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Liverpool v United – a potted history of early scal by Russell Jones

russ

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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 ….

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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 …

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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 …

Russell Jones

Yer Know The Dance!

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!

Phil

Link to YKTD

http://www.yerknowthedance.com/

Swine TV – silly season special

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.

Slug Watch

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

The Illuminati’s chippy order – on sale now!

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

Kenny Kicker’s News Blast

Mossad, Mossad, Mossad lad!

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.

Psycle Sluts

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.

Peter Naylor

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!

What Danny Boyle Missed From His Mythical Isles Shitfest

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.

Newscorp, A4e, Barclays, G4s, HSBC – all in it together!

The Tory Utopia as dreamed of by Thatcher, Major, Blair and Brown was a society where the government played as small a part in people’s lives as possible and private companies and institutions would compete to provide the population with better jobs, better living conditions, better banks, better utilities, better transport, better everything. ‘Competition’ was their mantra, in business, just as in sport the human desire to be competitive would result in cheaper and better services and, most importantly, the government could take a back seat and rake in vast personal fortunes for their pals and themselves from privatising national assets.

When Maggie eventually pops her clogs, no doubt many will celebrate and ‘rejoice’ in her demise but in truth she, like The Queen and other totems are merely puppets being manipulated by the shadowy men in the background, getting them to do their dirty work. In post-Gorbachev Russia, the gangsters moved in to snap up gas, oil and other natural resoruces straight away. They were blatant and unrepentant whereas Britain’s secret trillionaires are more adept at hiding behind mirages of national unity, identity and collectivity.

The recent corporate scandals expose the myth of unregulated competition as a force of economic or social progress. Small government doesn’t work and left to their own devices all corporations will put shareholder profits above morality, social responsibility or the law. Newscorp and Murdoch’s empire of dirt proved this most starkly. From murdered schoolgirl’s text messages to support for regime change in Iraq, Libya, Rupert will stop at nothing to make a few bob.

This has always been the way ofcourse, it’s not some new aberation. You can’t apply abstract notions of ‘morality’ to greed. With lucrative multi-billion contracts and slush funds sloshing around the ‘markets’ (who are the fucking ‘markets’ any way? ‘The markets won’t like it!’ these so-called analysts say. Well, fuck the markets and fuck you too braces tit!)

A4e recently won massive contracts to provide ‘work programme’ placements for all those being bumped off incapacity benefits, the unemployed and school leavers. What A4e and other providers do is sub-contract much of this work out to other providers and agencies who then find themsleves tied into ridiculous contracts to find people jobs in a jobless market. So, they bend the rules, break the rules, massage the figures, cheat. They place kids in ‘job’s for a few weeks, days or even hours and then claim it as a real job ‘outcome.’

This happened during New Labour’s ‘New Deal’ programme and is already happening with the Work Programme. Sooner or later as yet another year of schoolkids and degree students join the ever growing dole queue, they’ll admit defeat and re-name it something else and American style ‘workfare’ will be implemented. The League Of Gentleman’s ‘Paulines Pens’ sketch wasn’t too far away from the truth.

Likewise with G4s, they win a huge contract to deliver security personnel for the Olympics and sub-contract it out to other providers who then ‘train’ thousands of people mostly from London’s most impoversihed and racially mixed areas. In the classic Simpsons episode, ‘Mayored To The Mob’ Homer becomes a bodyguard for the mayor after completing a useless training course. The course instructor lines his pupils up and says he wouldn’t even trust any of them to guard the hated president of commy Russia but as their cheques had all cleared, they’d all passed. Again, this isn’t so far removed from the truth. Contractors get weighed in to get people through the course, bums on seats, not quality of provision. No wonder then, that many of these ‘trained and certificated’ security experts go AWOL or are unable to steward an infant school egg and spoon race.

As with all these farces, everyone blames each other because there are that many levels of sub-contractors and Quangos (remember them?) that every can point the finger elsewhere. The government blames Locog, Logog blames G4s, G4s blames the sub-contractor, the sub-contractor blames the Jobcentres and employment agencies, they blame the government and so it goes round and round.

With Barclays and HSBC, the problems are similar but on a much greater scale. Barclays blame the Bank of England for the Libor interest rate fixing scandal, the Bank of England blames the government, the government blame the regualtor, the regulator blames the European Central Bank, the ECV blames the IMF, the IMF blames the Federal Reserve, the Federal Reserve blames Mexican drug gangs, the Mexican drugs gangs blame HSBC, HSBC blame the CIA, the CIA blame the FBI, the FBI blame Mi5 and Mi5 blame that dead tranny in a North Face bag.

What is clear is that far from being a panacea for libertarian ideas of personal responsibility and the cult of the individual, small government only benefits those clever, ruthless, cunning or connected enough to make vast personal fortunes off the backs of billions of ordinary people who then pay the price of this corruption via austerity measures.

The architect for much of this banking de-regulation was former chancellor and alleged ‘socialist,’ Gordon Brown who has recently been appointed the United Nations Special Envoy for Education. This is almost as laughable as his old warmongering, blood soaked pal, Blair who became a Middle East Peace Envoy after personally de-stabilising the entire region with his fellow oil grabbing freddom fighter, George W. Bush.

Is it any wonder that people regard all politicians as self-serving, greedy liars and hypocrites? It is not we who are cynical it is those who masquerade their greed and ambition, who enrich themsleves through privatisation and wars, who turf the sick and the old out of hospital and care homes, who cut pay and pensions, who penalise the poor and the vulnerable whilst handing over trillions to their city pals who are the true cynics. Newscorp, A4e, HSBC, G4s, Barclays and me. We’re all in together.

Top O’ The World Ma!

The recent death of nine mountain climbers in the French alps only underlines the constant risk that ‘adrenaline junkies’ and adventurers face when they decide to climb, swim, cycle, dive or simply survive in the world’s most inhospitable places (and Widnes). Now, I’m not knocking them, but as a time served shithouse, the very thought of doing ANYTHING that endangers my life fills me with dread. That includes going further than ten foot up a ladder or arguing with a taxi driver.

So, hats off to those brave men and women who put their life on the line as two of those killed did, to raise money for a children’s hospice. Such a selfless act of charity should be applauded but this ‘BucketList’ bravado has its limits. My own experience of mountain climbing is limited to scaling Snowdon, Scafel Pike and Ben Nevis, not on the same day like those Three Peaks cranks but with many years in between. My experience on Ben Nevis especially made me realise that climbing even relatively small mountains (small compared to the Alps or the Himalayas at any rate) was not for me.

My brother in law, Big Al, his three potty younger brothers and myself decided to drive up to Fort William on the spur of the moment one rainy day in May 95. It was the day before the cup final between Everton and Man United and our plan was to drive up Friday, pitch up tent, get an early night, climb Big Ben in the morning and get back into Fort Billy to watch the match.

What happened was we got lost in Glasgow and asked for directions outside Ibrox stadium only to find ourselves in Paisley, then finally getting to Fort William in a haze of weed blowback in the evening. We then proceeded to terrorise every alehouse in the town before driving (somehow) to the foothills of Ben Nevis, where three of the brothers attempted to put up their tent. I got onto the back seat of Al’s Range Rover to get my head down and half way through the night decided a needed a shit. I got out, cleared my bowels and got back onto the back seat.

Waking up the next morning, the Rangey stunk of shit and Big Al wasn’t a happy lumphammer fisted man when he saw that I’d walked in my own faeces and smeared it all over his lovely leather seats. He ordered me to clean it up and inbetween puking and pissing, I wiped the back seat clean as the three younger brothers crawled from under their unpitched tarpaulin cover to cook cheapo sausages and beans for brekky. The mountain was covered in snow right to the foot where we were parked and then we set off, not as I suggested by looking for a path but by simply walking directly up the slope nearest to us.

As we got further up, it soon became clear that this was a somewhat foolhardy way to approach the biggest mountain in Britain especially when you were wearing Gazelles, not state of the art mountaineering boots. Miraculously the higher we got, the better the conditions got and so the lads decided to fuck about sliding down massive crevasses on their arses. When we eventually reached the summit after meeting nobody, and thinking we were veritable Hillarys and Tensings, we found it packed with fellow climbers, the ones with proper sticks, waterproof anoraks and ICI socks. A few even had dogs and some of them were well over 70.

The view from the peak of Ben Nevis was truly awe inspiring, the Scottish islands and highlands to the north and west in a cloudless, blue sky. Now I understood what climbers got from their ‘sport’ or ‘hobby.’ The overwhelming human desire to channel into the natural landscape and to become small in the realm of rock and snow, is something primal and has motivated humans ever since the ice age formed these peaks and valleys.

Not that Al’s brothers were that moved by this wondrous sight and we soon began our descent, following the path at first and then taking a suicidal detour to clamber down the steep, heather covered slopes with chasms of endless rock below us. As the brothers hopped, skipped and jumped like seasoned mountain goats, my fear of certain death forced me to hang back and cling for dear life and fellow walkers shouted danger warnings to us. Unpeturbed by their shouts they continued down the slope and such was the gradient, my ankles gave way on me and I had to complete the upper stages on my arse.

Eventually I caught up with them on a plateau about half way down, the rock providing us with a windbreak and it became very hot. Fuck the match, we all had a kip to rid ourselves of our hangovers and got back to base as night was falling. Rather than stay another night, Al made the decision to drive home and we took turns to steer his top of the range Rangey through the now very wet Scottish hills and moors.

Even in the rain, the Scottish landscape is profoundly beautiful and although it’s the mountains and the lochs that get all the glory, my favourite part is the desolate moorlands between Glasgow and the English border. Living in a part of the country that has towns and cities almost overlapping each other this brown and purple landscape with its low hills and featureless plains stretching to the horizon made me yearns for the border reevers, cattle rustling and Jacobite insurrection.

We arrived back home in the early hours and I slept for two days. That was the last time I climbed a mountain. Al got into it big time, doing the Atlas mountains, Kilimanjaro, the Himalayas and Mont Blanc a few times, where he got marooned for a two days in a hut with his brother (who was rattling). He said it was the scariest two days of his life, not knowing if the terrible weather would clear and wondering if they’d need rescuing.

It was near Chamonix that these climbers died when an avalanche struck and although they were all regular climbers, the tourism industry has made a virtue of such ventures. If it’s not ‘celebrity’ challenges, being taken out of your so-called ‘comfort zone’ or needlessly futile feats of endurance, then it’s self-indulgent odysseys and record breaking attempts by spoiled rich kids and their overbearing parents.

The likes of Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Hillary, Tensing and other true explorers and adventurers, even up to the first astronauts were truly going where no man had been before. They faced death in the pursuit of scientific and yes, commerical glory. As with most endeavors, it was the venture cpaitalists and imperialists funding these expeditions. Those who crave danger, even for noble causes or take unneccessary risks, endangering the lives of others, rescuers included, deserve our condemnation. I’m not saying this was the case in this instance but how many times have we seen the unprepared and clueless rescued from rocks and rivers, seas and cliffs as they risk death in the pursuit of kicks?

Me, I’m under no illusions and don’t feel as if I have to prove how tough I am or what I can endure. I’ve got soft hands and a dodgy gut, count me out! ‘One life, live it’ the all action man sticker says. I intend to mate.

Newspunch Wednesday 11th July – Poor Woman Found Dead In Council Flat

Eva Skint, one of the poorest women in Britain was yesterday found dead in her home in Bootle. Skint’s husband, Ged Skint was later arrested and let off with a caution. Police said Skint had suffered enough and that, although he and his wife had been arrested many times for possesion and distribution of class A drugs, jailing them was no answer to the couple’s problems. Chief Constable Sir Bob Hypocrite told Swine ‘this is a tragic case. The Skint family are well known to the police in Bootle and we’ve really tried hard to help them in the past but it’s a disease isn’t it? All those burglaries and shoplifting crimes they committed were cries for help and, as a society, we all have a duty to help those who are often marginalised and stigmatised by their addictions.’

However some member sof the millionaire addict community reacted with outrage. Tarquin Top-Hatt told us ‘if the same thing happened to me and my billionaire heir chums, we’d be slammed in the chokey before you could say ‘phone daddy and get him to a word with the DPP will you Jeeves?’ It’s just typical double standards; one law for the poor and another one for the rich. Imagine if my wife and I were caught smuggling heroin and crack into say the American embassey and then a massive stash of class A drugs were found in our Chelsea mansion. Do you think the Peelers and Judge Karl Marx would pat us on the head and give us a stern ticking off? No, we’d be placed on the first boat to the colonies for 30 years hard labour. The whole thing stinks.’

News analyst, Jeff Vomit defended media coverage of the Skint case. ‘this is one of the smallest stories of the year. A heroin addict no-one cares about is killed by her poverty stricken husband in a flat in Bootle. Stories don’t get any smaller than that. It’s only right that we reflect public indifference and ignore this story at all costs. It just goes to show, you can have all the worst things in life, a brutal upbringing, a terrible education, no career prospects and a horrible place to live and still descend into a life of drugs and crime. Some people don’t know how unlucky they are.’

Members of the Bootle Smack Alliance reacted with sadness at the news. ‘You don’t expect it to happen to people who lives in decaying council flats do yer? It’s usually those posh bastards from Mayfair who drop dead or are stabbed to death by their fellars or whatever happened. It’s tragic lad, we’re gonna have a whip round on the estate to help pay for the headstone like.’

Swine tried to contact Russell Brand for a trite soundbite but the former addict was said to be too busy posturing at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting to speak to us. However Amy Winehouse’s arl fellar told us ‘this is another tragedy but obviously not as much of a tragedy as the death of my tragic daughter who tragically died before I could milk her fame for more millions. Have you read my book ‘I’m Tragic Amy’s Dad Vol 6?’