memories of Liverpool at home …. 26th December 1980 … i had been waiting for this day all my life or so it seemed, Everton had been at OT 2 months earlier wearing their millets fishermans jacket and looking just right …. so what would boxing day bring with Liverpool …we were parked up and ready for the day by 11.30, with my mates in the dog having a drink i just mooched about as i always did back then. there wasn’t much happening but by 2 o’clock the forecourt was awash with wedge hair cuts, ski coats, bubble coats, lois inega and lee cords, ski jumpers and cardigans, lads weaing adidas trainers, pod boating shoes, kios, you couldn’t tell who was who. But inside the ground it was “sign on, sign on you’ll never get a job”. i think this was the day that the era of fun and games with the scoucers really began ….
memories of Liverpool at home …. September 1983 … i hadn’t been to a liverpool game at old trafford since april 1981 because i had stopped going for a while and missed the game the previous season. the thing was during the 82/83 season alot of things changed for me, and i had moved away from the fila, ellesse, cerruti 1881 clobber and was wearing a M+S lambswool jumper, or Lacoste jumper, faded Levi’s or Lee jeans Farah trousers adidas columbia, adidas olympia s or those wonderful adidas kosika shoes. What really hit home this day in 1983 was just how much had changed. the lads had split into two groups one still wearing the tennis gear and the other like me was dressing down. i hung around as i always did people watching checking out who was wearing what, and the thing was again you couldn’t tell who was who, it was a north west thing or even just a manc scouse thing …
memories of Liverpool at home …. Setember 1984 …. Funny but it was almost twelve months to day from the 1983 game at old trafford, this one ended in a 1 – 1 draw but a huge change had taken place in “the look”… the scousers were into suede and cord, with straight or semi flared jeans, but we were wearing full flares, golfing jackets or mountaineering jackets and for the first time in years you could tell who was who, and it felt that we were giving to them big style with the unique manc look …
As from next week, Swine will be teaming up with Who’s Arsed to bring you ‘Yer Know The Dance’ a popular colloquialism used by cynics to describe an in-built suspicion of what is being paraded as ‘the truth’ whether that’s the real sell-on value of certain Geordie strikers or the reasons for toppling Assad in Syria.
‘The dance’ applies to virtually any subject and knowing the dance requires the dancer to be aware of the steps, steps maybe even unknown to the hot steppers and fairground waltzers of the powers that be.
It won’t all be snide piss-taking and bilious polemic (that’ll be 90%) but a place we can mull over landscape and memory (eh?), showcase poetry and essays (y’wha?) and celebrate things we admire and condemn things we despise. Sounds shit doesn’t it? It won’t be. Or maybe it will, that’s up to you our super soaraway Sun burning readers to decide.
Thanks for sticking with Swine for 7 years and the archive will still be there for anyone who wants to delve deeper into our pool of hate.
The site’s still being developed but there are a few old and new things on there. Re-set your favourites or just fuck us off, up to you!
Link to YKTD
If you don’t fancy watching knights jousting and Uncle Toms draping themselves in the flags of their oppressors, then Swine will point you in the direction of the some of worst ever telly to appear in this or any other washed out summer of misery.
Crass – The Musical
Following on from How Do You Solve A Problem Like Uriah Heap and Jesus Christ Reality Star, Lord Andrew Loog Oldham searches the scrapheaps of Pontins karaoke bars to find the stars of his new musical extravaganza ‘Crass On Ice.’ Who will be worthy of Lord Lloyd George’s famous catchphrase ‘You are my next NA Palmer, you’re sacked!’
The Unforgetable Ian Brady
A tribute to one of Britain’s best loved child killers, a raft of fellow psychopaths, murderers and nonces pay their respects to the one and only Moors Murderer who wasn’t Myra Hindley.
Bradley Wiggins – A New Kind Of Hero
He’s the greatest cyclist of all time and has sideburns, listens to 60s music, has opinions and doesn’t speak entirely in cliches. He’s so un-BBC that ITV have signed ‘Wiggo’ up as their new chat show host. Fuck Eamonn Holmes, the fat cunt, Brad’s got the patter and the sideys and rides a bike dead, dead fast.
The Only Way Is Auschwitz
It’s 1944 and Hitler decides to fulfil the Nazi dream to slaughter every Jew in the world. But who would you save? Join our secret Shindler as he goes undercover in the Warsaw ghetto, to decide who’s worthy of a second chance and who ‘gets on the train.’
Big Fat Lazy Cunt v Human Skeleton
Laugh out loud as a big fat lazy cunt’s heart explodes whilst an anorexic girl starves herself to death for your amusement.
Ever wondered what slugs do when they’re not kipping and eating dog shit? Our multi-million pound SlugCam follows a family of slugs over 6 years to record their migraton paths and mating rituals in a fascinating experiment that proves slugs aren’t just snails without shells but highly intelligent super-evolved slimy bastards that will one day rule the universe.
Rain Rain Go Away
It’s been the rainiest summer since Noah and Nelly built their wooden horse and twatted the Trojans. Our beloved weathermen and girls explain how the gulf war has affected weather patterns since Michael Fish tragically died in a trawlernet.
Direct Line Comedy Marathon (in aid of Help For Heroes or something)
All your favourite edgy comedians from the hilarious Direct Line adverts appear on one stage for one night only as they recreate the classic sketches from five years of insurance commercials. Sir Armando Ianucci narrates.
Brian Eno’s Lino Bingo
The former Roxy Music trombonist plays a cerebral game of ambient bingo with guests Jah Wobble and Michael Nyman whilst sat on a roll of 70s lino for no apparant reason.
Jeremy Kyle In Yemen
Jezza brings his no holds barred brand of relationship guidance to a tribal area of Yemen where adulterers and lippy wives are stoned to death and burned alive for daring to look in a mirror. The DNA tests are back and the kettle’s on!
Grass Up Your Parasite Pal
Do you suspect your so-called best mate of claiming bogus Tax Credits based on their earnings six years ago or your mum of avoiding tax by cleaning the old lady next door’s bungalow for a tenner cash in hand? Well it’s law abiding, honest mugs like me and you who are paying for these scumbags to live a life of luxury in their 30 bedroom council house mansions so do your patriotic duty and phone our 24 hour grassline NOW!
Jimmy Carr’s Car Crash TV Show
The nation’s favourite tax avoiding gagsmith wanders around the country’s motorways with a camcorder filming real car crashes as they happen and making quips as firefighters and paramedics tend to the injured.
Gary Barlow’s Fifth Dimension
Somewhere in an alternative universe there is a man who has modelled himself on the Disney era Elton John and has become the world’s number one musical king maker. This is Gary Barlow’s fifth dimension, a surreal topsy turvy place where kings and queens and princes and princesses still rule and poor people wave flags and say ‘aren’t they lovely? I’m so proud to eat their shit.’
Lawro n’ Lammo
The BBC’s grumpy footy pundit and 6music’s terminally cheery 6th form DJ join forces to make up new nicknames for their crazy gang of fellow arselicking BBC pals.
Gok’s Mock Croc Frock Epoch
Everyone’s favourite Chinese arse bandit shows fat houswives from Northamptonshire how to look frumpy as fuck in a range of Cath Kitson hausfrau pinnies.
Russell Russell’s Russell Time
Boss eyed, quiff headed conjoined comedy twins Russell Russell make juvenile jokes about celebrities as only they can. ‘Jessica Ennis – I’d DP her on my own!’ etc etc
Ok lids? It’s me Kenny Kicker and guess what? Remember when I was telling yer I followed the Illuminati to the room above Chan’s chippy in Kenny? Well, I was shredding a few incriminating documents I’d printed off the library’s secret MI5/CIA/Mossad coded lappy, ‘How To Spot An Intermediary Sasquatch’ ‘Build Your Own A Bomb’ ‘The Higgs Boson Is A Jewish Plot’ ’911 was a CGI Pixar movie’ and loads of other stuff I’d come across from my mates over in Texas State Pen in Utah, when I find the chippy order Prince Edward dropped in the jigger.
Thought I’d used it to scribble me naps on, but no, there it was, a genuine illuminati secret document worth millions I reckon if I put it on ebay or if the Israelis wanna buy it off me to spare their blushes. I’m not a greedy man, don’t wanna go the same way as Assange, banged up in Guantanamo on trumped up rape charges like. I’ve done my jug lad, mug’s game.
So if anyone’s interested (I know you’re clocking this in Mossad HQ Dame Stella Artois and Benjamin GoogleYahoo) – here’s the full scran list – the original is hidden somewhere even the Matrix won’t be able to sniff out (under me bed in an arl Adidas box).
Illuminati chippy order – star date 5th May 2012
The Queen – sausage dinner
Prince Philip – chips and curry (mild not spicy)
Jedward – 2 x prawn chop suey one with chips, one fried rice
Henry Kissinger – set meal for four, extra bag of chips, large bottle of diet coke – NO CHAR SUI!!!
Herbert from Herberts – bag of prawn crackers only
Billy Butler – egg foo yung with half n’ half
Sammy Lee – pie dinner (meat and tater) no onions!
Kofi Annan – duck in blackbean sauce
The Pope – special chow mein with extra beansprouts
The bird from Only Connect – salt and pepper chips and three fritters
Moysey – fishcake and onion gravy
Barack and Michelle Obama – hot and sour soup x 2 & bag of crispy bits
Dizzy Rascal – chip barm with loads of vinegar
Joe Anderson (going halves with Henry)
Piers Morgan – singapore vermicelli
Nicola from Girls Aloud – Mixed grill (carton of curry extra)
Boris Johnson – 2 x fish, boiled rice, spare ribs, chop suey roll, sweet n sour sauce sperate
Kate and William – swan omelette with onion gravy
Rupert Murdoch – fuck all (mingebag)
Tony Sage – beef with chilli and garlic with chips
Please ask for receipt and pay with Henry’s Tesco Clubcard
That Tetrus Pack fellar who topped his bird and then hid her in a Head bag under the ironing pile for 6 years, got a touch there eh? Nice little walk over from the CPS and guess why? He’s Mossad lad! This fellar I was in jug with, Mad Pat, The Limerick Strangler told me all about these two. He did their drive for them back in the 90s, said they were always cracked off their tits and had loads of cartons of milk piled up in the garage. He was there one day doing the guttering and looked in the bedroom and Boris Yeltsin, George Bush Senior, John Major, Edwina Curry, Roman Abramovich, Frank Carson, Ali and Mehmet from EastEnders, the bird from Countdown and Alan Titchmarsh were all having an orgy on a rubber mat. That Rausing fellar was filming it all and his missus was passing round gold fish bowls of beak served by midgets wearing gas masks.
Next thing, someone spots him blimping, think it was Mehmet and he gets off in his van back to his campsite. Next day, there’s an helicopter over the vans and all these Matrix lads are coming down rope ladders lobbing stun greanades and smoke bombs and then all these MI5 fellars wearing black suits and shades just like them two out of Predator surround em and put em in the back of a laundry van. Next thing, Pat and his missus, Bridget are sat in this underground bunker somewhere near Tel Aviv and Woody Allen’s shining a big light in their eyes asking em where Eva is and they’re going ‘we don’t know what you’re on anbout lad’ and then out of the shadows steps out that fellar from The Persuaders with the bowler hat and that Kirsty bird from Location Location Location start twatting em with baseys.
After a day of this, they put em in a cell with Bin Laden, Yasser Arafat, Col Gaffafi, Saddam Hussein and that kid from the Manic Street Preachers, which is when they realise, it’s all a big cover up, the Arab Spring, the ET abductions, fluoride in the water, the Greek economic meltdown, Zara Phillips winning Sports Personality of The Year, Roswell, JFK, 911, Man City winning the league, everything made sense. Then next thing, he wakes up back in this alehouse in Kentish Town and his memory’s been wiped clean, he can’t remember a thing about it until he clocks this photo of Hans Christian Anderson and it all comes back to him; the orgy, the beak, the milk cartons, the bird from Relocation zapping his knackers with jump leads, Duncan Goodhew laughing his cock off.
Tellin’ yer lad, if they found my missus in a Head bag, tied up with lazzy bands with an orange in her gob and 26 mills of Domestos up her arse, rotting away in the lobby under me footy kit, then I’d be banged up in Walton for life lid, no questions asked. But nah, this lad’s got the lizards on his brief, Cameron’s kid brother, Prince Edward, Bernard Hogan-Howe, Bradley Wiggins, Willie Carson, Henry Kissinger, Jason Orange, her from the Shake and Vac advert, they’re all in on it lad, swear down. Yeah and 20 Marly lights please love.
Cycling has always been a reasonably multinational sport, even if largely confined to the first world. Professional teams mix nationalities and there are major races in all the big European countries. This year has seen the emergence of Team Sky. Or more accurately has seen the coalescing of a nucleus of British riders in Team Sky, that has led to the triumph of Bradley Wiggins in the Tour De France.
Most years you could blink and miss the news coverage of the Tour. Not this year. This year a Brit won so the Tour De France became a big event. Wiggins won the race and the two time trials, Mark Cavendish weighed in with a couple of stage wins and his fourth win on the Champs Elysees in four years. David Millar doesn’t ride for Sky but he’s a Brit and won a stage. The Brits had it all sewn up. All that was left was for them to turn up at the Olympics and lead Cav up to the Mall where he would blow away the opposition and claim gold.
The BBC had the man for the job. Hugh Porter, by far the most hapless, clueless commentator on the BBC’s books. He consistently misidentifies riders, calls tactics wrong and shows an all round level of incompetence. Admittedly he wasn’t helped by the shambolic organisation of information for the race but there wasn’t a fact he couldn’t mangle. It was possible to sense Chris Boardman’s embarrassment alongside him and Boardman’s the weakest of the ITV4 team that cover the Tour. The scene was set, there would be a couple of breakaways by attention seeking foreigners before they were reeled in by the all conquering Brits and the Manx Missile was launched.
Even as it became clear that the script was not being followed, Hugh doggedly stuck to the pre-determined narrative that had Team Sky (as he amusingly identified them more than once) always on the brink of catching the breakaway. Even when Chris Froome sat up and stopped trying a long way out, even when Wiggins decided to save himself for the time trial, Hugh was desperately looking for ways that Cavendish could win. Even he had to give up when Alexandre Vinokourov and Rigoberto Uran Uran gave the breakaway the slip and had the first two places sewn up.
Grudgingly the BBC began to concentrate on the sprint, which Vinokourov predictably won with ease. Hugh then came into his own. As the breakaway arrived he couldn’t be arsed figuring out who had come third, musing aloud ‘was it a Spanish rider, or a Dutch rider maybe’. It turned out to be a Norwegian rider, Alexander Kristoff. Hugh then got all excited by what he described as ‘the sprint for fourth place’ won by Andre Greipel. This turned out to be the sprint for the coveted 24th place. Exhausted by his mental exertions, Hugh handed back to the studio. Here, the fun really began. A lanky streak of piss whose name, in the style of Hugh Porter, I can’t be arsed finding out declared ‘that was not the result the British public wanted’.
I beg to differ. Tanni Grey Thompson (that well-known cyclist – Ed) was then brought on to explain how Cav’s shock defeat was down to the other countries inexplicably failing to help him win. I’ve no doubt Tanni is a fine athlete but she doesn’t appear to understand team sport. The other cyclists are not supposed to help Britain win. That’s why they are in other teams. It’s what sport is about. An odd woman called Jill then managed to get an interview with the winning rider Vinokourov, ignoring the fact he’d just ridden a hundred and fifty miles to claim Olympic gold to ask why was ‘everyone riding against Cavendish today’? Because it was a fucking race.
Streak of piss was then joined by Sue Barker in an effort to restore a modicum of professionalism. The mask slipped when we were able to hear voices from off-screen, presumably the producers, displaying their impressive knowledge of the sport. ‘Gold to Kazakhstan, silver to C O L, what’s C O L?’ Fucking Colombia. where did you think, Colchester? ‘Where’s Sagan, he’s supposed to be famous, wasn’t he meant to be one of the main ones.’ Yes, but so was Cavendish.
As for Cavendish. Well in previous years he had impressed me, always sharing the credit with his team at HTC, comfortable with the European cosmopolitan aspects of his life. Then he joined Sky. Under the influence of the uber-nationalist Dave Brailsford, he has become a Little Englander bore. Brailsford’s lauding of Team Sky’s win in the Tour spoke only of British success, a smack in the face to the likes of the Australian Richie Porte and the Austrian Bernie Eisel who did phenomenal amounts of work to get Wiggins on the podium.
All year Cavendish spoke of limiting his own ambitions for stage wins to ensure Wiggins achieved a ‘British’ victory. The pay off was that Cavendish would follow up his world championship win with an Olympic medal. Oops. Cavendish’s post-race interview was a shocker. Full on toddler tantrum. It was everyone else’s fault, the other teams were against the British. Erm yes, that’s how sport works. In particular he blamed the Australians for not helping him. It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that either this is because they are English-speaking white fellers or because he is that used to having Australian lackeys at Sky that he’s having trouble adjusting. Australia had Stuart O’Grady in the breakaway, an elementary precaution that any team with nous would take. Spain managed to have three riders in the breakaway.
There was no need for the Australian team to work to bring back the breakaway, O’Grady was their best hope for a medal in the circumstances. (He eventually finished 6th.) But Cavendish knows this, he knows it far better than I do. This was imperialist whining at its most blatant. Didn’t these foreigners understand that the finest team of British road racers ever assembled were entitled to a gold medal in London? They didn’t have to win, they just had to turn up. The result meant cycling won, maybe the Brits just needed to try harder and be more tactically astute.
Oh, and of course the churlish news announcers were quick to point out that Vinokourov was a drugs cheat. An epithet not used to describe British team captain, David Millar – banned for the same amount of time for the same offence as Vinokourov – and never, ever used to describe Linford Christie. And of course it doesn’t really explain away the other 27 riders who finished in front of the ‘unbeatable’ Cavendish.
Ed’s note : of course all this could change by this afternoon (1st August) as ‘Wiggo’ carries ‘the hope of a nation’ for that elusive gold. Watch out people, the BBC are about to explode!! Pity we had to watch the Tour on ITV fucking 4!
Swine has been on holiday to the Costa del Crime for 10 days and watched the opening ceremony for the LondonOlympicsTM whilst scranning clams in a taberna with the sound turned down. Therefore I only got to see a few glimpses of what appeared to be a West End musical as directed by Luis Bunuel and, a few hours before, as Lineker warmed up the nation with his brand of matey ennui, my jaw dropped as that boss eyed Dr Who whopper delivered some cobbled together piece of state propaganda that good old Dr Goebbels would’ve considered a bit OTT.
Now that the BBC has totally ditched any pretence of impartiality or ‘balance’ as it sucks up to the money men, the ‘Official Olympic Broadcaster Channel’ has entered a broadcasting Higgs Boson. The world has stopped spinning, time has stood still, quantum physics has forced all matter through a wormhole and we have entered an alternative universe where all human evolution and history is compressed into a string theory parallel dimension. In this universe, the theory of everything is reduced to how Team GB are doing in a procession of utterly meaningless so-called ‘sports’ that absolutely nobody (except a fanatical minority of cranks) gives a flying fuck about at any other time. Yachting? Showjumping? Diving? Swimming? Archery? Kerplunk?
Hey, don’t be such a cynic, a moaning minnie, a totally neggo nay sayer doing Britain down maaan! There’s no place for you in today’s reclaiming the union jack, smiley, happy, multicultural, royal loving, Boris and Dave and Nick super summer re-launch of Cool Britannia. Forget the recession, austerity and war cos Blue Peter presenters and Guardian columnists are telling us how utterly brilliant this is for ‘the nation.’ Er, who’s nation? The nation of ‘Brits’ ofcourse with our marvellous sense of humour, our creativity, or sense of fair play and our tolerance of swarthy types. That’s what GBPLC is all about daddio! Get wid da programme or fuck off to Russia.
Those six rings of Dante’s inferno symbolise everything that’s wrong with the corporate, nationalist, macho culture that has turned ‘competition’ into a mantra of modernity. Humans can only run so fast, jump so high, throw so far but each generation throws up yet another procession of genetically modified, juiced up gymnasts and android athletes. See their muscles, sinews, veins, all computerised, chemically controlled and clinically tested to pump blood around the body, quicker, faster, harder, stronger to get the utlimate from limbs and machines. And for what? Muttley medals for the castrated elite of political poseurs who divvy out the world’s stolen dough.
After the CGI duplicity of Beijing and the flash, bang, wallop of fireworks and flag waving thousands, the LondonOlympicsTM opening cermeony promised something very different. The same night, Danny Boyle’s version of Trainspotting was on some digital channel back in the apartment. How very far Danny has come from his much patronised ‘typically northern roots.’ He’s the chattering class’s Gary Barlow, the establishment’s ‘go to’ northern whore. His celebration of a Niall Ferguson meets Lionel Bart New Labour/Nu Tory history lesson was as selective and sanitised as anything the Chinese could throw at the ‘watching billions.’
For example, I was waiting for the following :
Russ Abbott in his dogfight ace outfit flying about in a papier machet Lancaster carpet bombing a miniture Legoland Dresden complete with burning lego kids.
A troupe of Martin McGuinness faced leprechauns smearing shit all over their re-created H Block cells in the ‘state torture’ field.
Hundreds of camp Bow Sreet Runners doing silly dances as they truncheon blacked up miners, kettled students and shot Brazilians in the state oppression section.
Tony & Cherie Blair lookalikes bathing a hot tub of blood as they throw money at starving Africans (all played by local Hackney kids ofcourse)
Zara Phillips riding through a hoop of fire on her pantomime horse (played by Princes Harry and William to show their funny side) before being lanced by ‘love rat’ James Hewitt dressed as the black knight.
Hilarious comic, Jimmy Tarbuck pretending to be Sir Paul McCartney singing ‘Imagine’ to the ghost of John Lennon played by Shane Ritchie.
National icon, Dr Harold Shipman doing his visit of the wards armed with his magical syringe as old ladies played by David Walliams and Matt Lucas recite the lyrics to Killing Me Softly in mock Shakespearean voices.
A re-enactment of the Battle Of Hastings starring the cast of The Only Way Is Essex as the Saxons where the Normans (played by the cast of Made in Chelsea) get their Froggy arses whupped in a pie and mash eating contest served by a Pearly King & Queen played by Ray Winstone and Kathy Burke.
A cute Asian kid selling curry door to door in a cobbled northern street as a white family gather round for their traditional weekly meal; the cute Asian kid on a spit.