Broken Biscuits

2007-05-03T16:24:00.000+01:00

Summer’s Here

Finally after two years in a broom cupboard in Stretford, I have moved offices to Manchester City Centre – so this week has been spent walking through the city in the sunshine – something I haven’t done for ages, and I can’t believe how much the city has changed since I last worked here.

Apart from the increase in the number of Starbucks and Café Nero, there just seems to be a great buss about the place.

At the moment, the temperature is 25° - and in the words of Ian Brown – “Manchester has everything – apart from a beach”

I once suggested that an area of Salford Quays should be converted into a city beach for Mancunians – the idea was laughed away by everyone I told, they thought an urban beach in Manchester would be a haven for the city’s scallies, and the sand would be awash with piss, broken bottles and needles.

Maybe it would have done ten years ago when I moved her but not so much now – even the spilffs I used to illicitly smoke in Piccadilly Gardens as a student have been replaced by urbane professionals sipping lattes on the grass.
It makes me think of Brighton again, and having some time off work.

2007-04-24T16:22:00.000+01:00

Tagalog & Mushy Peas

Not posted much on here lately as I've been away to Bulgaria, plus I've also been thinking about doing a course in teaching English as a foreign language.

Anything social that has been happening has been on my parter's side - events which included the wedding one of his friends tying the knot with a Philipino girl in the Lake District, and various visits to relatives.

I should also mention though that I won a holiday for two at a works do where I ended up suitably legless.

Trying to be good and save for the summer as plan on going down to Brighton with my best mate for a bit of a jolly over Pride weekend.

2007-03-20T09:20:00.000Z

Transpennine Excess

Tried in vain to get a cheap hotel in Liverpool on Saturday - but with it being Paddy's Day in the spiritual home of all plastic Paddies, a cheap hotel was not found.

Decided just to go through for the day on the train, as it's not that far.

We were going through to see one of our friends who we met at the start of our language course.

Our language course, has came to an abrupt end - Anja, the woman who runs the business decided to let me and J get down to the University when there was no class on - after various phone calls and text messages, I've heard neither hide nor hair from her and can only presume that she's fucked us off.

So we've decided to do our next course in Liverpool though our friend's teacher.

This will mean going through to Liverpool once a month, but that's no hardship as it's a cool city.

Arrived at lunchtime, and headed for the pub straight away - ended up in the Lisbon, where they did 35ml measures and nice sandwiches.

Suitably lashed after a good laugh in the pub, managed to stagger back to Lime Street for the train home.

Pic is of Sean Lamont, Scottish rugby player who was sent off on Saturday. Nice boy.

2007-02-28T13:16:00.000Z

New Addition

I've only just got back from Rotterdam, but when I got back I welcomed in the new addition to my home, who comes in the shape of Mitzi.

2007-02-19T15:29:00.000Z

Whatever Happened To Black Lace

Is the question that I couldn't get out of my head early one morning last year somewhere in Sunny Beach.

Having been out the night before, and over-indulged I was idly looking out towards the sea.

I don't know if it was the air conditioning unit or just the voices in my head, but I couldn't get Agadoo out of my head.

I propably haven't listened to Agadoo since the last primary school party I went to, where I would inevitabally ended up dancing with the girl who stunk of Spaghetti Bolognese.

In fact, if the truth be told, my last primary school disco saw me play DJ for the first (and not the last) time, although my wheels of steel where then limited to a very basic Midi Hi-Fi (if that word itself isn't a blast from the 80s, I don't know what is), and my stack of vinyl was limited to some 60s, 70s and 80s seven inchers, as well as the then newly released Je Ne Sais Pas Pourquoi by Kylie Minogue - who at that point was considered to be completely naff, and had yet to transform herself into the Disco Diva that she became.

Stock Aitken & Waterman at some point give way to Simon Cowell and Nigel Lythgoe.

Black Lace, however, never pretended to be tender than thou and made honest-to-god party music that was still being played in discos in the aresehole of England as late as 1989.

I was reminded of their greatness other night when I drank a bottle of wine and watched Rita Sue and Bob Too, a film which really shines after more than twenty years.

If hearing "We're Having A Gang Bang, We're Having A Ball" doesn't bring a smile to the lips, then it's a poor do indeed.

I would have thought then that they would now be retired living in palatial mansions in Sussex, lving off the royalties of their music.

How wrong was I.

It transpires that "Cottom Eye Joe" by Rednex was actually the last thing Black Lace released - one of the duo was knocked down by a London bus not long afterwards, and the sole surviving member appears to be living on benefits on a run down council estate in South London.

2007-02-19T09:42:00.000Z

Poor Michael Barrymore

It looks as though the Murdoch press have gotten their way at last, as I have read that entertainer Michael Barrymore is to leave the UK permanently for a new life in New Zealand with his boyfriend.

Never have I seen the country turn on a celebrity so viciously for announcing their sexuality.

My mother, who in the 80s would not miss an episode of Strike it Lucky, will now no longer watch him claiming he's a pervert and an abomination in the name of Christ.

The reason I find myself siding with Barrymore comes down to the way that facts have been distorted to make Barrymore look like Hitler.

Michael Barrymore is a gay man, and unfortunately he had to remain in the closet for a ridiculous amount of time, whilst at the same time, his freeloading wife was fully aware of his predicament whilst running up huge Visa bills at Harvey Nicks.

I would have thought that the raciest and most debauched showbiz parties would have been hosted by rock legends or heavy metal bands - not the man famous for My Kind of Music.

Something which has been blown out of proportion is the death of Stuart Lubbock, a closet homosexual who was a regular attendee at Michael Barrymore's parties, as well as less savoury events.

There are two main theories about the death of Stuart Lubbock - the first being that he was force-fed cocaine by Michael Barrymore, before being fucked to within an inch of his life, then drowned in a swimming pool cheered on by a crowd.

The other school of thought is that the "internal injuries" were administered after death, in a very Savillesque way by a hospital porter.

What angers me is the constant presence of Lubbock's father Terry who never misses an opportunity to hog the limelight, badmouth Barrymore, and convince the world that his son was a red blooded heterosexual.

The only person Terry Lubbock is trying to convince is himself.

Although it's a tragedy that his son died - Stuart Lubbock was gay.

To blame someone else for his shortcomings as a father is a bigger tragegy.

2007-02-12T23:07:00.000Z

Charlie With Rick Stein

Have finally now switched my blogger account over to a google one, so any absence of posts can be summed up in a few lines.

Celebrity Big Brother was a sheer disappointment, and nothing short of a media circus. Whoever thought Jade Goody would be a South London version of Kofi Annan is obviously in need of a trip to the real world. At the end of the day, in the wise words of the very first housemates, it's only a gameshow. Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Christmas is now well and truly over, apart from the fact that the UK had some snowfall last week, none of it landing in Stretford, so there have been no early finishes or office closures for me. I suppose there's always next year.

2007-01-18T14:39:00.000Z

Lauren Harries: Come On Down!

The furore regarding Celebrity Big Brother has now reached hysterical proportions.

Effigies of Europeans are being burned on the streets of India, and The Perfume Shop is withdrawing Jade Goody's perfume.

Militant Asians have petitioned Ofcom with racist allegations left, right, and centre.

I'm only surprised Jihad hasn't been called for.

he one way to calm the situation down is to replace the three Big Brother housemates who walked off the show.

Lauren Harries, is desparate to become a housemate although tests showed that her mental state isn't 100.

So? Put her in and watch her make mincemeat out of the housemates!

2007-01-18T14:35:00.000Z

The Icicles

This song is from the current Moto advert - I'm lovin' it!

2007-01-03T16:32:00.000Z

Sugar Daddio!

Tonight sees the start of Celebrity Big Brother, which is a welcome winter hug after the lows of Big Brother 7 and the circus of spastics and egos which accompanied it.

There has been much speculation on who's entering the house, though from what I've read in the papers, it seems that the house is going to be chock-full of has-been American celebrities with little in the way of home grown C Listers.

Although it has been reported that child antiques protege turned transexual Lauren Harries will be amongst the houseguests.

I do hope so. There was a documentary on Channel 4 called Little Lady Fauntleroy which told (albeit rather unsympathetically) the story of Lauren Harries.

Not long after this documentary was shown, I was enjoying a bottle of wine with a friend in Via Fossa in Manchester, where Lauren Harries was, surrounded by a gaggle of piss-taking blokes.

When she left, her stiletto heel got stuck in one of the cobbles of Canal Street and there was a right kerfuffle to get her shoe out of the road.

2007-01-02T14:42:00.000Z

I'm Not Drunk - I Have Cerebal Palsy

So it is now 2007.
It almost feels like I haven't been away from work over Christmas!.

After finishing work on the Friday before Christmas I frantically darted across Manchester dropping off presents and barely had time for a few festive drinks with friends.

For various reasons I didn't book a flight for my annual pilgrimage to my parents', instead, I decided at the last minute to take advantage of the Scotrail Seated Sleeper which runs between Preston and Scotland.

Having hauled my luggage (a suitcase, a shoulder bag and a Tesco carrier bag containing a bottle of wine and some food) to Salford Crescent station, I only just managed to board the Preston train, struggling to move on the packed train, which was also the last train from Manchester taking various piss heads back to their small town homes in Central Lancashire.

The passengers consisted of one extremely snooty lady, and what I took to be the Preston North End Supporters Club, some of whom decided to have a fight on the train, tearing each others' jackets and leaving a mystery little bag at my feet when the train emptied at Chorley (thanks, boys!)

Preston Station, normally one of the busiest I have ever encountered is an eerie place late at night.
There were no other passengers on the platforms, no staff in then ticket office, shutters round all the shops, and on the departures board, wierd information such as "Staff Train: 01:45".

No ticket man had been on the local Preston service, so I had to buy my ticket using one of the new machines that I had to feed with £10 notes.

Having walked to the furthest reaches of Preston I managed to board the Sleeper, only after the guard (decked out in Santa hat) checked to see if there was room on board.

Highly reccomended. By the time I reached Lancaster, I was asleep and my bottle of wine went unopened.

2006-12-15T09:49:00.000Z

Lametta

Seven houses in my street have no visible Christmas decorations up - today's belief that christmas decorations, alongside party hats and tinsel round the telly are all naff - tacky things which should be confined to the 80s or to the roughest possible council estates.

Christmas is slowly becoming de-santaised, and growing increasingly santitised.
Having been abroad twice in the past month I've gotten into the Christmas spirit later than most, but for some reason this year has felt less Christmassy than last.

Whilst playing about on Limewire the other night, I realised why - I have not heard one Cliff Richard song this year on the radio.

Mistletoe and Wine and Saviours Day have been slung on the pile of reindeer dung it seems.
Usually, on my way to work, the man at the wheels of steel these days is usually Terry Wogan, due to my either feeling rough, hungover or tired in the morning.

Not once has Tel played a bit of Cliff! Of all the stations and all the DJ's, I would have thought Wogan would have played Cliff with delight - as I know Galaxy aren't likely to throw Saviours Day into the mix.

It seems that what we need is a return to a traditional 1980s Christmas:

Cliff Richard,Top of the Pops, Eastenders with an explosive storyline (Divorce papers ring a bell), Victoria Wood Christmas Special, Tinsel, Baubles, Decorations, Fairy Lights.

Christmas these days almost seems like a gay rights march during the early fifties - an event which dare not speak his name.

Manchester City Council, the local authority adjacent to the one in which I live, has dispensed with the need to use the word "Christmas" and instead the word "Winterval" has taken its' place.

Christmas is under total attack! The PC Brigade should be reminded that that last year it was an Asian taxi driver who took me to the airport, telling me how he was looking forward to a family celebration over Christmas, and was sick and tired of assumptions that the Asian community wants Christmas consigned to the crap-heap.

Also, the other night I watched an excellent programme hosted by Nigella Lawson about Christmas food. Nigella, who is Jewish, presented a mouthwatering selection of festive fayre, so much so that even if the chipolatas contain pork or not, I'd give my right arm for a place at her Christmas table.

Manchester City Council - not wishing to officially endorse a pantomime, decided a much more appropriate way to celebrate Christmas was in the form of a Carribean steel band outside Marks & Spencer.

Where else other than Manchester could you hear the samba beat from the German Market.

On the subject of pantomime, the two greatest stars of Panto are both appearing within twenty miles of each other.

Su Pollard is currently playing the Wicked Queen at the Palace Theatre in Mansfield, whilst ϋber Pantomime Dame, Christopher Biggins is treading the boards at Nottingham's Theatre Royal.

Christopher Biggins has without a doubt turned provincial pantomime into an artform which now attracts "serious" actors of the likes of Sir Ian McKellen.

Biggins this year not only plays an exceptional Widow Twankey, but also directs the production, and can currently be seen holiding a glass in the many bars of the fair city of Nottingham.

2006-12-11T23:53:00.000Z

I can only disappoint you 'cos I always let you down

.

.

You travelled from Dublin, you said you'd change the world.
You sing like Sinatra, always
You pulled them for miles now, like Garbo in Berlin
You played them for zeros, just like always
Tonight, their hips would swivel and turn
And tonight, it feels so good feeling cheap
I can only disappoint you 'cos I always let you down
You turned a man cuckoo, half animal half grace
The chick was a teaser, always
Tonight, their hips would swivel and turn
So we drove, to the place where we first met
I can only disappoint you 'cos I always let you down
I can only disappoint you, always
The queens they all loved you, the tall, the short, the fair
The same as the psychos, always
And here, a faultered gun in my hand
And you, with piggies scrawled on your wal
lAnd tonight, her note said better off dead
And the earth has never moved for me since

2006-12-11T16:22:00.000Z

FB500 - Flying With The Brakles On

At the age of 27, I considered myself lucky that I have never had the misfortune of being delayed for any significant length of time from an airport.

Part of the reason that I fell in love with air travel in my early twenties is that I could breeze through Manchester Airport and have a Heineken in my hand in Amsterdam in less time than I could watch a film at the cinema.

I took my other half to Sofia for a birthday weekend on Thursday, supposedly flying out at 10am and arriving over there at half four in the afternoon so we could check into our apartment.

The flight initially was delayed by three and a half hours - after paying over a tenner for two double vodkas in the airside bar in Terminal 2, I decided enough was enough and returned from the duty free shop with half a bottle of Vladivar which I paid £2.99 for - armed with two bottles of Coke from Boots for £1.09 for the two, we settled down to some serrupticious drinking back in the bar, our glasses being topped up under the table in a discreet fashion.

By the time I boarded the plane I already felt like George Best after a sniff of Lambrusco, and enjoyed a couple more drinks on the plane.

After the fourth hour in the air, the plane appeared to be going round in circles, and eventually we were told that heavy fog in Sofia meant the plane was unable to land there.

We were told that the plane was about to land in Plovdiv, 120kms away.

The plane landed and bemusedly I looked at trhe steps which were being wheeled up to the plane - they had "Bourgas Airport" stamped on them.

A co-incidence, I thought, they can't possibly have landed the plane so far away from our destination.

Having flown from the airport in the Summer I immediately recognised the terminal building as that of Bourgas Airport, however, there was others on the plane who had no idea where they were until they stepped outside the airport.

For those who don't know, Bourgas, or Бургас is the main airport for the beach resorts on Bulgaria's back sea coast - the last time I had a cigarette outside the terminal buidling I was wearing shorts and sunglasses - this time I was wrapped up in a big coat and scarf full of the cold watching my breath freeze as the night became colder.

The time by now was half past nine and we were stood outside Bourgas Airport waiting for a bus which was supposedly going to take us to Sofia.

I didn't hold out much hope. I'd travelled from Ловеч (Lovech) to Sunny Beach by mixture of train and taxi, and it took most of the day, and that was in the hight of summer where such a journey was an adventure as opposed to an endurance.

As I boarded the bus I knew Sofia was only 400kms away...

2006-12-11T13:46:00.000Z

Your Personality Is Like Cocaine

You're dynamic, brilliant, and alluring to those who don't know you. Hyper and full of energy, you're usually the last one to leave a party.Sometimes your sharp mind gets the better of you... you're a bit paranoid!

What Drug Is Your Personality Like?

2006-12-04T13:14:00.000Z

X Factor Rant

Having seen nothing of I'm A Celebrity, my reality telly-viewing has been limited to X Factor as the contenders reach the final furlong.

So disappointed that the McDonald Brothers have now gone.

This means there are no attractive guys in the contest now, and it is a three horse race between Leona, Ben and Panto Boy.

I'm torn as to who I now want to win, as Leona atteded the Sylvia Young Stage School in London, where Billie Piper and Emma Bunton perfected their craft, Ben's mother is an old friend of Sharon Osbourne, as as for Panto Boy himself, Ray - he just has the sort of face I would happily smack.

Ray, of course is from Liverpool, so the Ken Bigley red and white army have collectively hammered their credit on their pay-as-you-go mobiles to keep this grinning spinning imbecile in the contest.

Now, it would be unfair to slate the fair city of Liverpool completely, especially since I was there on Wednesday night.

Thursday saw the screening of Pete Burns Unspun - a documentary which traced Pete Burns' progress after he was released from Wandsworth Prison.

Firstly - as he left prison in a pink crochet cardigan and cullottes, I shudder to think the reaction he got while he was inside - or was he held in a special unit for his own safety? - who knows, but the programme culminated in Pete Burns being taken to a dingy council house in Plymouth where he stayed with an obsessive fan as part of his bail condition.

Fascinating stuff.

2006-11-21T13:20:00.000Z

Last Tango In Southwark

Something which provided a welcome dose of nostalgia while on holiday was the re-runs of BBC2's This Life - watched by me after a night out on the lash in Tenerife in a luxury department

I can remember the last time I watched it, I was about 17 and watched it from my living room in Grimsby - a far cry from Costa Adeje!.

This Life appealed to me on so many levels - first and foremost is that it was the show which brought Andrew Lincoln and Daniella Nardini to screen for the first time.

How pleased am I that it's being re-run on BBC2 - means getting to sleep late, but it's worth it.

I mentioned it to one of my best friends, who normally loves Andrew Lincoln, but she can't bear to watch This Life because he's indulging in Indian Dipping.

2006-11-17T16:51:00.000Z

Deutchland Uber Alles

I've shaken the sand out of my trainers, packed away the factor 4, and put the sunglasses back in their case. Let winter begin.

One of the things I love about Manchester in the winter is that the whole of Albert Square and St Ann's Square are turned into a veritable winter wonderland with stalls selling mulled wine and strong premium stregnth lager that they daren't sell while the football matches were screened in the Square.

So it's off for some mulled wine... and a sausage

2006-11-10T23:52:00.000Z

The Sound of My Holiday

2006-11-10T23:02:00.000Z

Back From The Brink?

My desire to get more stamps in my passport than Judith Chalmers has taken me to Tenerife, and unceremoniously I am now back in Blighty.

My postcards state this is my last holiday this year…honest.

At 10am this morning I was sat on my balcony in the sun in a pair of shorts, so hot that I was drinking water in a pint glass with about a dozen ice cubes – my return was something of a rude awakening.

It was pitch dark when the plane landed back, which was before 5pm (was back home in time for a particularly interesting Deal or No Deal)

I called a taxi to come and pick us up, and damn it, I shouldn’t have called it so soon.

Why is it that walking through customs feels like walking through a dodgy backstreet after dark?

You just want to get through as quickly as possible without being stopped from the terminal building, which is just in sight.

Coming back from Turkey last year made me feel like I had seventeen kilos of heroin in my suitcase whereas my cold sweat was down to ten sleeves of Marlboro Lights.

On this occasion I walked straight through customs with my illicit duty-booty, J, however was not so lucky – having to query where his suitcase was when it didn’t appear on the carousel, a friendly customers officer confiscated his eight sleeves of cigarettes, although seen fit to leave him with his four litres of vodka.

After eventually getting out of the terminal building we had to walk through torrential rain to find the taxi in “short stay car park B, section C”.

Despite being saturated and cold I had my first cigarette since I entered the airport at Tenerife as the taxi chugged it’s way around the M60, which was at a standstill due to hoards of people deciding 5pm on a Friday night is a great time to go shopping at the Trafford Centre.

Naturally the atmosphere upon return was a bit fraught.

I had plans for the pub but they were soon abandoned as I turned the central heating on full blast and heard the rain outside.

So – not the best of welcomes back to the UK, it’s my birthday next week, a fact I almost forgot about until one of my best friends said she was working so wasn’t going to be able to make what I had planned.

Guess I’m gonna have to get my skates on and think of something, I’m only 27 until Wednesday.

Time for a drink.

2006-11-02T16:40:00.000Z

Лисица

Thursday means it's Bulgarian Night, so this week's word means fox.

And is Warren Brown, seen (not recently enough) on Hollyoaks and Shameless

2006-10-30T10:05:00.000Z

4 Days!!!

After spending a drunken weekend going to mates parties, it's back to work time - although there's a silver lining in everything (apparently) and mine is that I have only four days to work this week before I head off to Tenerife.

Some people have said to me "You've only just been away..." but they're wrong - it was three months ago that we went away last - and it's been a stressful three months at that, so looking forward to swapping my coat for a pair of shorts and chilling by a pool in the sunshine with a drink by my side and some tunes on.

2006-10-27T17:03:00.000+01:00

Walk Alone

Irvine Welsh once said that the only tragic thing Liverpool felt after the Lockerbie disaster was that it didn’t happen in Liverpool.

The future European capital of Culture has been named in the media as being the worst prepared city in the UK in the event of a terrorist attack.

Call me cynical, but somehow I feel that this isn’t a co-incidence.
The theat of terror isn’t something to be taken lightly, but Liverpool has always been a city which sings the loudest about how hard done by they are, and the first to fly the flag of self pity.

The city has a huge tendency to not only wallow, but to bask in self pity – all to the soundtrack of You’ll Never Walk Alone.

A politician whom I rarely would agree with, Boris Johnson hit the nail on the head recently when he said that Liverpool wallowed in victim status over the beheading of Ken Bigley.

Johnson was lambasted by the media and threats were made to put his windows through from all corners of Liverpool, although the fact remains that Johnson was speaking his mind, and also speaking up for common sense.

There are two sides to the Ken Bigley saga, and whilst there is no doubt in anyone’s minds what a tragedy Bigley’s beheading was, one has to remember that Bigley decided to go Iraq out of his own free will, and went over there to charge a fortune to repair Iraq’s damaged electrical infrastructure.

Bigley was certainly no saint, yet the floral tributes flooded the city of Liverpool and crying citizens were seen lighting candles outside the Liver Building, singing You’ll Never Walk Alone.

The latest victim celebre to come from the city comes in the attractive yet thuggish Michael Shields.

Sheilds was part of a group of football fans who travelled to Istanbul last year to watch Liverpool play and decided to take a break in the Black Sea resort of Golden Sands, close to the city of Varna.

There was a fracas in a bar, which resulted in a missile, in the form of a paving slab being thrown at a young Bulgarian waiter, which almost resulted in a fatality.

After a court case involving several witnesses Shields was charged with attempted murder of the waiter and sentenced to 15 years imprisonment for the offence.

Suddenly there are cries of miscarriages of justice from the city.

The point remains – a serious offence was committed in a foreign country – and a person was tried and convicted in that country.

Bulgaria has not long opened her doors to Western European tourists, and I sense that the country does not want to become a mecca for lager louts and football hooligans and attract the same reputation as some of the resorts in the Spanish Costas.

2006-10-25T15:13:00.000+01:00

Fear of Fanny

Monday night while having a flick to see what was on telly I came across Fear of Fanny on BBC4, which purported to be a biopic of the life of Fanny Cradock, the woman who brought cookery programmes to the silver screen.

Thinking this was going to be some starched pinafore style costume drama involving Colin Frith and a good helping of Victorian dialogue, I was about to turn over, but then I saw that Julia Davis from Nighty Night was playing the title role.

Unfortunately I missed the first five minutes, but the cast involved in the show was superb inlcuding Nicholas Burns who starred in the shamelessly undrrated Nathan Barley, as well as Mark Gatiss, taking a break from dressing up in womens clothing to play Fanny's henpecked husband Johnnie.

Usually these biopic type programmes are either so excruciatingly boring that Thora Hird would dismiss it as a pile of shite, or pandering and simpering like Sharon Osbourne at the Beckhams'.

What was unusual was the fact that the three main roles were played by comedy actors, although the programme itself was not intentionally funny - no laughter track dubbed over and nothing obvious to suggest that this even was a comedy.

Black comedy is something which is done brilliantly by Davis and Gatiss, who's on-screen partnership I'd genuinely love to see again.

2006-10-25T14:55:00.000+01:00

краставици

2006-10-24T17:02:00.000+01:00

Howard Marks

As opposed to spending Sunday watching Songs of Praise, Highway and Where The Heart Is, I decided to so something slightly more hedonistic.

I am in the middle of reading Señor Nice, the eagerly awaited follow-up to Mr Nice, which I have read from cover to cover so many times that the pages are falling out. So I thought an evening with Señor Nice would be a good experience as I have never seen one of his live shows before.

We queued outside the Manchester Uni Students Union in the rain waiting to go in, the last time I had been there was a couple of years ago when Federation took it over for a club night.

I looked at the type of people who were also filing into the auditorium, almost expecting to see scores of mind-blown hippies or people who resembled extras from Withnail and I staggering into their seat brandishing a Camberwell Carrot.

I was ever so slightly surprised that the majority of the punters were regular people.

Whilst queing outside, there was a lone man in his 30s with a bald head clutching a copy of Mr Nice asking if anyone had any spare tickets, filing quickly up and down the queue in such a professional manner I wondered if he had done this before, then leading me onto thinking that if he was such a big fan of Howard Marks that he brought his book to have signed (I daren’t have done the same for fear of looking like a dickhead) – then why hadn’t he taken the sensible pracuation of buying a ticket.

I observed a dialogue between him and two Nigerians outside the Union, and ten minutes later whilst J was at the bar, the bald man joined the queue, and I congratulated him on obtaining his ticket, which he said he paid face value for.

The show itself was very enjoyable, there was around 200 people sat in the auditorium listening to Mark’s tales and repartee in a fug of marijuana smoke.

The fact such a gathering can now take place without 50 of the Greater Manchester Police’s finest crashing in with their truncheons is a true testimony of how the city has evolved over the past few years.

It almost reminded me of the Dutch Experience, a Coffeeshop which existed in Stockport for a few months in 2002 before immeasurable pressure caused its closure.

2006-10-19T14:47:00.000+01:00

Български

After six months of searching online to find someone to teach us Bulgarian, and half a dozen phrase books being ordered from Amazon; last week I had my very first Bulgarian lesson in Manchester, and for the next 11 Thursday nights, that is what I’ll be doing.

My reason for wanting to do this is because the other half has a house over there, and having been over a couple of times in the past year, we’ve always received a warm welcome and great hospitality – but we have never been able to articulate our thanks, or even engage in the smallest of small talk.

Last summer was my first visit there and on one hot September morning we decided to go into Teteven, the nearest town to have a few beers and something to eat.

On the way, the woman from the house next door beckoned us in and gestured for us to sit down at a table on their balcony.

She poured us freshly brewed coffee and fed us home made cake, followed by home made fruit juice and attempted to find out more about these two English people who had just arrived in the village.

The neighbours spoke to English, and we spoke to Bulgarian, and unfortunately (or actually, fortunately) I was not in the Queen Vic Fun Pub in Benidorm where I could ask for “A pint of Carling and a full English please, luv”.

Through methods I can’t now remember I was able to tell the neighbours our names and found out that their daughter was an Optician and lived in Sofia.

Random bits of information are, I’ve been told, something I collect and hoard like how someone with OCD counts the amount of times a light switch is turned on.

On the way back I decided I never wanted to go through another hour of not being able to communicate with the neighbours, and decided, with J, to learn some of the language so that at least we can say “Please” and “Thank You”.

Of course, the road to hell is paved with good intensions, and to cut a long story short, I touched down in Bulgaria again at Bourgas Airport not knowing a word of the langauge.

My confidence that this time would be different was based on the mad assumption that because we were holidaying on the coast this time, then English would surely be more widely spoken.

To some extent this was true, but we had decided to break up the holiday by having a night in Veliko Turnovo and also a night at J’s house.

We managed to get to Veliki Turnovo, which is I suppose Bulgaria’s answer to Chester or York (or if you’re from the South, Bath).

The time came where we had to travel the 60 miles or so journey to the house, and after a terrifying incident in a Bulgarian hire car, we decided to make our own way there.

When it gets to the point where I need to be in B, as opposed to A, my usual reaction is to say “Fuck it, let’s get a taxi”.

This has served me well in everywhere I have previously been, however, not being able to tell the taxi driver where I wanted to go impeded our journey considerably – and not even showing the taxi driver where I wanted to go on a map did much good as I had no idea whether this journey was going to cost.

The friendly tourist information office booked us a taxi and an hour later we arrived at the house, the day was warm yet the mountain air was so clear.

We hadn’t been in the house five minutes before there was a knock-knock at the door and the man from across the road walked into the living room carrying a large bottle of Rakia, a locally distilled brandy. It was ten in the morning.

One of my friend’s brothers served in the army in the Balkans for some years and remember him once telling me that it was a Balkan tradition upon meeting new people to drink a bottle of Rakia, and drink it until it was gone.

And this is what I knew I had to do. 10am and between me, J, and the man across the road, I made it my intention to finish the bottle off as soon as humanly possible.

Whilst drinking the rakia, the conversation was all somewhat one sided due to neither of us, yet again, speaking not a word of Bulgarian.

So finally I’m doing something about it, and tonight sees me back for my second lesson.

Going away to Sofia in December so can only hope my next visit I can get by a bit better – like how to ask for a beer....

2006-09-29T12:37:00.000+01:00

The Bag Lady

Many years ago I saw a programme on Channel 4 imaginatively called The Bag Lady.

The documentary centred around a woman, Maggie, who found herself in reduced circumstances living as a tramp on the streets of London, who hauled all her worldly goods around with her in a cluster of carrier bags.

I cannot actually remember the last time I actually saw a bag lady, and when I asked some friends and colleagues, they had no sightings to report either.

Maybe it is a small town thing, as in nearly ten years in Manchester I have not seen one bag lady.

There used to be a female beggar/big issue seller who paraded up and down Canal Street on a regular basis, and despite her obvious status as a street beggar, she didn’t possess the same je ne sais quoi of the bag lady.

My first sighting of a bag lady was during my childhood, where from the kitchen window I spied a stout and rotund woman dressed in a headscarf and a grimy raincoat trudging round a middle class area laden down with a dozen or so Farmfoods carrier bags with the odd bin liner thrown in for good measure.

I had never seen of such a creature before, and she was markedly different from Alkie Jean, who was a street drinker and general vagrant who occupied the city centre, rarely straying beyond “town” where she would beg outside the post office for loose change to spend on cider.

The bag lady never begged, or at least I never saw her begging, all I ever saw her do was to make slow journey from one end of a street to the other.
A snail’s pace is the term best used to describe the speed of her movements, the fact that she was also encumbered by so many bags couldn’t have helped her progress.

I asked my Mother why she lived such as life as opposed to living in a bungalow somewhere.

The bag lady had a story. She also had a name. Angela.

Angela must have been in her fifties at this point (which was in the late eighties) although she looked considerably older. She had lived in the town for many years, and was a solitary figure, living in a bedsit block close to where we lived (although firmly out of view) who’s other residents were equally socially disparate.

I would like to look back on this recollection and say that she was a nice woman, but unfortunately she wasn’t. Angela was a frightening character to say the least, who would shout across the street at anyone whose gaze lingered too long.

The dark side of the bag lady is that she was a lesbian.

Somehow I always felt that was the thin end of the wedge which caused her to live her life the way that she did.

The bag lady’s lesbianism shocked me initially – for a number of reasons, first and foremost being that it was my mother who told me about it.
Also, as an adolescent, I had a set idea about what lesbians looked like, and the bag lady looked nothing like either Annie Lennox or Sinead O’Connor.

Surprisingly, the bag lady wasn’t actually a distant figure; she had worked at the same factory as my mother in the ‘70s, although when my mother saw the bag lady in the street she would not acknowledge her, nor would the bag lady show any sign that she knew who she was.

The bag lady’s lesbianism, although something of a taboo, was once the scandal of the district. At the factory where she worked alongside my mother, there were several incidents of Angela touching womens legs under the tables in the canteen.

This upset a large number of the women there, and I have no ideas what repercussions she faced, but somewhere along the line, Angela must have lost her job and eventually her dignity. Plastic bags taking the place of her self respect.

Watching her trudge down the street one day, hauling her heavy cargo of bags and bin liners, I wondered what exactly had happened to make her live like this.

She must have felt like the only lesbian in the world.
Even though there are no more lesbians now than there was thirty years ago, the world is now a much more inclusive place.

Lesbians are no longer generally described as perverts– the bag lady was considered a pervert, yet she trudged through the town defiant, despite being shouted at, laughed at, but never pitied.

Had she been born 30 years later surely she would have lived her life differently – she would have been able to meet other women in bars, or online as opposed to rubbing her hands on a young machinists American Tan clad tights.

Although she wasn’t a looker. The bag lady was a heavy set woman, who’s legs had a very unusual appearance, something which my mother described as “Elephantitis”, where her legs looked like they had collapsed into thick stumps, her legs having the appearance of elephants legs, and it looked like that she would never be able to remove the tiny shoes which encased her massive swollen feet.

I used to think that it was carrying all those bags that had caused her legs to become like that but she must have had some sort of medical condition, and I think now that she must have had some sort of mental breakdown brought on by her inability to deal with her sexuality. The lack of support available to her would only have made her feel more isolated in an already insular town.

Finding myself back in the same town a while ago I wondered whatever happened to the bag lady. Unfortunately I couldn’t find out much about her, apart from the fact that she died. And she probably died on her own.

I just hope that someone somewhere loved her, baggage or no baggage.

2006-09-27T15:46:00.000+01:00

Sharon Osbourne Is A Cunt

Am I alone in thinking this?

I googled "Sharon Osbourne Is A Cunt" only to find that there is only one other such reference in existance.

Having watched her excruciatingly embarrasing performance on X Factor on Saturday night, I've had to endure her "chat" show, as well as the emotional outpourings from her dysfunctional children.

Firstly, the woman is famous for spawning an obese brat with more chins than the Greater Shanghai telephone directory, who lumbers though shops, bars and airports snmarling "Do you know how I am?"

2006-09-26T11:42:00.000+01:00

Guerilla Smokers

About to spend two and a half hours on a train down to London today.

Travelling south using Virgin Trains means that although the journey time will propably be closer to two hours and the trains are new and are capable of tilting 1°, there are two things which lave a great deal to be desired.

The Smell
The Train being Non Smoking

For some reason, the new Virgin Voyagers and Pendolinos have exactly the same smell, which isn't unsimilar to burning plastic, as opposed to the comforting smells of trains of old.

Not being able to smoke also causes me to roll my eyes in despair.

I remember not very long ago I travelled between Scotland and the East Midlands on a fairly regular basis, and remember coach B on GNER was always the smoking carriage.

How convivial it all was - sat down relaxing, maybe with a gin and tonic watching the world go by whilst enjoying the smooth taste of a cigarette.

Again - everyone from the ASH lobby to the Chinese lover of Roy Castle all came out stamping their feet about how terrible smoking on trains is - before going home in their cars, pumping out worse emissions.

Now, the only thing one smells on the trains now is the burnt plastic smell - one cannot even hang out of the window and have a windswept smoke (safety reasons they claim), nor can one even step off the train at York or somewhere for a cheeky cig as the doors are sealed!

2006-09-13T13:15:00.000+01:00

Thick Kids and Bad Kids

I have noticed the increase in the use of the terms "children with learning difficulties" or "children with behavioural problems".

When I was at school there was just thick kids and bad kids, and if you were either you risked the Headmistresses ruler across the backside.

It is political correctness gone mad when it's a taboo to say that a child is stupid or bad.

Many children are stupid, and grow into thick adults making no contribution to society at all - bad kids remain bad until they learn the consequence of their actions.

A friend who has children was telling me that children were no longer permitted to say "Eenie Meenie Miney Mo" because it's considered racist.

A hard fucking smack and some bloody common sense is what these people need.

2006-09-11T16:27:00.000+01:00

Sing 'Em A Song, Della

You can almost tell the season from which reality TV show is showing.

Big Brother means Summer - this year it meant a heatwave, holidays, and Lily Allen.
Unfortunately it was all eclipsed by an annoying spastic and his hooker in crime.

There just seems something a bit more Northern about X Factor.
Any wannabes are not "Promotions Girls" or "Hostesses" - they're supermarket workers from Stockport and black council estate girls from Barnsley.

Having been a Big Brother affectionado since the beginning, I went off it like Peter Kay off the top diving board - bored again of London based club kids trying to be the next Lee Otway.

Now, as the nights are drawing in, it's X Factor who's the old friend coming into our sitting rooms on a Saturday night.

It's one of those programmes that I do genuinely have a love/hate relationship with, since I find Simon Cowell far too smug for his own good.

Louis Walsh, however isn't much better, favouring any "Oirish" performer as opposed to an English, Welsh or Scots singer.

I sometimes think if "Spoiral" from Big Brother turned up and started beat-boxing and saying "Oim ganno slaaam horr" he would be praised, pandered to, and packed off to the final/

Unfortunately, last but by no means least comes Sharon Osbourne, who is someone I would gladly wallop with a wet fish.

From the moment I hear her cackling pseudo midlantic voice my skin starts to crawl.

"My name's Sharon Osbourne and I do all my shopping in Asda"

Do you fuck, love.

AS IF!

If I had a tenth of her money I would have my shopping delivered from Marks & Spencer's or even Waitrose - somehow I can't see Shazza fighting me over some "Whoops!" sliced meat from the reduced counter.

The thought that I might stumble into her whilst choosing my sausages is an insult.

So with three people running the show, it doesn't bode well, however, what makes the X Factor is the people themselves.

Someone I know vaguely auditioned for X Factor in the belief that they are the next Shayne Ward.
This poor unfortunate looks like Charles Hawtrey from the Carry On films, and has a voice to match, needless to say he was given short shrift, although it does make me wonder about some of the truly borderline down's syndrome people who try their luck thinking they're the next Robbie Williams.

This week saw at least four males dressed by their Mum crucify various legendary pop songs, and the obligatory performances by a selection of cadaverous pensioners.

By far best of this year's show so far has to be Identical who comprise of two identical twin sisters who did a dance routine whilst singing Sweet Dreams are Made of This.

It was classic television, and I'm glad that they made it through to Boot Camp.

Sadly, Della Louise, half of last year's Spirit & Destiny wasn't so lucky.

Destiny, having left Spirit outside in the van failed to impress the judges, despite giving an excellent performance.

They were the stars of last year's show, and I'm sure their chance to shine won't be far away.

2006-09-07T13:28:00.000+01:00

The Scope Factor

The spastic who won this year's Big Brother has now plumbed to an all time low.

Today's papers reveal that he has parted company with his band, Daddy Fantastic, and is now collaborating with Guy Chambers, the songwriter who penned Robbie Williams seminal chart topper Angels.

Throughout the series we heard much about how much he loved his band, and how he would never leave, and that those guys were like family to him.

No sooner has he picked up his BB winners cheque that he's cast aside his band like a used condom.

The megafans who shown unwavering support for him during the run of BB must surely now feel that they have been duped.

He went into the house with the intention of winning at any cost, his strategy was half acting like a bad Jim Carrey impersonator at a special school, and half playing a wounded cwippled bunny rabbit who could do no wrong.

May his star and single vanish without a trace.

2006-09-06T15:12:00.000+01:00

Humberside Police:

Engaged

Being burgled in Hull?, had your car stolen in Scunthorpe, need to report a flasher on the beach at Cleethorpes?

You've picked the wrong day - Humberside Police's 0845 number is ringing solidly out.

2006-08-31T13:37:00.000+01:00

Caroline Meets Collette Vipond

What sounded like a good idea at the time was causing Caroline to rush to get out. It was half past five on Friday afternoon, and tonight she was meeting a friend in Leeds for a night out on the tiles.

A couple of days before her mobile beeped and it was a message from Tania, a girl she went to college with years ago – who had long sinced moved away from her tyrannical mother and was apparently working in Nottingham.

She was going to be in Manchester on Friday til about 7 – “Do you have time for a quick drink?”

Caroline thought that she may as well, it’ll be a way of killing a couple of hours til she gets her train – she hadn’t seen Tania for a while, and would be nice to see what she was up to.

She walked down the street and saw Tania waving at her, beside her sat a mousey looking girl with her hair held back with a pink scrunchie.

Neither of them stood up when Caroline walked over.

“Hi Caroline… How are you?... It’s been ages! This is Collette, by the way, my girlfriend”

“Hey Collette… What you both drinking”

Collette held her hand over her glass while Tania spoke.

“Just two diet cokes please… I’m on medication”

“What sort of medication? Do you want a drink Collette?”

“Collette’s not allowed, and I can’t because I’m on tablets… antidepressents” Tania said ominously.

Caroline stepped inside the bar and sniggered to herself – this poor Collette bitch sure was pussywhipped if Tania wasn’t allowing her to drink – and as for Tania – Friday’s highlight must be washing a couple of antidepressants down with diet coke.

Her vodka redbull tasted good, she looked at Collette who was sipping her diet coke through a straw. “Tania…. I need the toilet” Collette said.

Caroline couldn’t help but giggle – “You don’t need to ask her fucking permission dalin’ – just go!”

No longer had she stopped speaking but Collette put her hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed herself up, and round onto a wheelchair which was sitting slightly out of view before wheeling herself into the bar.

“Why’s she in a wheelchair?”
“She’s got cerebal palsy” replied Tania “I care for her”
“Okay…”
“We have a full and active life as a couple” Tania added defiantly.

A couple of hours later in Leeds, Caroline recounted the tale over her fourth vodka redbull.

“In a wheelchair?!” Laura asked incredulously.
“Yes! She’s shagging a spastic!”
“Caroline!”

“Well she is isn’t she – that Tania had a job in Nottingham going shopping for disabled people, and one of them was this Collette Vipond – she was propably used to going to Morrisons for pensioners with pissy knickers!”

“So she met her through work?”
“Yeah, that Collette’s only about 25, more or less the same age as Tania”
“Bloody hell!” Laura took a drag from her cigarette.

“You see that Tania always denied she was a dyke, but at the end of the day with her hair that short it’s a bit of a giveaway”
“They mustn’t get up to much”

“Apparently she hoists her up on the bed”

© www.postmilleniumtension.blogspot.com 2006

2006-08-22T14:58:00.000+01:00

The Snideness of Festivals:

I was forwarded a link about last weekend's V Festival in Staffordshire where festivalgoers have been charged £10 for a programme to inform them when and where bands are playing - there being no other way to find out.

Other rip off charges include chargeable cashpoints, £7 cheeseburgers, and the rip off to end all rip offs, a couple had a £1.50 disposable barbeque confiscated by security on their way into the festival, only to find the same type of barbeque for sale within the festival for £10.

And this is the reason why I stay away from festivals - the concept of "festivals" pisses me off big time, stemming from a train journey back from Leeds three years ago.

Two fresher type student girls were talking loudly in to each other whilst sat next to each other and adjacent to me about the merits of different boys with names like Ollie and Piers as well as their plans for the summer.

These two girls conversations were almost from another planet - their conversation so irritatingly naive that I was tempted to jump from the train at Stalybridge, when they started whining about their allowance from Mummy and Daddy, I wanted to scream. This was before they started showing each other items from Harvey Nicks bags which had been put "on Daddy's Amex".

Their next conversation went along the lines of this:

"Which festivals are you going to this year Tamsin?"
"I'm going to all the festivals Tabby"

Never in my life have I had stilletto rage like I felt then, but then I immediately realised that festivals are nothing more than a cash cow to extract money from gullable middle class types with a neverending limit on Daddy's Amex.

I'm sorry, but I do not wish to pay £2.50 for a bottle of lukewarm Volvic that I could have brought with me for a fifth of the price, as I don't buy into the "officially organised" bollocks that goes with it.

The fact that the majority of people rolled over and bought into the "officially organised" bollocks leaves me saddened but not surprised.

I believe that going to see a few bands with some nice food and drinks is a great experience, but if you have the sense to bring these from home, they will be confiscated by the festival gestapo at the door, and you will have to spend three hours queueing for tokens to then take to the bar queue - if you're peckish then be prepared to shell out £15 for a couple of burgers.

What utter shit.

2006-08-21T22:33:00.000+01:00

Spotted On The Metrolink

Last week coming back from work was this gentleman.

I have no idea what the significance is of his attire.

Anyone?

2006-08-17T16:29:00.000+01:00

Kiss This Thing Goodbye

It's been a busy few weeks for me - two weeks after returning from my Bulgarian adventure, it was time for me to fly down to Brighton for the weekend.

To get myself suitably in the mood I had ordered series one of Sugar Rush from Amazon so that I could slip into a suitably Brighton state of mind.

Brighton was, up until last week, a largely unexplored part of the country, my seven years in Mancunia have served to make me believe my own hype, and that there isn't much that can't be done in Manchester - and if there's someone where one can do it, it's grudgingly and quietly accepted as London.

The journey itself was made an adventure, thanks to one of my best friends who appointed herself as "Brighton Tour Baggage Monitor" and I recieved a text message the night before hoping I'd abandoned any silly ideas of taking the largest suitcase I owned.

Upon arrival at Manchester Airport, I strolled in with my smallest suitcase I own - a similar one to what one sees trolly dollies trailing after them even when they're stood at a bus stop in Stretford.

My friend was waiting there (with baited breath I imagine) with a small pink rucksack, which she said breezily to the check-in boy "I only have carry on baggage".

Bear in mind this was over a week ago, and only days before the terrorist threat which still has our Airports by the balls - as Barbara Cartland would say.

I can't even begin to imagine my friend's reaction if she had to empty her hairdryer, GHD, makeup, tampax etc into clear plastic bags to carry onto the plane.

I digress - the Jet2 check in boy - who barely spoke a word of English told my friend that her luggage was too big to be considered as hand luggage and she would have to check in her bag after all.

So needless to say everyone checked in their bags and headed straight through to the Cafe Rouge on the airside for a quick sherry before the flight. Imagine our surpirse when we saw Hollyoaks - In The City actress Gemma Atkinson boarding the same flight.

I am still undecided what to think of this, as we paid less than £40 for return tickets to Gatwick, and surely Hollyoaks are paying Miss Atkinson enough to fly to London club class on BA? Is she trifty with her pennies, or is she just tight? In fact - don't answer that as I very much doubt she is.

At Gatwick, my case caused commotion on the carousel due to it moving about of it's own accord. One of my friends picked the case up off the carousel and said to me "Your suitcase is vibrating... what on earth have you got in it?" in front of all the passengers of flight JE221 from Manchester, including Miss Atkinson.

I tried to explain that I'd bought my partner and I these new Oral B toothbrushes with the vibrating bristles - these both had went off in the case whilst the baggage handlers of Gatwick manhandled my case.

Having dealt with the Ann Summers of suitcases, we made it to Brighton, sharing a house off St James Street, which couldn't have been better located.

Being something of a tapas affectionado I thought that the six of us could have a few drinks round Brighton, then end the night with a little bit of this and that.

The one thing which made me warm to Brighton was how the whole city was mixed use - council tower blocks sit beside £1m detached Georgian seafront houses in amongst an array of bars, shops, dentists surgeries and sex shops.

In Manchester, only the lucky few are able to afford city living - being someone who has once held an M1 postcode, I appreciate the benefits of being so close to everything are so apparent, the only downside coming in the form of identikit graduate neighbours, or Dan/Ollie/Piers types living off Mama's gold card.

I haven't put my house on the market yet, although I have been checking out www.rightmove.co.uk

Thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent down there, didn't take many photos though, which I usually do when i go away anywhere, so just got a pic of the Pier sign taken from my phone.

2006-08-10T13:00:00.000+01:00

Michelle: Pregnant To Sayed.

Michelle Dewbury, winner of BBC2's The Apprentice is pregnant with the child of Asian Apprentice contestant, Sayed Ahmed.

Having been an avid viewer of The Apprentice I now wonder where this leaves Michelle vis-à-vis her £100,000 p/a job with Sir Alan Sugar. Michelle started her prize job in May this year, and now she has recently announced her pregnancy - surely she has not qualified for maternity pay yet? It also raises the question of responsibility - is she going to give up her career to raise her child?

Thousands of people applied to become The Apprentice, however Michelle has now played straight into her critics hands by leaving Sayed's willy inside too long. Initially she was seen as a dizzy blonde who didn't possess the business acumen and drive that Ruth Badger did - the type of girl who would give the boss a cheeky BJ to obtain a pay rise.

Sir Alan must be wringing his hands by this point - he has been thoroughly hoodwinked. Ruth Badger's lesbianism would almost have guaranteed her never having to walk in and say:

"Sir Alan, I've missed my period".
"Are you sure?"
"Without a shadow of a doubt"

I also have to question the motives of the terminally sleazy Sayed - who was convinced he would win the series. Having impregnated Michelle, this gets him closer to the action he initially craved. If she wasn't so stupid, I would be feeling very sorry for Michelle indeed.

2006-08-01T13:34:00.000+01:00

Caroline's Protégé

In the absence of a newspaper I decided to look online for my daily dose of tittle-tattle, and to my astonishment came across the following story:

http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2006350222,00.html

It transpires that Jade Goody is a regular user of disabled parking spaces, so much so that she even waits for a disabled space to become free before taking it.

When she returned to her car, she found it festooned in parking tickets which she tore off and promply thown them in the bin where they belong.

I have never been a fan of Jade Goody, but this story has made me see her in a new light, a champion of egalitarian parking across the UK.

She knows as well as the next person that approximately 87% of disabled badge holders do not have any physical or mental disability - scenarios I have witnessed have been a girl of 25 using her Gran's disabled badge so she can park in Manchester City Centre as often as she likes, on a free of charge basis.

Wilst the national press may lambast Jade Goody, I for one salute her, in the hope she visits my local supermarket.

2006-07-28T15:56:00.000+01:00

Caroline Goes To The Supermarket

She’d had a bitch of a day and needed a gin and tonic more than she needed to navigate her way around Tesco.
She parked in the closest space to the supermarket she could find and started pushing a trolley into the supermarket.

It was the smells that resonated when she was in the supermarket, the smell of the rotisserie counter, the bakery counter – she even considered that Tesco pump smells through the air conditioning system to encourage people to buy more of their products.

“Idiots” she thought as she pushed her laden trolley towards the checkout.

Idly glancing into other trolleys in the queue, she noticed that other peoples shopping was often much more interesting than hers, items in the trolley that she hadn’t even known about, let alone considered buying.

Although occasionally she felt a wave of relief as she saw trolleys loaded with no-frills items – on this occasion she saw a woman at the next checkout was loading a pack of no-frills sanitary towels onto the trolley.

“Poor cow. Has she no shame?” she thought.

Pushing a fully loaded trolley in kitten heels was a challenge, although the car, thankfully wasn’t far away.

No sooner than she had opened the boot she heard a man’s voice.

“You can’t park there”

“Are you an employee of the supermarket?”

“No, but it’s parent and child parking only” The man said smugly.

“So? I’ve got a parent, and I was once a child”

“Don’t be so flippant. There’s parents with children who need to park here”

There were as least five empty parent and child spaces.

“Well so do I”

“Parents with children need to park here more than you”

“Why should they”? She looked up and down at the man who was desperately thinking of something to say. “I have as much right to park here as anyone else”

“It’s not fair on parents with children, they will have to walk further with prams and pushchairs”

“So what? They shouldn’t be bringing their fucking children to a supermarket anyway, they’re nothing but a bloody nuisance – so I’ll park where I want to, sir”

“You shouldn’t swear, it’s unladylike, and besides, there may be children about”

Caroline lugged the remaining bags into her boot, got into her car and leaned out of the window. “Go fuck yourself you old cunt” and sped off in the direction of home.

Some people. She thought. Turning up the radio she was finally able to laugh about that sanctimonious middle aged man in the car park.

© 2006 www.postmilleniumtension.blogspot.com

2006-07-20T12:19:00.000+01:00

From Watford Gap to Bourgas

I have only been back in England for two days, and despite only being away for ten days, I have firmly come back down to earth with a bang..

My second visit to Bulgaria has been a lengthier and more diverse one, taking in more of the country this time than before – my first visit leaving me hungry to return.

The premise for my first visit was to help my partner with the clean up of a house which was recently purchased over there – my only previous experience of Eastern Europe was whilst I was at college when I went to Prague with college, taking the overland route from Grimsby to Prague via Calais, Oostende, Frankfurt, and Nürnberg.

The culmination of this long and arduous 36 hour journey was hallucinations and a desire to get as pissed as possible.

Back in the January of 1996, Prague was somewhere which wasn’t a regular weekend destination – Amsterdam was about is risqué as it got, and no-one I had ever known had been to Prague before. My own Mother thought I was going to Russia.

I could talk lengthily about the magnificent grandeur of the landscape and architecture, but at 17 my opinions on Prague were based on two things:

How cheap the alcohol was
How cheap the cigarettes were

On both these counts Prague didn’t disappoint me, and I can clearly remember staying in a hotel by what I took to be the Prague Western Bypass, and buying an obscene amount of vodka and cigarettes.

I felt like a proper schoolboy smuggler – 200 cigarettes and a bottle of spirits was (or still is) the limit, and I made my way back through Europe with one of those plastic canvas stripy bags – similar to those you see the African refugees carry ion the news, although theirs, I imagine wasn’t full to bursting with vodka and cigarettes.

So almost ten years later I return to the Eastern Bloc in search of good times and enough cigarettes and alcohol to provide a wake for George Best; although this time, instead of an arduous bus journey from Lincolnshire, we flew to Sofia from Manchester - eating sandwiches and sausages and drinking lager courtesy of Lufthansa all the way.

My recentmost visit to Bulgaria was slightly more full on than the last.
Cheap flights were booked by my other half – “There’s a little snag, though” I was told.

The “little snag” turned out to be that the flights were from Luton. Considering that I live in Manchester, this wasn’t ideal – although I’ve never flown from Luton before, and I thought “sod it, it’ll be an adventure.

Airport parking, however is a cost neither of us factored in – parking at Luton Airport for ten days is more expensive than a week self catering in Benidorm.

Resourceful to the end, I got in touch with the parking services department of Luton Borough council and managed to purchase a two week permit for one of their municipal car parks, close to the station.

My experience of the South East of England is relatively limited – London and Essex are the only two areas I am vaguely familiar with, and thought Luton would be similar to Chigwell, or possibly Romford.

The town itself was much smaller than I imagined and the poverty and deprivation one saw driving in was stark.

I would be tempted to describe the area as “multicultural” although there was no evidence of other cultures other than Asian, and the place reminded me of ghettos of Oldham or Bradford, where tensions rose and rose a few years ago. Driving through this area I felt as conspicuous as a pork chop at a Bar Mitzvah, so we made our way to the train station (tatty) and onto Luton Airport via an admittedly good train link.

2006-07-05T11:56:00.000+01:00

Anti/Climax

Tomorrow sees me going on holiday – I did have an idea in my head watching England take part in the World Cup Final sitting in a beach bar watching their UK TV.

Sadly it was not to be – four years ago I recall watching not only the England matches abroad, but also to my shame, Big Brother.

I had been looking forward to both these big events to see me through the summer, now unfortunately I am no longer going to see Paul Robinson on as near a regular basis as I’d like, nor am I going to be entertained by Lea for much longer in the Big Brother house.

Endemol must surely now be clutching at straws when both the actual and “secret” house know the strategy.

The opportunity to bring in five fresh new housemates has so far proved to be an opportunity wasted, Endemol choosing to bring in stereotypes as opposed to regular contestants, although Jennie appears to be the most normal from the five, possibly only because she’s a girl from Liverpool who hasn’t been involved in the world of promotions in London and hasn’t been shagged by Calum Best. To my knowledge anyway.

2006-07-05T11:52:00.000+01:00

Ronaldo's Apology To Rooney

2006-07-05T11:49:00.000+01:00

Special Needs

Having chopped and changed my mind about who I want to win this year’s Big brother, I have been able to categorically state who I don’t want to win, and that’s Pete – who entered the house like Jim Carrey on speed, and has slowed down enough to show his true colours.

He likes to tease the kitty but he doesn’t like to touch it

The most intriguing thing for me regarding this is how staunchly he is defended. I almost want to claim that this generation of teenagers and students are affected by a new morality – and are defending him using the most politically correct language I have possibly ever heard.

Endemol decided that after 6 series of Big Brother, and contestants as diverse from a Scouse builder to a Portuguese transsexual – they decided to whip up some controversy and include a housemate with Tourettes Syndrome.

Previously, shows such as Tourettes Camp or any similar documentaries have been generally viewed primarily for titillation as opposed to education.

A housemate in Big Brother unable to rein in a torrent of profanity whilst Davina McCall addresses the house pleading for no-one to swear is almost a parody of several of Leigh Francis’ Bo’Selecta characters including Davina herself (who incidentally discovered Francis) and the Tourettes Boy he plays, based on a documentary from the 90s about a boy who peppered every conversation with profane language.

However, the twist in the tail is that the Tourettes Character in Big Brother has entered the house with a gameplan.

By being, using the words of Mel B, a minge teasing bastard he has led on the females of the house and in doing so, precipitate a culture of pandering to him.

He is with no doubt someone who has been told many times that he is special, and in doing so has become as insolent as the artists’ model, causing him to believe his own hype.

Having entered the house in a blaze of energy, he has proved this was fake and unsustainable – his time in the house has been spent in either indolent silence or being “zany” when a camera pans past him.

His lack of backbone has infuriated me from the start, and it’s clear to see this is someone who revels in the attention and the sympathy of women.

Supporters of him will claim a million and one reasons for their support, primarily “Aww, he’s special” – and claim he should have preferential treatment because of this.

I firmly believe all housemates on Big Brother should be treated equally – if special rights are demanded, then an uneven playing field is indicated.

A worthy winner of Big Brother? I personally think definitely not.

A suggestion to Endemol would be to follow the style of We Are The Champions, presented by Ron Pickering where there used to be one show out of the series of disabled and handicapped kids all participating in sporting activities, although the only part I clearly remember is the splashing around in the swimming pool at the end.

2006-06-26T22:07:00.000+01:00

Paul Robinson

Fighter.

2006-06-26T20:29:00.000+01:00

Dirty Old Man

Whilst at the car boot sale in Salford on Sunday, I couldn't help but notice this dirty old man rummaging around in a box full of Adult Movies

2006-06-20T18:11:00.000+01:00

Come On England!

2006-06-19T23:55:00.000+01:00

Fucked By Monty

I am currently suffering from what is commonly known as "Man Flu" which had left me incapacitated leaving me to idly surf the net.

Imagine my astonishment when I read that the cult classic film Withnail & I is to be remade.

Call me cynical, but I always feel that remakes of originals without exception always turn out to be vastly inferior to the original - almost like that Carry On... film that was made in the 90s with the girls from the Philadelphia Cheese advert.

Jude Law apparently is to be cast in the title role - Richard E Grant is still very much alive and well, and his carrier-bag covered wellingtons would be extremely hard to fill.

This gives great opportunity to re-cast Uncle Monty - whithout doubt the star of the show, and since I have recently wrote about him complaining that he isn't in much these days, I cannot think of a better actor to play Uncle Monty than the award winning actor, Christopher Biggins.

Why he wasn't thought of playing the part in the first place amazes me.

"I find the carrot infinitely more fascinating than the rose..."

2006-06-15T20:56:00.000+01:00

Alanis Morissette

I have absolutely no idea what happened or whether I am undergoing some mid-90s revivial within myself, but my latest package from the Amazon Marketplace came in the form of Jagged Little Pill.

This album, from being a staple of every angst ridden teenager in the 90s has handsomely stood the test of time.

You Learn amongst others still speaks to me as much as it did back in '95, and although my concusions may be different, it's almost like seeing an old friend again.

2006-06-09T14:32:00.000+01:00

Chris Fountain:

Fit

2006-06-06T16:37:00.000+01:00

Whinge Like You’re Whining

You can’t reheat a soufflé. Or so said John Lennon.
Back in the summer of 98 the country was burning with enthusiasm and support for the England team.

There was even an anthem – Thee Lions.
Instantly catchy, it spilled out from the pubs to the beer gardens across the country.

The single itself was a commercial smash-hit, selling thousands of copies in the days before normal illegal downloading or smug “I pay for each song I download from a respected site” downloading.

England of course, lost, and now here we are again with the world cup nearly upon us.

In this feel good time we’ve come to expect a song to completely outshine Three Lions.
Franz Ferdinand, Snow Patrol and the Arctic Monkeys all refused to have anything do to with it; however word was sent back from sunny Brighouse that Embrace would pen a world cup song that would be sung in every kebab queue from Berwick-upon-Tweed to Barnstaple.

Nice thought. Embrace were/still are an excellent Indie/Guitar band, not known for their anthemic back catalogue.

Thora Hird stuck to what she knew when she was a character actress; she did not get her tits out for Loaded magazine. Wayne Rooney has never appeared on QI with Stephen Fry playing verbal tennis with his vocabulary.

So the nation has turned against Embrace for their shoegazing single which doesn’t feature the name of the country that they are mournfully representing.

Out of the shadows steps a bewildering array of Z List celebrities all clamouring to relive their fifteen minutes of fame.

Amongst the most jingoistic and xenophobic is Stan Boardman’s feeble attempt. This is a man who was so politically incorrect in the 80s and 90s that for the past 12 years he has worked as a mobile DJ in Kirkby - stacking supermarket shelves in obscurity.

The Sun is behind Boardman 110% as the song represents their core readership, fighting lads from Huyton, beer bellied white van men from the rougher parts of Essex and insular, racist Alf Garnet style pensioners who ought to have died twenty years ago.

I make no apology for sounding smug – the once blurry line between football and racism is now clearly defined.

Stan Boardman is a dinosaur who ought to have been left firmly behind in the 80s alongside ra-ra skirts and neon socks.

The most interesting of the world cup singles appears to be the offering from disgraced former Tory MP Neil Hamilton, duetting alongside his wife Christine.

I love the Hamiltons, between them they have the cheek of a rhinoceros and show not one ounce of shame.

Self publicising and self aggrandising, they have become an example of 21st century celebrity.

It could be argued “Stan Boardman represents the man on the street” whereas the Hamiltons don’t.

Possibly – Stan Boardman may possibly represent Burberry Street, Chavsville, the Hamiltons may represent Millionaires Row, Hampstead.

The most engaging fact about the Hamiltons is the 2003 court case brought against them by fellow Grimbarian Nadine Milroy-Sloan, a 29 year old living on benefits who had made contact with Barry Lehaney, a 61 year old man who regularly trawled internet chatrooms under a variety of pseudonyms.

To cut a long story short, Milroy Sloan accused Christine Hamilton of “performing a sex act” – in other words she accused Christine Hamilton of sitting on her face, forcing Milroy-Sloan to perform oral sex upon her.

The whole episode raised more than a few eyebrows, and the flamboyancy of the Hamiltons made Milroy-Sloan’s case even more convincing.
It was widely thought the Hamiltons were a shady pair; however these allegations put the seed of doubt into people’s heads that they could be involved in kinky sex.

The respectable middle aged couple three doors down with pampas grass in their front garden are the ones often to be found at swingers parties and in unsavoury photos in contact magazines.

Could Christine Hamilton be capable of such perversion?

It transpired that Milroy-Sloan had a slightly vivid imagination, and the Hamiltons enjoyed the limelight so much that Christine went on to appear in a reality TV show as well as other appearances.

Neil and Christine Hamiltion surely are to football as to what Julian Clary is to bricklaying.

Should they stick to what they know?

2006-06-06T15:28:00.000+01:00

Англия

Где на земле вы от? Мы от Англии куда вы приходите от делаете вы кладете kettle дальше? Пните его Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Bonjour Nah Nah Nah Monsieur Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah, котор мы будем Англией мы будем счетом одним gonna больше чем вы Англия! Могу я ввести вас пожалуйста к шишке сыра чеддера вяжу одно, pearl одно падение одно, завиваю один пинок оно Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah, котор мы будем Англией мы будем счетом одним gonna больше чем вы Англия! Я и я мумия и я папа и я Gran мы к waterloo мной и мной мумия и я папа и я Gran и ведро ведра Vindaloo! Vindaloo Vindaloo Vindaloo Vindaloo Vindaloo Nah Nah Vindaloo Vindaloo Vindaloo Vindaloo Nah Nah Vindaloo Vindaloo и мы все как Vindaloo мы будет Англией, котор мы будем счетом одним gonna больше чем вы Англия! Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Vindaloo и мы все как Vindaloo мы будет Англией, котор мы будем счетом одним gonna больше чем вы Англия! Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Vindaloo Vindaloo и мы все как Vindaloo мы будет Англией, котор мы будем счетом одним gonna больше чем вы Англия!!

2006-06-05T12:00:00.000+01:00

Christopher Biggins

One of my colleagues has told me that Christopher Biggins, like his fellow gin glugger, Joan Collins, is embarking on a UK tour for his forthcoming one man show.

Naturally this news was met with both scepticism and entheusiasm,

The last time I saw Christopher Biggins was several months ago reciting some rude poems on Paul O’Grady’s show dressed (for some reason) as a schoolboy (complete with ink stains to the face)

He is surely one of the most iconic TV presenters of a generation.
Anyone who grew up in the 80s will no doubt be able to remember the mind-boggling collection of loud and ridiculous spectacles that he wore.

Another celebrity of whom I’m fond (indeed her own website has a link via this blog) is Su Pollard.

Su Pollard’s bewildering array of comedy glasses surely must rivial that of Christopher Biggins.

I find both of them superbly entertaining, so much so, I took away a copy of Su Pollard’s autobiography Hearts and Showers away with me on my last holiday. The volume - a hardback with a shocking pink sleeve complete with a picture of Su Pollard in a fluffy yellow mohair jersey and an enormous pair of glasses – caused some curious looks on the flight.

To my chagrin, Christopher Biggins hasn’t put his life into print.
“Why?” I wonder. Does he owe money to Specsavers?

I once had an idea for a television programme, which has since been plagiarised by Channel 4 for one of their adverts.

The name of the show would be “My Favourite Swear Words” and would have been presented by Dame Thora Hird.

The show would have opened with Thora Hird sat in a chair, in an austere setting, such as a nursing home in Morecambe, with the camera slowly zooming into her face.

“My favourite swear word is the word cunt” said Thora Hird, followed by an explanation of the word being used to her, and also an occasion where she has used the word herself “I was working with Cliff Richard at the Bristol Old Vic in 1975 and he was forever pinching my bottom, I tried reasoning with him, as did the assistant floor manager. In the end I shouted over ‘See if you pinch my arse one more time you old cunt I’ll kick you in the fucking balls”

The surpirse element being that no-one would expect a national treasure such as Thora Hird, sorry, the late great Dame Thora Hird to use profane language, especially on television.

As there is only 7 “bad” swear words (apparently) and (back then anyway) only one Thora Hird, the show would quickly become pridictable, so my thoughts then moved to Christopher Biggins, who I imagined would be good at saying dirty limericks.

2006-05-30T09:43:00.000+01:00

Nikki

I'm starting to think that I was wrong about Nikki.

She's slowly turning into one of the more amiable characters in this year's Big Brother.

I also think that she looks like Nicola Stapelton who played Mandy in Eastenders.

2006-05-26T10:47:00.000+01:00

Big Bother

Series 7 of Big Brother has began in spectacular style.

Only a week into the show, and already two housemates have been drummed out for one reason or the other.

Questions are being asked as to why the producers allowed these people into the house in the first place.

Who knows? The question bothering me is why is there so many "Models", "Hostesses" and "Promotions Girls" in the house this year.

Big Brother is, without a shadow of a doubt, a victim of its own sucess, and since BB1 has continued to eat itself.

The originality in BB1 was largely down to the naivete of the contestants who did not know if the show would be successful or not - they certainly didn't imagine it would be a golden ticket to A List Celeb status.

The nature of the jobs of the original contestants was one which most of the viewers could relate to. Normal jobs which were held by slightly eccentric people.

This year builders, graphic designers, cleaners and even nuns have given way to a mediocre array of wannabes of uber Z List potential.

When I think of the term "hostess" I think instantly of a blonde English girl who's gone to work in Tokyo as a "hostess" which in laymans terms means having sex with rich Japanese businessmen for money.

Promotions girls are another breed who feature largely this year. Presumably this is the 3rd class coach where those who failed in glamour modelling clamour for a place.

The most disapointing fact about this year's BB is that it almost represents a single social segment.

Most of the housemates are based in London and move in the same social circles, clubbing at Chinawhite, shopping in the same shops, and all gleefully racking up thousands on Daddy's gold Amex on a Wednesday night.

This narrowcasting alienates viewers from anywhere further North than Travelcard Zone 3, this year there are little or no regional housemates, and certainly no housemates who work for a living in any way shape or form resemble the viewers voting for them.

In short, Big Brother has turned into "Search for a Celebrity" - or this at least this is how it's participants view it.

In order to recapture the magic of years gone by, Big Brother needs to get back to basics, and tell Nikki and her gaggle of brainless and mindless bimbettes and himbos to get back to Hollywoods in Romford, or to crawl under the nearest stone.

2006-05-26T10:11:00.000+01:00

In the jungle with George & Bungle
Zippy's having fun

Geoffrey's swimming with naked women
And you can see his bum

Don't be silly, it's just his willy
Reflecting in the sun

2006-05-23T16:10:00.000+01:00

Stretford Arndale

This man was observed eating a pastie from Hampsons the bakers at lunchtime.

2006-05-23T15:58:00.000+01:00

Ducks on the river in Lymm

2006-04-02T13:24:00.000+01:00

Birmingham Cop Chase

Finding myself in Birmingham on Friday, the restaurant I was dining in had a unique smoking section - outside in the street.

No sooner than I lit up when about 4 police cars came tearing down Temple Street grinding to a halt outside Swordfish records.

We ran down the street to see what the kerfuffle was, only to find about 15 policemen bundling a 40-something year old white man with grey dreadlocks into a car.

The man was shouting "Tamworth" repeatedly as he was bundled into one of the panda cars, police with CS gas hovering round the scene.

And I have absolutely no idea what went on, because I was very very drunk

2006-03-30T16:31:00.000+01:00

Lynne Perrie

I feel something should be said for Lynne Perrie who passed away this week.

She was one of the Cornonation Street characters whom I would very much liked to see back on the cobbled streets.

2006-03-30T15:12:00.000+01:00

Hostel

Orange Wednesdays tend to be the only time I'll go to the cinema these days.

"The Pictures" is something I've done less and less since the abundance of the remnants of the Morecambe Cocklers who trawl every backstreet Manchester pub hawking their pirate DVD's for almost half the price of a single ticket for the cinema.

Still - went to see Hostel last night - I'm still seduced by anything Eastern European, and having an Amsterdam connection added to the initial appeal.

Having just returned from Amsterdam it was nice to see how the Americans view Amsterdam.

Amsterdam is to the British in the 00's what Blackpool was to the British in the 90s.

Somewhere for people to go on a blowout weekend, a place for stags and hens to run riot in prmoiscuous debauchery.

Eastjet has become the natural successor to the minibus truindling down the M55, although the Americans see Amsterdam is somewhere as myserious and as culture-shocking as rural Japan.

Having recently been in Amsterdam I was irritated and bemused by the American tourists in the city.

Groups of about 17 people make not for an inconspicuous party - bearded 19 year olds called Zac and their female counterparts huddled round bings, pipes and chillums; their conversations peppered with words such as "far out".

I'm not one to pontificate about who should travel where, but these people personify "nightmare tourists" their overt bewiderment and cluelessness sticking out like a rasher of bacon at a bar mitzvah.

Pointing and giggling at prostitutes, asking the local police for "blow" and other such acts seldom endear these types to the average person.

The protagonists in Hostel typify these qualities - two US students travelling around "Yurrop" determined to cram in as much pussy and beer as humanly possible.

Anti-smokers and members of ASH should, in my opinion, I place in the same category as Mary Whitehouse.

I have often heard people say "I don't wish to go into a pub that's smoky" or "I don't want to go into a smoky pub" - my answer to these people is quite simple - "Don't, then".

With the exception of Ken Barlow in Coronation Street, traditional pubs are full of smokers, and the non-smokers who have so zealously and publicly supported a full smoking ban in licenced premises are the same people who have never set foot in a pub in the past ten years.

I digress - one of the characters in Hostel is sick to his stomach at the sight of a girl smoking.

My mind questions what exactly he was doing in Amsterdam as opposed to somewhere a lot more sterile, such as Disneyland.

In a normal situation whilst watching a film, one generally feels either empathy or spympathy with the protagonists - in the case of Hostel, my feelings towards the characters grew to an intense dislike as they became more narrow-minded, sexist, homophobic and ignorant.

However the longer I watch the film, the more I am convinced this is something which Eli Roth has engineered intentionally.

Clever tactic.

A random stranger the two main characters meet in Amsterdam tell them of the copious amounts of girls in a hostel just outside Bratislava who are horny for American guys all the time.

The two guys then pack their bags, and catch the next train to Bratislava - the train journey istelf proving to be bizarre with a man almost identical to Herr Lipp from The League Of Gentlemen sitting down and talking about "needs" followed by some inappropriate touching of one of the guys.

Upon arrival at the hostel, which looks more like the Gleneagles Hotel rather than any of the budget digs I've ever encountered, they are immediately pounced on by several European girls, who seem they can't get enough of bum bags or college t-shirts.

To cut a long story short, the stranger they met in Amsterdam is the "roper" in the situation, in a similar way to the man in the 80's advert who asked "Would you like to see some puppies".

Upon arrival in Bratislava, the tourists are seduced by the girls, then brought to a disused factory by one of the girls, either drugged, or on a flimsy pretext.

Within the bowels of the factory itself is a factory of torture, the screams of Japanese girls being overpowered by the blood curdling screams of American boys.

The man on the train re-apprears, this time performing sadistic surgery on one of the Americans.

The reason for this doesn't appear clear until towards the end of the film when it transpires that the factory is part of a Russian owned Human Hunting Club.

Members of the public can pay $5,000 to kill an Asian, $25,000 to kill a European, and $50,000 to ice an American.

Presumably the man on the train simply paid $50,000 for the experience as opposed to being part of the organisation itself.

The final American character introduced has seemingly paid $5,000 to kill a poor Japanese girl.

The film itself was not to my taste, however, it did leave me thinking about several things.

Americans being Americans they demonstrated a very sketchy knowledge of Europe.
Bratislava, which is in Slovakia, has never been part of the Balkans.
Slovakians also no longer speak Czech.

More disconcerting than that is the treatment given to Slovakia, a country where I have never visited, although I plan to.

I imagine the Slovakian Tourist Board to be up in arms about the representation of their country as a place where people can direct their own snuff movie and the police are in cahoots with deadly Russian gangs.

I visited Prague in 1995 and fell in love with the place, always planning to return.
In the past few years Prague seems to have been attracting a whole new type of tourist, seduced by the cheap alcohol and sex industry there.

Prague itself is trying to shake off that unwanted reputation, it's neighbour Bratislava has yet to set it's stall as a city break destination in the same way.

Budapest and Ljubljana are currently the Eastern European citybreaks de jour. I have planned on visiting Bratislava for some time.

I imagine that anyone who had planned on visiting the city would still do, after watching this film, although I can't help thinking that it won't get the airport onto Ryanair's schedules any quicker.

The added implication being that Americans will imagine the country to be as dangerous as a walk in Baghdad.

Who would have thought a simple visit to the cinema could provoke such thought...