It took me until my early twenties to shovel out of my mind all the shit that had been placed there by parents and society from my childhood.

So, to see these two young men free and able to express their love for each other without anyone even batting an eyelid was quite heart-warming.

Back when I was young, this display of affection would have had people reaching for their pitchforks and burning torches. The only way men could show affection back then was either to shake hands, punch each other in the arm or grab each other in head locks while rubbing their knuckles into the scalp, I think I prefer a kiss.

Now, most men show their emotions more freely, they can cry in public without people questioning their sexuality (which used to happen years ago) and they can hug each other.

Some of my friends, when alcohol has been consumed, will hug me; some have been known to give me a kiss on the cheek. But lips and tongues are stretching the boundaries of friendship.

I have travelled to countries where men kissing and holding hands is quite acceptable, but if you were to give their wives a friendly kiss on the cheek it would be regarded as infidelity. It’s a minefield to know what is and is not acceptable.

I notice with concern that some young men still suffer from mind-rubble and are incredibly racist and homophobic. Gun crime and knife attacks are rife, violence used to be alcohol-induced but now it’s another type of drug.

It’s always been the case for working class boys to act tough to prove that they are a man. I myself have fallen for this myth when I was a teenager. But they must realise that men not thugs; change the world for the better.

Now I’ve upset most women reading this, because of course they can also change the world. But if Margret Thatcher is anything to go by I’m not so sure!

So trust me when I say this, as someone who has lived through it all, seen it all and bought the tee shirt. Life is good when it’s full of love and after all a kiss is just a kiss!

Justin… Case you wondered, I’m Not a Bieber Belieber!

If you have read lots of my previous postings, you lovely people, you will know by now that I don’t have any belief-systems in place. I like facts; ones that can be proven, and if that makes me a narrow-minded secular bigot instead of a religious narrow-minded bigot then ‘Amen’ to that, brother!

I’m only telling you this because I’m adding another non-belief (if that’s at all possible!) to all my other non-beliefs.

I’m not a Belieber; I don’t believe that the golden-haired, fresh-faced little Canadian boy has any talent other than his boyish good looks. He can make as many grand claims of talent as he wishes, but I can only hear the re-hashed boy band tune (see previous posting!)

Let me explain. Whenever I visit schools, young girls go all dreamy-eyed when they speak of the ‘Bieber’. While young boys seem to go into a frenzy of hate, usually calling his sexuality into question. But that’s fine; that’s the way the world should be, young girls in love with the new heart-throb and boys as jealous as hell because of it!  

My days of jealousy finished years ago when Donny Osmond was sending the girls wild, and he still looks good now. I hate him!

So the reason I don’t like the Bieber is because he’s beginning to believe his own hype. This is always dangerous and only ends in tears. So I really don’t care about who is who in the heart-throb world., at my age if my heart throbs I’ll need a de-fibrillator! The problem is that I start to get worried when I see young people getting too much to early, they always end up with nothing more than memories and a massive debt! Or worse, a drug and drink addiction!

The concert at the O2, where he left young fans waiting for up to two hours is very rock ‘n’ roll if you’re a drug-dependent aging rock band, but not when you’re a snotty-nosed kid who should be thankful he’s getting his fifteen minutes of fame. And don’t give me the old excuse of, ‘technical faults’; the only fault was a massive ego that needed its legs smacking and sending to bed early!

Then he booked a whole floor of a hotel and behaved so badly he was evicted, as I’m led to believe, or he left of his own accord as he says.

I know someone who needs to go on the naughty step! 

So, lady types and peeps, that’s the problem; he has no one to tell him that he’s behaving like a twat!

If your entourage needs a whole floor of a hotel then you are either holding a convention or your ego is out of control. Or both!

The problem is that he is a meal ticket for to many people who don’t want to rock the boat, so they wrap him up in a little Bieber-sized bubble.

He’s not the first, of course; there have been many before, and there will be many after him.

He doesn’t realise that his time in the spotlight is fast ticking away; the further he moves away from his teens and the closer to their teens his fans become. He claims to have song-writing talents and musical talents but I‘m sceptical. If I were him, I would be building strong friendships with the media right now.

Remember the old saying, ‘Be nice to people on the way up, because you don’t know who you’ll meet on the way down!’-  this applies to us all.

The worst case of arse-licking in history has to be the people looking after Michael Jackson. I was never a fan of his, but it was blatantly obvious that he had talent by the bucket-load and some very clever people marketing his songs. He would sell the album, then release every track on the album as a single. He must have made hundreds of millions of dollars, so how come he ended up nearly bankrupt?

And if the rumours are to be believed he ended up with bleached skin, a wig and a false nose!

People’s private life is their own concern; we have no right to tell people how to live their life.I get really annoyed when so called news papers go on about people's love life or their sexuality. Who cares?

But surely someone should have had the bollocks to go up to Mr Jackson and say, “Mick, I think the weird is going a bit too far, let's have an honest chat about things”.

I know that the parasites in his employ would have tried to isolate him; that’s how all abusers work, but didn’t he have just one friend or even an acquaintance that had the balls to say enough is enough? With my hand on my heart I can honestly say that if any of my friends had turned out like him I would have to tell them even if it meant losing their friendship! 

Of course, Michael paid the ultimate price. when his yes-man doctor, too scared to loose his meal-ticket, obeyed his patient A man with no medical training telling a man with years of medical training what to do!

So, young Bieber, take note; showbiz and rehab is littered with the wizened corpses of talents that were once mighty, time is no respecter of celebrity, we are all just distant memories waiting to happen!

Bang Goes the Theory!

When it comes to physics, there are quite a few laws and theories.

There are the obvious theories, such as Einstein’s Relativity or Newton’s Gravity. Now we have the Higgs Boson which always reminds me of the film, Back to the Future for some reason.

But there is a law of physics that applies to us all each and every day, a law which drives us all mad. This law is known by lots of names; some know it as ‘Murphy’s law’ but I know it as Sod’s Law’.

Sod’s law is the law that states when you drop your buttered toast, which is what happened to me this evening, it shall always land buttered side down!

Sod’s law does not only apply to buttered products, it is far more diverse than that! The law applies to every atom in the fabric of the universe.

When you are in a busy queue in the super market and you suddenly notice a till that has just one sweet little old lady waiting to be served, so you quickly gather all your things together and move, with the smug satisfaction that you shall soon be away with your bounty of products that you neither wanted or needed. But then for no other reason than pure spite, Sod’s Law decides to kick in. 

The old lady can’t decide what she wants to buy, and wants to change a few products. Then she has to count out all her payment in pennies which she has been saving for twelve years just for this moment. Meanwhile the queue you were in starts to go down faster than a Brazilian footballer in a penalty area!

Then the old lady decides that she can’t afford to pay for all her goods so she has to decide what to send back. By now your temper is starting to fray, as the people that are in the queue that you have just left start to snigger at you, because they all knew about the doddering old dear in front of you.

You are now so desperate to get through the checkout you offer to pay the difference in her shopping. She snaps back that she’s not a charity, and although it’s very kind of you, she couldn’t possibly take your money.

The people that were standing behind you in your previous queue are now walking down the aisle and home with all their products purchased, they are now grinning at you because they know that you have just entered into a conversation with the little old dear!

Now for no reason whatsoever, she feels the need to tell you about her Grandson who has just been circumcised, because his willy swelled like a sausage when he tried to have a pee!

You, on the other hand, are wondering what the law is against punching old women in the face!

Your heart stars to skip a beat, as she slowly gathers up her products to bag them; meanwhile, the people that were in your other queue are now at home, knocking up a bit of lunch.

Just when you think you are home and dry, rid of the old bat forever, she drops a jar of pickles on the floor. The mess scatters everywhere and she turns and smiles sweetly to you with a knowing look which says "Never leave the queue you are in!"

Another law of sod is the money trick. The money trick works like this. To prove I’m right, take a piece of small thin circular metal - any will do. Now take this piece of worthless metal and throw it around. Now pick it up and throw it over your head, now pick it up. Now shut your eyes and throw it in any direction you wish. Now go over to it and pick it up, no problems are there?

Now get a coin, one of quite a high value works best for this experiment. Now drop it gently on the floor in front of you. Now pick it up… that’s right, you can’t find it, can you?

It has rolled down a crack in the pavement which is only just big enough to fit the coin if it rolls in a certain way. In fact, I have doubts that the crack in the pavement even existed before you dropped the coin. This experiment works even better if it’s your last coin, or if it’s the only coin you have for a parking meter.

When you drop a coin, it makes a dash for freedom as if it’s following some invisible Pied Piper! You can see it rolling away at warp factor nine before going into hyperdrive and disappearing for good.

There are of course many laws of Sod, some of which are only just coming to light. I discovered a new one only last week. I need to get it verified by the institute of Sodology! It might even be the same law as "never leave the queue you are in".

I have spasmodically been having a go on the national lottery for the last year or so. I only do this because I have noticed just how many poor people there are in the world… and I don’t want to be one of them.

So I decided on a collection of numbers and used them faithfully every week. Of course I haven’t won anything: totally zilch!

A couple of weeks ago, I changed my losing numbers for some sure-fire winning numbers.

The week after, five of my previous losing numbers came up on the Wednesday draw!

Sod It! 

Emotion in Motion Olympiad

When it comes to emotions, I’m an Olympic champion.

I run head-on at problems after jumping to conclusions. People think that I just sail through life without any problems, but this is not true. I have had to box clever to get where I am now, and even throw a few tantrums to get what I want.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t wrestle with my conscience from time to time. But I always manage to overcome all the hurdles that are put in front of me.

It’s no good diving in head-first, as I often find that my work is like swimming with sharks, who always want to take a bite out of me.

But there are others that try to help me hammer out any problems that I may come across, when I find myself having to back-pedal.

When I’m riding high, everyone is my friend but when my back is on the mat, no one wants to know.

But once I lift the weights off my mind, I feel like doing somersaults.

I have to remember that life is a marathon and not a sprint. But once I pass the finishing line, I know that I shall strike gold!

But my main problem is that I just can’t be arsed!

Call Me?

The really wonderful thing about writing this blog is that people anywhere in the world can read it, so for all of you out there who take the time to read my inane rants, thank you!

But there is a problem that I’m finding when writing for people whose first language may not be English; rude words. Different words mean different things all around the world. To prove this, I would like you to read this poem from my first book, ‘The Spot On My Bum’.

My Name Is?

Oh, I wish I was called Lynne

Or Gemma or Lucy.

Any name will do,

I’m really not that choosy.

They could call me Charlotte,

Or Emma or Jane.

They could call me anything,

Please just give me another name.

Yes, Mum could have named me

By lots of names,

From Kirsty to Annie,

But she went and named me after Grandma,

She went and named me Fanny!

Now if you’re not British, you might not get the joke; lots of British people will either think it’s rude or funny depending on your sense of humour. 

One thing you must understand is that we British have lots of names for certain body parts. When it comes to genitalia, we probably lead the world for the most names. It makes no difference whether it’s male or female, different people use different words for their genitalia. But when it comes to the female genitalia the most common name by far is… yes you’ve guessed it, Fanny!

But just to confuse things even further, in America your backside is called your Fanny! In Britain a bum is your backside. In America a bum is a tramp. In Britain we have a bum bag, in America, they call it a fanny bag. This is something completely different in Britain.

My Father, in the ;fifties, was posted to Düsseldorf in Germany for his national service. While he was there he became very good friends with a local lad called Billy. My Father often spoke about Billy to the day he died in 2006. I could never understand why he didn’t try to trace him and get back in touch. But that was my Father , he didn’t like a complicated life.

Now here in Britain Billy is a very common name, nothing unusual about that. Except Billy’s full name was Billy Shite! Trust me, you don’t want that surname in Britain. I’m led to believe that it’s quite a common name in Germany. I don’t know if that’s the correct spelling, though, but when I was ten years old that was the funniest name in the world. If you don’t know what shite means in English, look it up.

Once when I was having problems with my local council about drainage I received a really snotty letter from a council employee; the letter was signed Richard Head.

Again if English is not your first language you wont get the joke immediately.

The old English word for Richard is Dick. Richard Head = Dick Head!  Again if you don’t get the joke, look it up. 

Now the reason I’m going on about all this is because here in Britain there is a commercial for a brand of pop, mineral water, soda pop, again, it  depends where you’re from.

In the commercial the mother and Grand mother of a new born child insist on naming their new child Fanny!

When I go into high schools, I sometimes read the above poem, which often gets me into trouble, so it’s good to see it being used on prime-time television. Well, it’s not just the poem that causes me problems; you see, there’s a story that goes with it.

When I was young I used to stay with my Grandparents. On Friday evenings a bus used to call around the neighbourhood and pick up all the old ladies and whisk them off to play Bingo, lotto, tombola - again, it depends where you are from.

One Friday evening, I had the misfortune of having to go with my grandma. Although I loved her to bits, a night at the bingo was more than my little mind could take. The weather outside was blowing a blizzard and we were dressed ready for the worst. We walked up the road to catch the bus and to meet with my Grandma’s friend, Mrs Roberts. When we arrived at the bus stop Mrs Roberts was already there with her sixteen year old daughter, called Fanny. 

Fanny, like all sixteen-year-old girls, was more interested in fashion than keeping warm she wore nothing more than a flimsy dress and a cardigan. The wind howled and the snow bit at our extremities. Because my Grandmother was Italian, she had a very strange way of speaking English. 

She looked at Mrs Roberts, then looked at her daughter called Fanny. Again she looked at Mrs Roberts, then at her daughter called Fanny.

Finally she turned to Mrs Roberts and said, “Oh Mrs Roberts, your Fanny must be frozen, dressed like that!”

I think it might be the story that gets me into trouble!

  

To Be, Or What To Be?

I have just been informed by a young man that he’s a chef. So? you may ask -  well, exactly; that’s what I thought. But he was under the impression that I would fall at his feet and worship him when he informed me of his profession.

Seemingly, to be a chef is the new superstar status? He wasn’t too pleased when I told him it was, ‘just knocking up a bit of dinner!’

He then took great pains to tell me just how difficult it is to create a new ‘taste sensation?’ He should have gone into advertising.

As I seem to say on far too many occasions, I am part Italian, and have grown up to eat a Mediterranean diet. My Grandma was, in my opinion, one of the greatest cooks ever to live. It’s not just me that thought that, all my friends were introduced to pizzas way before they were a fashion in Britain.

I now cook all the food in my house and have, on many occasions, sold some of my recipes to chefs who want to create their own new, ‘taste sensation!’ But it’s still just knocking up a bit of dinner.

The problem we have is that young people don’t regard some skills as skills anymore, while worshipping the useless.

Some professions that I hear that young people aspire to all the time are;

Actor.  Someone who pretends to be someone else.

Model. A person who puts clothes on and takes clothes off.

Footballer.  A person who kicks a ball

Celebrity.  A fuckwit!

Now, please don’t get me wrong; if I was offered the chance to do any of the above jobs (with the exception of model) I would jump at the chance. And I write and tell stories for a living which, let's face it, is not rocket science, is it?

When I left school, I became a joiner on the building sites, because that’s what my father did for a living.

All the building industry is now suffering because there are no apprenticeships and no skilled people to do the jobs. Being a joiner or brickie or sparkie or plumber is skilled, hard work and deserves to be regarded as such. That’s why they earn so much money now. The same has to be said of engineers and any other artisan skill.

The next time you have a flood in your house, call a model and see what use they are. Most skilled trades people, what ever their trade, would know enough to avert a total disaster. I’m not saying that other jobs are not worth while; on the contrary, I’m saying that any job is a worthwhile pursuit. Try going without your bins being emptied for a few weeks and just see how important refuse collectors are. If I were a refuse collector, I think I would still prefer to be called a ’binman’, though - I don’t know why, but it just sounds good.

So it’s about time that all people were shown their worth, whatever their jobs whether they are hard working teachers, nurses, trades people or ’binmen’.

People should realise that yes, some actors can earn quite a bit of money, but most are just struggling by.

I know lots of young people in the eighties all wanted to wecome wankers...wankers... sorry the key for the letter wetween A and C is not working. They all wanted to work in finance and wecome wankers.. .And they all achieved their dream.

Ye Cannae Take My Freedom!

I have, for quite a while now, been thinking about the true meaning of freedom. Being married as long as I have sends you like that.

We are none of us ‘free’ in the true sense of the word. To be really free you would have to take a bow and arrow and live in a jungle by yourself. I can guarantee that if you think this is such a romantic idea, your thoughts would quickly change from freedom to survival.

You see that’s the problem we have, freedom means different things to different people. We have to have rules and laws, otherwise humans could not function as a group. All creatures on earth have rules of their species that they obey, but there are a few Mavericks.

The recent events with the newspapers here in Britain gave me cause to worry. The west likes to think that it leads the way in democracy, but whose version of democracy?

In the past, you read a newspaper that reflected your political stance. You then knew which side of the fence you had to paint. But in time, some press barons became more powerful than others. And the political scene in Britain changed, as son of Thatcherstien, Tony Blair formed ‘suits R us’ and all parties jumped on the bandwagon. The problem was that without definition, they need spin; so they climbed into bed with the press barons.

Politicians in bed with the press and vice versa is a corrosive and deceitful affair, that, as we have just seen, can only end in tears. Gone are the days of real press men such as the Australian reporter John Pilger, who spoke out against Britain's and America's foreign policy because he saw them as colonialism, and in came the "who’s shagging who" brigade.

Newspapers don’t carry news any more, just shit about so-called celebrities, none of whom I have heard of. They are usually talentless attention-seekers that would sell their child for a paragraph in one of the daily red tops! Do you really care who other people sleep with? As long as they are not sleeping with my wife I don’t give a toss, come to think of it even if they are sleeping with my wife I...no, just kidding.

In the past, a celebrity was - as it said on the can - ‘A person whose life you celebrated’.

When one of my heroes, Gandhi, visited the west, a reporter, seeing a good headline asked, “Mr Gandhi, what do you think of western civilisation?” To which Gandhi replied, “Yes, it sounds like a good idea!”

Can you imagine any politician anywhere in the world now with the wit to say something as clever as that?

You see, true freedom is intellectual freedom, free from political, social or religious dogma. The right to think freely without having to conform or obey ideologies that have been fed to us over many years.

I love the quote that is attributed to Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet). “I disapprove of what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” I believe this with every atom of my being. (The last line was mine, not Voltaire’s).

To be truly free intellectually is probably even more difficult than buying a bow and arrow and moving to the jungle. We have all been bombarded from birth with the views of people which we have come to take as the truth without ever questioning them. They become our snuggle blanket that we wrap around ourselves in the mistaken belief of truth.

I have, for many years, been trying to rediscover the real world, viewing it without my biased, bigoted glasses of my past given to me by both my parents and my social background. It is very difficult, as I no longer have my snuggle blanket as I’m constantly confronted with people whose beliefs are entrenched into their very fibre. The world is a big, diverse planet full of amazing, wonderful things. Some of which we know lots about, some of which we know very little. I wish all people were given the chance to go with an open clear mind out into the world and see and feel its true beauty, without the brain-damaging ideologies their societies force on them from childhood.

We can not achieve intellectual freedom unless we have the ability to understand what others have to say and, in turn, communicate our ideas back to them. Every person on this planet should have the right to a proper free education. Without literacy we are again reliant on others to give us information, this of course will be their version of events.

Now for the shameless promotion of my work. I have been quite fortunate in my life and had a bit of success in my chosen field which if you don’t know is writing and comedy or both. My first book, ‘The Spot on My Bum’ has become a book which children and adults love. It was written at first to encourage my son Lee who is dyslexic, I now travel the globe trying to engage young people using humour and rude poetry. I try to show them the fun side of learning; the rest will then follow.

I have recently started to write for older teens and for adults. These books are fast-paced stories with strange twists. I want adults who wouldn’t normally read to pick up a book and have a go. My stories hopefully are written in a style which is all story and no padding, so you can pick it up and put it down when you like - just like freezing a DVD. It must be working, as my new book Changes, is up for an award (vote here on the side of this blog!)

This is why I have been thinking recently about freedom. My publishers have let me experiment with styles which in truth can be hit and miss. I also have a radio show on Phoenixfm 96.7fm which goes out every Wednesday at 2 pm till 4 pm British time. I present the show with my co-host Chantel (she hates it when you spell her name wrong!) and it’s just chat and comedy. Again Phoenix lets me experiment with the content of the show.

There must be lots of people out there who have a talent for art. Whether it be for writing, painting, sculpture, music or any other form of art. Who have never had the chance or the opportunity that I have been lucky enough to have.

So I want to start some sort of artistic movement, where beginners can work with established people in their chosen field. I want them to have the intellectual freedom to try out new ideas. You wouldn’t believe how many times people tell me, “I would love to write a book!” Well, come on then, do it!

I don’t care where you are in the world or what your background is. This is where artists new and established can swap ideas free from doctrine and dogma to create new art. I have called my new series of books Twisted Minds; I think that would be a good name for my new venture.

I have no idea how this will work, but if you like the idea then post a comment or send me an e mail.

Remember this is an artistic movement not a political or religious movement.

Do you have a twisted mind full of other peoples ideas?  Let's untangle the knot!

Now I have to go cook a meal for my wife, when I have dropped off some presents to her sister's house for her. I do love my freedom!