THE EURO-SICKENER SONG CONTEST 2013 : JUST WHO ARE THE SWIVEL-EYED LOONS?

The word ‘contest’ as all of here in Britain know, is a plain stinking joke. I mean HELLOW EUROPE! When most of your Governments not so long ago were Fascist, Nazi, Nazi friendly collaborators or just killing Jews in concentration camps or robbing and murdering them in your streets, the British people stood alone fighting and then went on fighting to liberate you and your countries from tyranny. Yes you fuckers, and now what do we see? All you pissy little creeps ganging up together to give each other points for the shit you’re mouthing while for Britain it’s nil points as usual. Well quite frankly sometimes I just don’t know why we bother with you these days as you are all, the whole lot of you, so plain bloody appalling.

I’ve just read the opening of this post to my dear wife. She gave me a warm wry smile and said, “it’s a bit wishy-washy!” Now that’s what I call real British humor. Something the scumbags from the Baltic States to the Balkans just wouldn’t understand! But then let’s look at it another way. The contest was held in Malmo, Sweden! Yes Malmo, where they recently had anti-Israel, anti-Semitic riots… And Sweden? That was the supposedly neutral country during the Second World War that allowed the Nazis to rail-transport supplies of iron from its occupied neighbor next door, Norway, across its territory for a handsome profit to feed the Nazi war machine. That was Sweden all right, the owner of one of its main companies, Ikea, recently expressing pro-Nazi sentiments and equally appalling, Swedish Governments up until a few decades back engaged in the ‘breeding’ policy of eugenics, something Hitler and his lads were up to their eyes in during the thirties!

Such a lovely place, Sweden, but that’s not the worst of it. The Baltic States have a much dirtier record. Hello Malmo… This is Estonia calling… Estonia? Isn’t that the country that gives its nationals who were former members of their homegrown Nazi SS state pensions in recognition of their murderous wartime activities? And how about Lithuania, which specialized in mass murdering Jews in the streets of their cities… Then of course there’s Latvia, formerly a favourite stomping ground of Himmler’s Baltic States Extermination Squad. Nothing done about the old Nazis there, still alive and well in healthy retirement.

Whoops, did I say something rude? Surely not about lovely Croatia that once set up its own concentration camps! But then there’s always France, once described by one of Margaret Thatcher’s Ministers apropos the Second World War as “a nation of collaborators!” I mean like Coco Chanel sleeping on a regular basis with the head of the Paris Gestapo!

Yes, hello Europe! We love you all here in Britain! We get nil points from you time after time while you’re only too glad to send us your wines and your beer, your fruit and your cheese. The British! We’ll send them any old shit because they love us in Europe, especially former fascist Spain that gave refuge to Nazi war criminals in droves. Well actually, Europeans, most British people don’t love you at all and given the chance by our politicians of a referendum that’s never likely to happen, we’d tell you just where to go.

The Euro-Sickener Song Contest year after year says it all! And we British in our own British way love it all, or maybe that’s just what you think! Actually most of us watch it for altogether more cynical reasons. It’s because in our heads we’re just laughing at you and your antics and taking the piss. We generally find you contemptible and your so-called Common Market a joke. But then these are things I really mustn’t say or I’ll have Europhiles like Ken Clarke, Peter ‘Mandy’ Mandelson, Nick Clegg and his mob and Florence the Snail Miliband down on my head calling me a swivel-eyed loon! Okay you desperate swivel-eyed Europhiles, what do we get out of Europe except nil points, smelly cheeses and rotten fruit? Tell me about how important they are to us and what we actually get out of them. Tell me about all this wonderful trade we do with bankrupt Ireland, a low tax haven for Google, with bankrupt Greece, Portugal, Spain, Cyprus and semi-bankrupt Italy. I’ll tell you what trade we do with them, the City of London helps organise loans for their economies at the expense of British taxpayers.

Actually compared to the money we help organise for them at the expense of our own social services and Welfare State, they buy very little from us. What no British cheeses? Hmm, one of your typically British jokes mon ami! So tell me, you Euro-Sickener Song Contest friendly Europhiles, since when were the ex-Soviet republics of Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia and Belarus ever in Europe. Since when were they along with Turkey and the Ukraine ever in the Common Market? No, they never were, but then we’re all a big happy family when it comes to the Euro-Sickener. Wasn’t it all so delicious. The Scanty-clad Spider-Legs woman from Belarus with her pins  all the way up to her ears being politically sponsored all the way from the top… The black sequin gowned Dracula Man from Romania along with falsetto voice and half naked boys and girls, real biting satire if ever there was one with hundreds of thousands of them soon on their way over to Britain to chew on the fat… The ‘zany’ stomping Greeks looking seriously silly for their billions of Euro-loans singing Alcohol is Free. What, in Greece? Is that a joke or something! Then the louche, greasy looking Italian like something out of the Godfather and of course, the ever-popular Scandinavian tit-fest mixed in with fetching young boys!

Most of the songs, incomprehensible even in English because they were accompanied by a loud banging of drums, raucous sound and the plain silly antics of their performers, are what now actually passes for a highlight of modern European culture. There was real little melody in any of it. Little that was tuneful, lyrical and sincere. Just a pretentious loud soulless racket coloured with a bit of national sentiment. Denmark was clearly the winner for putting all the worst of it best, but the occasionally tuneful, quietly sung melodious songs like that from Hungary, my own favorite, along with the Maltese entry, came nowhere compared to the crashing entries from Azerbaijan and the Ukraine, both thrust to the fore with the usual votes ganging racket.

Quite frankly, you gyrating little toy-boys and girls from Scandinavia to Central Asia I don’t give a monkey’s for your lousy lyrics and puerile performances among which the British was close to the worst. Far more interesting was the oh so typical geo-political ganging together of your national audiences. It said a great deal about you all and how plain ghastly you are. The Scandinavians all hanging out swapping ten to twelve points, same as the Ukraine and all the other smelly East Europeans. Though Hungary I noted was a happy exception. The nationals of fifteen or more countries all giving it out for their neighbors next door.

Here’s some examples.

Keeping it in Scandinavia

Sweden 12 points to Norway : Norway 12 points to Sweden    

Iceland 10 points to Norway : 12 points to Denmark
Finland 12 points to Norway
Denmark 12 points to Norway

Going Dutch

Holland 12 points to Denmark : Denmark 10 points to Holland

Keeping it Neighborly

Ukraine 12 points to Belarus : Belarus 12 points to Ukraine

Romania 12 points to Moldova : Moldova 10 points to Romania
Georgia 12 points to Azerbaijan : Azerbaijan 10 points to Georgia
Armenia 10 points to Georgia : Georgia 10 points to Armenia
Ukraine 8 points to Moldova : Moldova 12 points to Ukraine

Dear old Pals

Cyprus 12 points to Greece : Greece 12 points to Cyprus

Russia and the Baltic States

Latvia 12 points to Russia : 10 points to Estonia     

Estonia 12 points to Russia

And this, trust me, is just a small sample.

Now what does that say for such a contest, for the supposed finesse of the music, for the lyrics and beauty of song? What does it say for the foibles of nationalism and clannishness over the virtues of personal ability and talent. The British entry was puce and so was the Irish, but the shit out of Azerbaijan was something real special. Someone gyrating on stage with a fellow performer squirming in a nearby glass box, lyrics utterly incomprehensible. Yet it gained a large number of votes across a broad spectrum of countries. Could it be that Azerbaijan, now a crucial exporter of oil across Europe, gained some kind of capital from this? Only if you believe that the European wide audiences were aware of such and voted with the price of petrol in mind.

Such a belief is pure foolishness. There’s a far better explanation. It’s that Europe wide audiences shared an affinity for what in truth was a piece of plain poop. They loved it to bits but they loved Denmark’s mixture  of Lego and Lurpak far more. All very smooth, all very bland. Like soggy sweet Danish pastry.

Now this might not say very much, only aren’t these the people our Europhiles in Britain are only too happy to hand our taxpayers’ money? Give so many of these sleep-through-the-afternoon tax dodgers part of our hard earned pay? Well they tell us we should, only for what? I mean, what kind of deal are we getting from them so we should hand them our dosh? Do they love us so much that we should spend part of our time working for them? As most people know it’s only the bankers who are getting anything out of the deal and we all know what they’re like. Milk their grandmothers’ tits for a shilling and worse. No, you think we’re zany and British and silly and you love taking our money both here and abroad but sooner or later it’ll be time to say no. No to our swivel-eyed Euro-Loons who want to hand out our taxpayers’ money and no to the pathetic Euro-Sickener Song Contest that’s only a vehicle for fools.

The real meaning of the European Union to most British people is not that of a talked up but in truth non-existent export market for businessmen but an organisation which facilitates the movement of cheap labour. One that legally guarantees millions of people from its East European member states the right to freely come here and take jobs from British people because what they earn in their own countries is rubbish. For most British workers it’s an organisation for dumping cheap labour on them. Dumping cheap labour East to West, South to North Europe.

Watch the Euro-Sickener Song Contest and you’ll see plenty of gyrating swivel-keyed loons. Listen to the Europhile-Sickeners here in Britain and you’ll hear even more. But you really don’t have to worry. They’re both as incomprehensible as each other. None of them make any sense. They’re all singing shit. It’s only when they’re all mixed up together, some are more pretty than others!

CAMDEN LOCK MARKET : SELLING CRYSTALS TO THE GREAT AND THE GOOD

Camden Lock Market at the heart of London’s Camden Town was once a great sprawling catchment of stalls selling just about everything, the whole layout livened up by a splendid chaos and filth which purposefully managed, created the kind of ambience that attracted just about every kind of scuzzy dude  from here to the Andromeda Nebula, among which were legions of youthful pleasure seeking tourists on   the lookout for just about anything!

The market, during the time I traded there selling healing crystals, gem-trees and minerals, was at street level next to the canal and almost directly underneath a rail bridge. Take the tube to Camden Town Station and it was 200 metres down the High Street on the left hand side of a drag of shops flogging clothing of every description from leather jackets to ripped fishnet stockings, basques and other tart apparel, smokers’ items including soft drugs, videos, a coffee and cake outlet and last but not least a soft porn gay outlet. On a June weekend of bright sunshine the street sparkled with a kind of anything goes fun and filth atmosphere. On a dull rainy October it was just dirty, lively and damp! One way or another, it wasn’t the kind of place you could say was up its own arse like London’s nearby West End.

The market itself seemed effortlessly grimy but within you could endlessly browse and usually find something unexpected. Indeed, people from all over the world came to sell things they had easy access to and thought worth giving a try. If the management liked it they might give them a stall on a temporary basis. See how things went! The ambience in the market was therefore eclectic and cosmopolitan in nationality and gear with stalls selling jewellery of every description, food and drink from hot spicy cider to goulash, hand-made metal and plastic ornaments, bric-a-brac crap of infinite variety, fantastic wooden doorway imports from India turned into tabletops, old 78s and vinyl records, fashionable trash clothing, hats and boots of every variety from normal to kinky, all mixed in with a smattering of shops in a kind of covered square whose leaseholders sold things no one can remember but thought they and their crap were infinitely superior to everything else.

First timers or those trying their luck for two or three months had to queue early for the allocation of temporary stalls. Maybe fifty up on offer to those favored. The rest were what you’d call regulars. After being booted off the High Street as fly pitchers we soon found ourselves queuing up for a temporary stall in the market. Management liked our stuff. It was different and we were a bit older than usual. Easy to get along with and no problem. They liked our attitude. Never complained when there were times we never got on. Soon we were permanent. Didn’t have to queue anymore. Laid up our stall bright, shiny, attractive and early, ready to trade around eight. Not that people appeared before eleven to buy but there were sometimes exceptions and we were always hot to take money. Management liked that too and soon shifted us to a better site for our tables. Still as squalid as anywhere else but then, at Camden, squalid counted for something, especially with our gem-trees and crystals. All vibrant and sparkling in the filth. They kind of fed on each other so to speak and everyone liked it! Above all our gear was different. Nothing like it anywhere else on the market! And then there were the crystals and the healing that came with them.

We were deeply New Age. Highly specialist and only for those in the know!

That was then, a few years ago, and I’ll return to it soon. Now, the once magnificent chaos, easy ambience, and plain delicious squalor has gone along with the wandering drugs dealers. Apart from a geriatric Rastafarian playing an out of key guitar on the nearby canal the atmosphere’s flat as a pancake. The market alas went through a major building development. Its owners, a bank, wanted more space for stalls and having no land to spread sideways decided to build Up. The result was a complex development containing a few shops on a great square of inward and outward facing stalls at many levels. Many more stalls maybe but with them the character of the market has fundamentally changed. Most of the Ground Floor level outside near the Canal is occupied by stalls selling food, food, food with a bit of jewellery here and there. Inside, Ground Floor level, it’s mostly jewellery and ornaments. Many rigs selling the same kind of silver and semi-precious type rings and earrings from Nepal. Upstairs it’s worse. Endless rows of jewellery stalls, one after another, from the expensive dull and boring to the plain cheap and cheerful that you’ve only seen seconds ago as you walk round in a daze looking for something different. Sometimes, someone selling Egyptian papyrus all bright with Pharoes or ornamental lighting made of god knows what. Quite frankly it’s all much the same wherever you look.

Nothing wild and worth having. For that you have to go to the market next door. The Stables are vast, wildly eclectic and full of shops and stalls selling attractive and imaginative gear, handmade or otherwise, imported or not, and with it a seemingly endless number of Chinese noodle-nosh outlets near one of the entrances. Today the Stables are definitely worth visiting, far more than Camden Lock Market. That said let me return to the scene of past wisdom and cares. To stories of Crystal Healing and treasured memories of old!

Names have been changed to safeguard conflict and confidence, but not so the dilemmas revealed, their resolution and their surprises. Here then the first.

 

BEAUTY AND THE PRIEST

My first sight of Father Aloysius, for that is who I shall call him, was that of a middle aged though youthful looking cleric who appeared at our stall early one Saturday, smiling I noted as he took in the range of gem-trees we had on display. I said nothing but let him look, hopefully appreciating the multiplicity of green leaves that sparkled in the sunlight. My surmise proved correct as he seemingly nodded his head in approval. My wife made them, I pointed out, adding that he was welcome to pick them up if he wished.

He wasn’t sure he said quietly, worried that he might break them. No problem I quickly reassured him, they were too strong for that. Besides, I added with a firm look, he didn’t have to buy anything.

He still wasn’t touching though, just looking, so I wrote him and his collar off to pious poverty and let it go, but all the same followed his glance over the table. After the trees the pendants, then some of the minerals before he stopped at the crystals. “Quartz,” I interjected, interrupting his thoughts with a bit of information! He could definitely pick those up!

His hand hovered over a large dogtooth double termination before moving on to a small piece of rose quartz. One with a satiny feel, a special from Madagascar. That he picked up. Was it my imagination or was he actually ‘feeling’ the thing? I said nothing. The man was a priest for god’s sake. Had the biggest healer of all in his pocket. What could he want with a piece of pink rock unless… I immediately put such thoughts to one side. Talk healing with a priest? It was out of the question! Better keep shtumm.

Over the next five minutes I watched his eyes wander, our conversation confined to questions he asked about various minerals. Me telling him what they were and where they came from. Before he left he asked something strange. Did I believe that they did anything for people?

Like helped them relax or make them feel better I suggested. Yes, that kind of thing he acknowledged.

Yes for many people they did, I ventured, half expecting a laugh or a swift put down. There were many types of crystals that did different things. Had different kinds of healing properties. He again nodded, somewhat neutrally I felt, then told me his name. He was new in the area… recently transferred from a parish up north. I wished him best of luck settling in. New places sometimes brought new problems along with them. His reply came swift and earnest. New problems on top of old he said unexpectedly, life wasn’t easy. I smiled affably, not knowing what to make of his comment and soon he was gone.

The idea of a priest with problems stayed in my head for a few days then vanished. Weeks later it was back, the good father again in front of the stall! “How’s life?” I asked cheerily. His smile seemed strange, almost forced. “Full of contradictions,” was all he managed to say.

I felt apprehensive. Better not to ask any questions. You never knew where it might lead. Besides, the man was a priest. Probably doing confessionals. Heard just about everything and more. I said nothing, just let him go on. Nodding quietly, taking it in bit by bit. Surmising that he just wanted to talk. I wasn’t a kid myself. Heard plenty and more in my time selling my crystals, from all kinds of people. Soon over the weeks we had a real rapport going. Me listening more than anything else, sharing his thoughts, offering a few of my own, building a picture of the man and his troubles. I wasn’t getting sweet Jesus! Twenty years wearing the collar and here was a man full of doubts. Son of God? With all the trouble going on in the world who was sure about God anymore! There were still plenty of questions he had to be honest...

Twenty years and now he was questioning faith, and there was me finding it hard to take in! Meanwhile not a word about healing. I mean, why spoil the party? No, there was more to it than that. In a way the party was already spoilt but what to do with it all? Who was I to try and change things? Help, maybe, but nothing more. I sensed a real change in him. He was increasingly curious. Wanted to know what I thought about crystals. Why I sold them. The kind of people who bought them and why?

It’s easy for people out there to feel cynical. There was me into crystals and healing. Making money out of  it and all. And sure, I understood his dilemma, only where did it put me? I wasn’t up for being some kind of father confessor, hearing him out in a crazy reversal of roles. I just didn’t like the idea. But then I suppose I’d come to look on him as a friend, and who was I anyway to leave him flat in the world?

Over the weeks I gradually began talking crystals. Giving him advice bit by bit and making him think. He was a man full of doubts so how could I help… give him introspection, reduce his stress, assist him expand his consciousness. After a while I began mentioning certain minerals and crystals which I thought might help. He didn’t have to go along with anything I said, I put it plain. Just think about things.

My first suggestion was Kunzite, a highly spiritual stone that radiated tranquility. Pink was possibly best. It helped clear emotional debris such as resistance to new ideas while helping deal with contradictions and personal pressure. More important than anything else though it facilitated introspection. It would free his mind. Help him think. It was best worn as a pendant but unfortunately I didn’t have any. I’d look into it if he liked though it wouldn’t come cheap. Maybe twenty, thirty pounds or more but it would definitely help.

Just as interesting though was Apophyllite, clear crystals of which were readily available, many coming from India. It had strong links with the spiritual realm and as a stone of truth - by initially reducing anxiety and stress - promote introspection as a way of facilitating recognition of his true self. It would help clear his mind of any doubt or just as possibly guide him along a new path. Whatever the case it would certainly resolve his confusion. He could keep a crystal of it in his pocket if he chose or keep a group of them by his bedside.

Finally I suggested Ametrine, a transparent crystal combining Amethyst and Citrine. Unfortunately I didn’t have any. It came from Bolivia but I could obtain some if he wanted. It was a kind of New Age Crystal. Acted fast and effectively in clearing tension and stress and had powerful cleansing properties which would help give him focus and take control of his life.

These I felt were the best kind of crystals he could use. One at a time if he liked or some acting together. It was just a suggestion. Nothing more. The choice was his. He didn’t have to try any if he didn’t want to.

I knew he’d listened sympathetically and felt he’d taken it in. It was a matter of feeling as much as anything else. In time however my mood about it all changed. Weeks went by and he never showed up. Maybe I’d somehow been wrong. I felt disappointed. For him to disappear just like that! Weeks followed months and slowly, gradually, he dropped out of my thoughts, though not entirely I supposed. Times were when I looked up, half expecting to see him looming over the stall but it never happened. Six months turned into a year then another till finally he just wasn’t there anymore. That is till many years later! I was a lot older then and people I’d never taken money from were long forgotten. Then a shock. One day he was suddenly back. His face staring out at me front page on one of the tabloids. That same uncertain smile below a big banner headline…

CRYSTAL HEALING CARDINAL DEFROCKED      

I could hardly believe it as I read through the story… The man’s early life as a priest, his rise to prominence, eventually becoming a Cardinal. There’d even been talk of him reaching the highest level of all but for the discovery of crystals tucked away in a drawer by a cleaner tidying his room in the Vatican. It was a photo of Father Aloysius as I remembered him only altogether more aged, with a strange smile playing on his lips. Around his neck hung a small cross but then, as I more carefully took it all in, was definitely quite something else. Something small, elongated and pink. I felt astonished. Memory came flooding back. Holy Mary Mother of God, he was wearing a pendant of Kunzite!

I could hardly be anything but amazed. It was like Jimmy Savile! He’d been doing his own thing all those years and no one had noticed! Not even the Vatican police! As for myself and my role in it all I was simply astounded. Clearly, in some way I hadn’t known or understood I’d helped him resolve his dilemma! He’d abandoned Christianity for Crystals. But for a chance discovery there could have been a crystal healing, even an atheist Pope in the Vatican. A Pope into crystal healing instead of Jesus! Pope Apophyllite the First!

It just goes to show! I mean, you just never know what’s going to happen in this world and the kinds of people you’ll meet. Work on a market selling crystals and you might get caught up in changing the destiny of mankind. Alternatively, have trouble parking your arse on a toilet seat and you could find yourself designing flat pack furniture for Sir Alan, begging his pardon, Lord Sugar!

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE RETIREMENT OF A FOOTBALL MANAGER

In recent decades we have witnessed what to my mind is the degeneration of what was once a relaxed weekend pastime into an ugly exploitative money-making business full of puking, cheating, over-rich rude-boys whose antics are on a par with bankers and others in the financial services industry. Indeed, football today has been deservedly described as such, albeit an industry in which commodity production by manual labour is replaced by entertainment for those who used to make things, the working man relegated to the role of spectator.

How true is it to say though that the role of those being entertained is entirely passive when so many football clubs have active regiments of supporters and followers, even gangs, who buy fashion status shirts and other items of clothing, adopt songs, chants and mascots along with a wide variety of personal apparel that all exclusively serve as a kind of identifying uniform. Men, mostly men, are increasingly no longer part of collective structures such as the factory workplace or trades union. Much of this has now been exchanged by adherence to groups of semi-educated youths, average age 18-22, who entertain, if that’s what you want to call it, by kicking a plastic ball around for ninety minutes a week and mostly disappoint!   

Football is now a business, with many clubs quoted on stock markets making their money from clothes franchises, garments manufactured cheap and cheerful in China, extortionate admission prices, but above all, from an astonishing player transfer system which with its commissions and fees, legal and illegal, adds up to billions. It is here that the said entertainers, players with more publicity consciousness than skill, put themselves up for celebrity status and ludicrous price tag values manipulated by the new parasitic phenomenon of personal agents on behalf of the new financial mentality of clubs. Here, in this dance of greed, performers and manipulators come together in an alliance of wealth creation on the backs of millions of followers, a complex though really quite simple arrangement in which passionate, ultimately deluded souls pay a price for their once a week treat… denying their families money for their own self-indulgent hysterical need.

And never has this mania with its parasitic army of pundits, journalists, agents and talk-talk boys shown itself to be so staggeringly ubiquitous than now with the recent retirement of football club manager Alex Ferguson, a dour Scot with an undoubted psychological talent for managing juveniles. If any intelligent person needed a bigger shock to their system about the true meaning and importance of this once a week past-time-sport it was that for two days or more this one man’s retirement from managing a football team was given greater prominence throughout the national news media than the political and social life of the nation or anything else for that matter! The traditional Queen’s Speech detailing Government policy intentions over the next year was unceremoniously relegated into the background, Fergie’s retirement thought to be more important than changes that will seriously affect huge numbers of men, women and children throughout the country.

Consider this carefully. It has to say something!

Having performed such a trick, the media, from the BBC to the Murdoch Empire and beyond would argue that this is what the British people, who they ingenuously call the public, want. Yes, they’re giving us what we want! A plain lie if ever there was one because football is actually a minority sport, so in answer to what is a genuine question they ingenuously crumb up the excuse, we’re giving the public what they want! Sure you are, but does this public of yours include most of our kids, most men and women, those who might be more interested in the welfare and benefit cuts that will soon affect their lives. True, many of the so-called beautiful game’s most fervent supporters are among the most needy but that’s no excuse for substituting news of national importance and concern for the great majority with an endlessly revolving triviality from the world of fetish entertainment with its spitting, foul play, acting and pretense.

However, this is not just a story of how the retirement of a football club manager covers up a fair amount of political dirt about to descend on the heads of millions of people - well done the Establishment News Channel of the British political class! This post is about football itself, a province of low self-esteem, low in self-confidence followers, of gobby managers whose televised chat is really a bit of a joke, of know it all pundits who like to think of themselves as aficionados, and last but not least hats off to the players, a sorry little empire of self-important jerks many of whom can’t do the required thing of controlling a piece of plastic properly. Football was once a pastime of the industrial working class with pie and mash during the interval for fans. It was played by working class lads with rough lace up boots and a leather ball who knew how to run with it, dribble, pass and shoot, and rarely if ever foul, complain or fall down at the slightest touch, look tearful, endlessly complain or challenge the referee. Now they always fall over! Once, not so long ago, ninety-nine percent of the players were British. Today mostly not, Once they were exciting to watch and modest with it. Now they don’t give a shit and just want your money.

Today, football is ugly, greedy and no longer clever, It’s another kind of swindle on the populace, a bit like food substitution. Horsemeat for beef, aggravational foul play for genuine skill. Temporary contract low skill poorly paid jobs in a call center or retail park for engineering or manufacturing ability. Just another substitution swindle for what was once skillful, for those who knew their worth and had self-esteem. Who didn’t put themselves about in the modern British fashion and think they were celebrities, more important than anyone else.

You’ve only got to watch an England football game on television played at Wembley or abroad to get a flavor of those who support our national team. Many are almost as pathetic as the players! Their ardor you may think is linked with a genuine patriotic fervor. True, only it’s much more than that. There’s no other national footballing side whose supporters sing the nation’s anthem so regularly. A strange contradiction if ever there was one as it’s an anthem that speaks nothing about the welfare of its people, only for its solitary unelected ruler by inheritance. With the exception of North Korea, there’s nothing else like it! Watching England, one can hear God Save the Queen being throated out with an almost manic regularity in London Cockney. The Queen, in the minds of these passionate friends, is bonded with the team like nothing on earth. She’s their symbol of Englishness above and against everything foreign, and naturally along with it there’s the symbolic expression of the defeat of Germany in the Second World War by way of the tune from The Great Escape beaten out by a supporters band in a frenzy of fervor and joy.

Support for England’s football team is an intensely emotional experience with its social basis deep in the London working class. It’s nationalistic all right but not as vile as the conduct and chants of other national team or club supporters, mainly from East Europe or Italy. It goes with a commonality of appearance among many supporters straight out the Polish or Ukrainian underclass. Is that it then, sad to say? The poorer you are the more ignorant and racist you’re likely to be? But then there’s also Scottish club football to consider with Catholics and Protestants each supporting their own club through religious affiliation. Hundreds of thousands of people in Glasgow hating each other throughout the year across a religious divide reinforced by football! Was there ever a place where football and religion were more intertwined? For the poor of that city, football one way or another, was always a religion!

A religion or a distraction? It can honestly be said that although essentially European in terms of its modern origin, there’s been no other sport throughout human history, even horse-racing, that’s been orchestrated to capture so much national attention and divert it from the central social and political issues of the day. Weekly club games capture as much interest and energy from the mass of city dwellers as games of a different nature did in the Arenas and Stadia of the Roman Empire two thousand years back. Indeed, they were used by its ruling families and aristocrat class to gain popularity among the masses, much as the political class encourages sport as a passport to popularity today. Trouble is, football’s modern gladiators are unlike their ancient counterparts. They’re more often difficult to control straight out of school teenagers with one big lousy attitude. Hence the importance of management skills for those who can’t manage themselves. The need for a father figure for temperamental teenagers from families that never had one.

Father confessor, priest, rabbi and psychologists skills…  Given the circumstances of an untalented, difficult, modern teenager’s life, all are relevant for the role of a modern football club team manager.     

 

For some it’s wonderfully paid. Football managers these days have yachts and stables of racehorses. David Moyes, Manchester United’s new manager, will reportedly earn thirty million quid on a five year contract. More than any father confessor, priest, rabbi or psychologist ever did. That said, there’s only one question that’s worth asking now. What makes football managers worth more than thousands of nurses, teachers, firemen, bus drivers, doctors and policemen? When you’re sick, when you need help and comfort, when you want your kids to be educated, do you ring up your football manager and ask? No, you don’t really care jack about how much all these others are getting for what they do for you every day. You take all their kindness and caring and help for granted, just as long as you can contribute to the ridiculous, extortionate salaries of footballers and their managers who really don’t do anything much for you once a week except behave like jackasses after which treat you return to your wives and kids and watch them eating cheap takeaways.

Football supporters! It’s time to stop being passive spectators and start being men again. Take your wives and children out into the world, share new vistas with them and turn your back on the turnstiles!

BLINK AND YOU’LL MISS HIM! IT’S NIGEL THE ROCKET FARAGE!

There’s a new kid on the block called Nigel.
Takes a load of Euro Stick our Nigel.
E’s a man of forthright views,
so e’s often in the news
with ‘is Immigration Blues, is Nigel.

Oh e’ll tell us ‘ow it is, our Nigel.

Just the truth without the fizz, will Nigel.
We’ve a lot to thank ‘im for,
With ‘is voice outside our door
So ‘ere’s to UKIP even more
Good old Nigel.

Now ‘ee says just what ‘ee thinks, does Nigel

To the Euro-mob it stinks, don’t it Nigel
An ‘ees down on immigration
Cos ‘ee wants to serve the nation
All for which our adulation,
Good bloke Nigel!

‘Ee’s not scared to speak ‘is mind, is Nigel,

Tough as any boots you’ll find, our Nigel,
He’ll take all the Tory smears and he’ll talk for twenty years
With a smile round both ‘is ears won’t you Nigel…

So we’ll vote for him and UKIP, one for Nigel.

Not for Cameron the Blue Tit, right on Nigel.
We need a Government that makes sense,
From immigration to defence,
An’ a man who we can trust, like Nigel!

Former Tory working class and underclass voters now voting UKIP aside, the most interesting thing to come out of this recent round of elections is the eye watering collapse of the Liberal Democrats and nowhere is this better seen than in the South Shields by-election where their candidate came seventh, getting only 200 more votes than the Monster Raving Loony Party.

Well how do you like that Mr Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg? Only 200 more votes than the Loony Party in a national by-election! Well it’s often said that it’s bad to speak ill of the dead but in the case of the Liberal Democrats a point can be made to the contrary as there is nothing so pleasing to those who once voted for you to see your gang of opportunistic turds floating away down the sewer into a well-deserved oblivion. The electorate have flushed you down the river of no return so please spare us the drama of trying to crawl your way back up with promises of good things ahead and keeping a check on the Tories. Please! Everyone knows by now that you’re far more right wing than they are!

That said, this post is essentially about the United Kingdom Independence Party which along with its leader has been around the fringe of British politics for quite a while now and going nowhere in purely local terms with their often repeated twin message about the necessity for Britain to leave the European Union and the dangers of uncontrolled, unregulated mass immigration. Their only achievement indeed has been to gain political representation in the European Parliament a few years back. The election results of recent days however have changed everything with an over the board popular vote for the Party of some 25% of the electorate! With a result of some 150 council seats gained they have now clearly emerged from the shadows to be the third force in British politics after Labour and the Tories.

This emergence however, despite what their many opponents may argue, is not sudden at all and is particularly acute given the many attacks made on them by leading members of the Conservative Party including David Cameron along with an alleged campaign to smear individual members with a racist taint. On the contrary, UKIP has been powerfully lodged in the background awaiting circumstances to arise which would hugely enhance its dual message, make it ring like a bell and bring it home to the public.

BRITAIN OUT OF EUROPE AND IMMEDIATELY CURTAIL MASS IMMIGRATION.

All the circumstances of the Party’s long warning to the British electorate have now suddenly come home to roost. Firstly, with the recent rapid economic, financial and social collapse of some of the EU’s key member states, a major export market for British products, possibly the main reason for this country remaining in the organisation, has suddenly been removed. Secondly, with Britain signed up to its regulations governing the free movement of labour, it finds itself unable to prevent the potentially unlimited movement of people from East Europe into this country. A million or more Poles arrived in the first decade of the 21^st century with the blessing of the Labour Party while in the next couple of years, three quarters of a million more economic migrants are due to arrive from Rumania and Bulgaria into a situation of growing youth unemployment and serious adult under-employment here at home which UKIP rightly say creates an untenable situation.

In both areas of EU membership and immigration the Party is universally criticized by established figures from all sides of the political spectrum as racist, lunatic, fruitcakes and more, with their views denigrated, ridiculed and endlessly maligned. Interesting indeed when most of those who engage in such conduct have been responsible for policies which have caused such collapse and ruin in the financial sector of the British economy along with widespread poverty, unemployment and social deprivation in tandem with a major attack on the social welfare system. Perhaps these ‘critics’ should look to themselves and their recent claims for Parliamentary ‘expenses’ a little more than berate the voice of a Party whose message strikes such a powerful chord of realism and common sense.

True enough. Is that, then, why its critics raise their voice with such a predominant sense of fear? That they might be genuinely afraid of people hearing this message as plain common sense. That there is now no longer any economic heaven for British manufacturers and exporters in Europe because many of its member states are now bankrupt or close to… and that countless numbers of its poorest citizens will undoubtedly head this way seeking a better life at the expense of the already seriously hard pressed British taxpayer.

UKIP’s insistent message to leave Europe comes after decades of political refusal by Labour and Conservative governing parties to allow the British people any say or voice in the matter. Promises have been made and hints have been given but to date this ‘say’ this ‘voice’ has been denied because it has long been clear that the British people do not want their country to be part of  the European Community. They see no benefit to themselves from such membership and rightly!   

UKIP’s message then has resounded with an increasingly loud urgency in the ears of the British people as plain common sense on the one hand while on the other has been met with plain ridicule from the established political class who virtually all talk the same language or else a deafening silence. Even worse, the barriers of a nasty self-righteous morality have now been erected by the whole liberal-left political spectrum so that to want to even talk about let alone critically discuss any form of immigration policy is immediately termed racist or fascist. IF YOU WANT TO TALK OR ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT POLICIES OF UNRESTRICTED IMMIGRATION INTO THE UNITED KINGDOM THEN YOU IMMEDIATELY BECOME A RACIST OR FASCIST. That’s the kind of ground that’s been put up for  you to even ask questions on by people who have, quite frankly, exactly the same kind of hard core reactionary mentality they accuse UKIP supporters of having, and here, let me immediately say, that I’m neither a UKIP member or supporter.

After this recent election Nigel Farage is now clearly even more a man of the people. A determined populist who takes every photo opportunity to be seen down at the pub enjoying a pint with friends and well wishers or walking down the street smoking a cigarette. He’s an absolutely perfect fit for the gigantic credibility gap that’s opened up between tens of millions of hard pressed British people from the lower middle class down to the underclass and politicians from the three main Parties now collectively perceived as uncaring, distant and semi-corrupt. Feathering their own nest and those of their wealthy friends at the expense of everyone else and furthermore and absolutely unpardonable, refusing them the right to have their say about Europe, especially Europe, and also unlimited mass immigration. And into this gap steps the charming, dapper no-nonsense wordster Nigel Farage who won’t be talked over or humbled by television interviewers or smart-arsed pundits but will, absolutely will, have his say.

There’s just no smearing him or putting him down. He’s earnest and irrepressible and his following is growing all the time. He says what people need to hear. Others who’ve ‘let them down’ and made their lives harder all say the same thing, and that’s mostly true, but not Nigel! He says what they think. That all the politicians they once put their faith in have let them down… but he won’t! He’s smooth and he’s dapper and definitely the kind of man you can trust. He’s against all this ‘political correctness’ (as labeled by populist former Nazi-supporting newspapers like the Daily Mail), which was initially meant to be something about plain decency in the way that people related to one another but was instead turned into something rigid and nasty by the fascists of the left… believes that people should be allowed to smoke in pubs, that the NHS needs more doctors and nurses and less managers and bureaucrats… And seems to talk common sense about a whole number of things!

Yes, and he’s got followers and Party members with a good social attitude and who do voluntary work in the community like cleaning out public toilets and doing shopping for disabled pensioners. It’s UKIP’s new public image as a Caring Party, a Party of the People, and seen as such and often as possible on national television. The Party now has a new Caring brand. Nigel now seen everywhere talking plain common sense while Party members and followers daily doing good deeds, a bit like overgrown scouts.

No-one can fight against that kind of thing. Cameron and his Eton boy Tories tied up with swindling City financiers, crooked bankers and meat substitution jack the lads… Clegg and the Lib Dems hooked into the greedy energy companies, political correctness run riot and countless gay scandals, and last but not least, the Millipede, increasingly looking like Florence the Snail in The Magic Roundabout, making promises with his hands that mean just about nothing in the face of urgent solutions required… All of them vague, inconsequential and trivial when stood against the smiling whirlwind of UKIP and Nigel Farage who says what he means and means what he says. Today 25% of the popular vote; soon in the elections for the European Parliament possibly forty to sixty.

UKIP and Nigel are clearly going places in British politics.  On the up and up with your vote if that’s what you want, or do you? In bad or desperate situations sometimes it’s better to stop and think before letting something that looks good turn into a bandwagon that can’t be stopped, and then you’ll find your into something you really don’t like the look of but can’t get out of. Something you put there only to discover it’s turned into something unexpected and nasty. With consequences you never expected and a situation you never really wanted at all. A bit like Germany in the 1920s and early thirties! So you’d better think hard and be serious about the face you might choose, less it turns into a monster that consumes you.

Finally please note. Every political product comes with a warning.