Karl Pilkington - An Idiot...?

He's a grumpy, miserable, joyless, cantankerous Manc git - and I love him. His name's Karl Pilkington, and I first became aware of his existence in the fantastic Sky 1 program - An Idiot Abroad. He's everything you associate with the British male - he's xenophobic, closed to new experiences, abrasive and brusque.

Karl's outlook on life is as refreshing as it is mental. This is a man who - if he was granted a super power - would choose the power to spot bullshit. His opinion on Buy One Get One Free offers? If I want two, I'll buy two; don't give me a free one 'cos it'll wind up in the bin.
He's portrayed as an idiot, but I don't buy it. This man is a lot smarter than you might think. After all, he's made an estimated £3 million from the Idiot Abroad programs. Maybe not such an idiot after all. He's also had two bestselling novels on the back of it. I would say Mr Pilkington is actually quite shrewd; and good luck to him. I'd do exactly the same in his position. For £3 million you could call me an idiot if you wanted. You could call me anything you like. You could call me a fat poof with a very small penis, and for that kind of money I will just smile and say thank you.

It must be amazing to spend an hour in his company; even better to go travelling with him and hear what he has to say about the things you see. Don't forget, this is a man who described the Pyramids as a game of Jenga got out of hand. I would actually pay to have a meal with this man and just sit there, listening to him hold forth on the world and everything in it that annoys him.

The latest series of AIB is said to be the last, but I sincerely hope it isn't. I am addicted to Karl Pilkington. He makes me glad to be grumpy. I'd be quite depressed if I didn't get to listen to his ramblings anymore. I might be looking for a self-help book. Karl's would be good, because he said his self-help book would only be one page long, and in the middle of that one page it would say, "Stop moaning and get on with it".
Simple, yet profound and beautiful.

9/11 My Two Penn'orth

I wonder if there has ever been a subject so divisive and emotive as the attacks of 9/11? There's no doubting that it was one of the most horrific incidents in history, but rather than fighting each other about whether it was a conspiracy or not, shouldn't we now be remembering those poor souls who died and seeking to make sure something like it never happens again? I know that's what I'd want had I died that day.

I agree that there are questions to be answered: How did the two towers fall identically, at almost freefall speed? How and why did Tower 7 collapse? Why was the plane that hit the Pentagon allowed to enter protected air space without being intercepted? Why were none of the hijacked planes intercepted, even though there are systems in place that should ensure it?
I could probably go on all day. There are lots of things about that day that don't add up.
But do I think it was a conspiracy?

My problem with the whole conspiracy thing is that some of their arguments are self-defeating, such as one theorist saying there was a bomb attached to the underside of one of the planes that hit the twin towers, that it was a military plane and not a commercial one, that explosives were used to bring them down. One theorist will say it was a government conspiracy, while another will say the government allowed it to happen. Well, if the government simply sat back and allowed it to happen then it would certainly be commercial airliners that hit the towers and there wouldn't be any explosives to bring them down. So there we have two conflicting theories.

I lean towards the theory that there was a government cover-up. That's not because I think the Bush administration arranged the attacks. What I think about that day is that there was a catastrophic failure of the American system. This was down to a mix of arrogance, complacency and incompetence. So, to avoid humiliation, the US Government covered certain things up.
I could be wrong, of course. But we could all be arguing about that from now until the end of time.

That's why I say let's remember those who fell that day. Let's keep a place in our hearts for them; make a promise to live our lives a bit better for them, and make a promise that we will do all we can to try to ensure something like that never happens again.

It's The End of the World

Bastards!
'Ooh,' they said. 'The Mayan calendar is going to end, and that means the end of the world. The planets are going to align as well, and there's going to be earthquakes, tidal waves, famine, pestilence and a new world tour by Barry Manilow.'
So, I stayed in bed late today. After all - why bother getting up when the world's going to end? I might as well have a lie-in and die in my bed all nice and cosy.
I gazed out the window, waiting for it to go dark. Here it comes...here it comes...okay, well it's still the 21st; there's plenty of time. I'll get up, have a coffee and a mince pie; shall I have one last wank before the end of the world? Nah; I'm not in the mood.
Standing in my kitchen as my freshly ground coffee brewed, I stared out the window. I had one hand on the washing machine in case there was an earthquake. Thank God I'm in the middle of the country so I don't have to worry about tidal waves.
There was a noise outside my back door. Oh my God! It's the four horsemen of the apocalypse come for me. I always knew they would. People always pick on me. I'm getting sick of it. Well, I'm going to give those horsemen a piece of my mind...oh, it's just the cat wanting to come in.
The suspense is killing me by now. I keep farting - my stomach is so nervous. Will there be another life afterwards, or will this be it? Am I going to heaven or hell? Well, there was that incident with the neighbour's dog and that bowl of custard...Ah, I should get away with one. I think they take your conduct as a whole, and I think overall I've been pretty good.
Oh come on!!! Shouldn't the sky be like sack-cloth by now?

So, here I am, writing this. Has the world ended? No. Has anything happened? Fuck all!!!
I might as well have stayed in bed all day.
Of course, now I've got to go out and panic-buy all my Christmas presents. I hadn't bought any because I thought the world was going to end today and I was going to get away with it. I guess I'm going to have to forgive my daughter for not letting me open my presents from her early because the world was going to end.
The world not ending has really ruined my bloody Christmas.

When did we become so cynical?

Kate Middleton is pregnant.

That's brilliant news! To Kate - congratulations, ma'am. To Wills - Get in, son!

But everybody seems to be saying they don't care; why should they give a shit. IT'S OUR ROYAL FAMILY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!! Jesus, we haven't got much left in this country; our royals are probably the only good thing we still do better than the rest of the world, so SHOW SOME LOYALTY, YOU BASTARDS!!!

We should all be celebrating; we should be over the moon.
You women who're not giving a shit - what if you got pregnant, made an announcement, and everybody just said, "So...? Why should I care? I just work with you.'
You'd be bloody heartbroken and you know it.
As for you blokes not giving a shit - what if you went to the pub and made the announcement that you'd got the missus pregnant and everybody said they didn't give a shit.
'My cock works!' you'd say, expecting the drinks to start flowing in celebration of your tremendous manhood.
'So...?' your mate replies. 'Mine's already worked three times. This one of yours might just be a fluke.'
You wouldn't like it, would you?

So give this young bloke a bit of credit. His nob works; his little swimmers know where to go. Slap him on the back, congratulate him, raise a glass to him, tickle his bollocks - just SHOW SOME PRIDE, BASTARDS!!!! The English throne is in good hands. The royal cock is in full working order.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!!!!!!!

Do they know it's Christmas?

I decided to read up about how other people celebrate Christmas, and some of the things I read were mental!
In Austria, for instance, they have this thing called Krampus Night. Krampus is supposed to be Santa's evil twin, and on 6th December he goes out and beats the children who were naughty. Austrians celebrate Krampus Night by dressing up in terrifying demon masks, getting drunk and then going out hitting people with sticks. Whatever happened to a lump of coal in your Christmas stocking?

Then you've got places like Spain, Portugal and Italy, who put together Nativity scenes with Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. All good so far. But then they add the "Caganer". This is a tradition they have had for hundreds of years. The English translation of Caganer is "Shitter". Yep - in these countries, their Nativity scene has the added bonus of a figurine depicting a bloke taking a dump, complete with pile of shit around his ankles. Ah yes! Nothing says Christmas like some weirdo emptying his arse in the corner.

The Catalonians take this a little further. They have the Caga Tio - the pooping log. Oh, it gets worse! They hollow out a log and put it on a little stand with four legs. They paint a face on one end; "feed" it and cover it with a blanket so it doesn't get cold. On Christmas Eve, the pooping log is put in the fireplace and ordered to poop while people beat it with sticks and sing a song which basically tells the log that if it doesn't poop then it will get a beating. Nuts and sweets come out as it is beaten, and finally something like an onion or a bulb of garlic will fall out. And people say we British like toilet humour...???

In Japan, the tradition for many people is to have KFC for Christmas dinner. WTF?

I will never complain about having to sit through the Queen's speech again!

What's the Point of Christmas?

It's supposed to be Jesus's birthday, yet "Happy Birthday to You" is not a Christmas Carol. Also, if it's Jesus's birthday, why's everyone else getting presents? You don't go to somebody's birthday party and give presents to everybody else. It doesn't make sense. All the religion has gone out of Christmas; nobody celebrates Jesus's birthday anymore, so why bother having it on the same day every year? Why don't we move it about a bit; have it on days that will cheer us up. Like at the end of the six weeks' holiday, when the kids have gone to school, say, 'I'm knackered after that lot. I know - I'll celebrate Christmas; stick some tinsel round and put the tree up.'
 Why do we have Christmas trees? Jesus was born in a barn, wasn't he? So what's the significance of a tree? He wasn't born in a bird's nest. If he was born in a barn, why don't we just stick a cow in the corner of the room? That would come in handy as well, because you wouldn't run out of milk for the tea when people come round for Christmas. They could just help themselves; give them a cuppa and say, 'Here you go - just take a couple of squirts from the cow there.' If we did that, then the Jehovah's Witnesses could join in as well. They're a bunch of miserable bastards aren't they. You give them a Christmas card and they say, 'I don't celebrate Christmas.' Well, if we started just having a cow in the corner of the room we wouldn't get that. And when it's all over you haven't got some bloody great tree to take down. You just get it shot and you're sorted for meat for at least six months. Christmas cards - nobody sent Jesus one, so why do we have to send them out every year? When the three wise men came to visit him they didn't bring cards. And that's another thing - the three wise men came to see him because he was supposed to be the son of God. I don't think I buy that. If you're the son of God, then you're all-powerful. So why would you have your birthday and Christmas on the same day? He should have had his birthday in June, so there's plenty of time between the two. Also, if he had his birthday in June then it would be the summer, and he could go on holiday for his birthday. Even better - he wouldn't have had to be born in a barn, because the hotels wouldn't have all been full up for Christmas. He could have had a cot, a midwife and everything. Oh yes - the three wise men. Come off it! Right - if your missus had a baby and three blokes came around saying they'd come to praise it you'd tell them to fuck off before you call the coppers. You'd think they were nutters or something. And what's with the presents they brought: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. Gold - yeah; fair enough. But Frankincense - that's like them smoking stick things. That can't be good for the baby; breathing in smoke and that. What were they thinking? And Myrrh - what's that? An ointment. So they've brought a cheap Aldi version of Sudacrem. If you want to bring presents for a newborn baby bring some baby-grows; put some money towards the pram, or bring a teddy bear; something like that. Christmas doesn't even make sense.

Last Christmas

What would you do if you knew that this was going to be your last Christmas? My dad died in 2004, and I remember the Christmas before, in a quiet moment between just us two, he started talking about what was going to happen to all the decorations when he had gone. He also bought lavish presents that year, much to everyone's surprise. At the time, we just thought he was softening in his old age. But with the benefit of hindsight I realised that he knew it was his last Christmas. So what would you do if it was yours? Top of my list by a mile would be to spend as much time as humanly possible with my children. I wouldn't have to spend extra money on presents for them because I've always spent as much as possible on them anyway. One thing I absolutely would not do is forgive those who had wronged me over the years. Why should I? If my forgiveness meant anything to them they would have been at my door seeking it a long time ago. I haven't spoken to my brothers since our mother died in 2007. They have made no attempt to build bridges between us, even though they have been aware of my troubles over the last five years. So why would I want to waste a single moment of my last Christmas on them? I would make it a party - the whole time. I would reminisce over Christmases past. But the tragedy of the whole thing is that I would be doing it all for my kids. The party, the time spent, the memories, would all be for them. Inside I would be dying a million heartbreaks. But I would wear that mask of Christmas cheer for them. Let's face it - if it wasn't for them, then who would it be for anyway? So, think about it - what would you do if this was your last Christmas? Why not make a list? Then, why don't you go out and do it. There's no reason why you should languish as I do. Go on - celebrate this Christmas as if it's going to be your last.

I'm a celebrity...so fuck off!

I won't name names, but some time ago I was on Twitter, and I kind of got into a conversation with a "celebrity". She offered to send me a signed photograph. I asked why. I then went on to point out to her that what she does is just a job. It's no more important, or difficult, or worthy than anyone else's. Fair enough, it's a very public job, but a job is all it is. She was put-out by this, and hasn't tweeted me since. But why are famous people so up their own arses? Why do they think that fame is something special; some kind of special club to be worshipped by us plebs? I'm sorry if I sound bitter, but I just don't understand what makes them think that fame makes them better than the rest of us. Harold Shipman is famous; so is Peter Sutcliffe. To be fair, not all famous people are that way. Some of them have genuine class. I'm talking here about people like Al Murray, Dara O'Briain, and the absolute queen of fame, Kate Robbins. For those of you below a certain age, she was one of the variety stars I grew up with. She sings, she's funny, she does some great voice-overs. She's a genuine superstar. I don't know if it makes me weird, but I've never wanted to be famous. I really don't think the shit that comes with it is worth it. There are plenty of ways to get rich and maintain your anonymity and privacy. That's the way I've always wanted to go. I'm much too private to ever be famous. However, I don't like it when I hear famous people complaining. They have absolutely nothing to complain about. They knew what they were getting into when they decided to pursue that particular life. And it's so hypocritical, because if nobody paid them any attention any more they would be upset, and begging for people to watch them, and demeaning themselves by appearing on reality shows and eating camel toes and cockroaches. I'm sorry, celebrities, but if you think being famous makes you in any way special and somehow more important than the man on the street cleaning up the rubbish tossed aside by a society that doesn't give a shit, then I have no time for you. Yes, you're an actor, a musician, a sports-star, a comedian, but remember that it's just a job. There's not a special box for you to write it down when you're filling out an official form; it just goes in the same "Profession" box that the rest of us fill in. I do love what some of you do. I love stand-up comedians; I love music; I love movies. I respect you for being able to do the things that I can't, and for being able to do them so well. But please remember that others have special talents, too. So, no - I don't want your autograph; I'm not photogenic so I don't want my photo taken with you; I don't care if you "follow" me on Twitter or "friend" me on Facebook. If I see you on the street I will not point and say wow; I will treat you with the same courtesy and respect I would anyone else, but I won't kiss your arse; sorry.

Christmas

When I was a kid I loved Christmas. It was a magical time full of joy, great presents, seeing family members that you didn't see all year. We had bags of Fun Size sweets; we had Roses and Quality Street. Satsumas; Christmas pudding. The Ronco ads were on television; Scrooge; blockbuster movies that we could only watch at Christmas because this was in the time before videos and DVDs. This was the time when Disney was truly magical. You only saw clips of Disney movies on television programmes, you saw the movies at the cinema, and some of the others would be on television at Christmas. God, those were the days! Now, Christmas is just that time of year when I have my nose rubbed into all the people I've lost over the years. I dread Christmas. I wish it didn't exist. I don't wish misery on others, I just wish I didn't have to go through it. I wish I could just hibernate from about mid-November until mid-January. They say the suicide rate goes up at Christmas, and I can see why. Even before I fell out of love with Christmas entirely I used to have to take a moment during putting up the decorations to hide away and cry for my parents because they aren't here anymore. I ask you - can you blame me for not wanting to celebrate Christmas anymore? What pleasure can I possibly derive from an event that highlights the fact that most of the people I love are not here anymore. For those who still love Christmas, I wish all the best for the season. I wish joy and happiness, and genuinely hope you have fun. As for me, I will avoid the songs I used to love. I will pass on the Roses and Quality Street, and I will abstain from the Disney movies. Merry-fucking-Christmas.

The Family Way

The girl wakes in a strange bed, beside a strange man. She doesn’t know his name, where she met him or how. The fact that she is naked, bruised, and with dried spunk on her tits, belly and cunt would suggest that they had sex a number of times last night. She gets out of the bed carefully, quietly, not wanting to wake the man who had abused her last night. She aches all over; her head is pounding and she feels sick. She gathers up her clothes, and only now realises how filthy the room is. What there is of the stained wallpaper is hanging off the walls. There’s graffiti on the plaster underneath, and what looks like a smear of shit two feet long beside the bed. It does nothing to dispel her nausea. She takes her clothes into the hallway and starts to dress. Her clothes stink of the cheap beer she drank far too much of last night. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’ She jumps, startled, and looks around, expecting to find the stranger standing behind her. He’s not. The only other living creature is a black cat with a white streak of fur between its eyes; it’s watching her. She fears there is another man in here. Did he abuse her last night too? She hurriedly finishes dressing and heads for the door. She does not look back. ‘Do you always ignore anyone who speaks to you?’ She stops, looks round. The cat is coming down the hall towards her. It walks at that languorous pace almost unique to the feline family. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ it says. ‘I’m talking to you.’ The girl stares at the animal as it approaches. It meets her disbelieving gaze and she could swear it’s smiling at her. ‘Impossible,’ she whispers. ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you,’ it replies, and sits down a couple of feet away from her. ‘Cats don’t talk,’ the girl says. ‘Well, you’re half right,’ it says. ‘True, we don’t talk – to humans. But we talk to each other; how else would we communicate?’ ‘But you just meow and screech and hiss. You don’t talk like we do.’ ‘Yet here I am, talking to you,’ it says. ‘Consider me the world’s first bi-lingual cat.’ ‘What do you want?’ she asks, her hand unconsciously moving to the door handle. ‘I want to help you,’ it tells her. ‘But you’re a cat.’ ‘Yes, I think we’ve established that.’ ‘How can you help me?’ she asks. ‘I can’t,’ it replies. ‘Not yet.’ ‘But you just said…’ ‘I said I want to help you, not that I can help you,’ it says. ‘Not yet, at least.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘There’s trouble coming for you,’ it says. ‘I can’t stop it coming, but when it does I can help you.’ ‘What kind of trouble?’ ‘Alas, I cannot tell you that. But, rest assured, when it does come, you and I will meet again.’ She stares at the cat, and wonders if she is dreaming. If so, she hopes it’s in her own bed, and not that filthy pit she just got out of. She opens the door and leaves the flat. The lift is out of order so she goes to the stairwell. She looks down and sees that she is many stories up. Suddenly she is dizzy. She grabs the handrail to steady herself and vomits down the stairs. Early morning can be a lonely place. The girl walks empty streets, grateful for the cold and the light rain that falls. It refreshes her; helps to clear her head. She does not have far to walk. She takes her leisure; she is in no hurry. For her, home is a cold place, full of anger and violence. Who in their right mind would hurry to get there? A flash of lightning pierces the sky. A bell rings in the distance. A solitary car passes. Thunder booms. The girl shudders. Echoes of a life of misery reverberate in her head. The mournful cries of a child abandoned yet still in the family bosom. Invisible. Ignored. A living shadow cast by a sun that never shines upon her. No warmth penetrates the walls that contain her like a prisoner with an open door. When she reaches the place others call home, she showers. She scrubs every inch, then she does it again, and again. Her skin is sore. Her tears run down the drain with the tainted water that never quite washes away the shame she feels. She swears she will never do it again. She did that the last time, and the time before that, and countless times before. She will no doubt do it again the next time, and every time after that. Dinner is cheap food served on cheap plates and eaten with cheap cutlery. The girl sits on a chair in the corner, eating the poorly-cooked food that drowns in lumpy gravy. It tastes foul, but it’s all there is. The sound of her family eating is almost deafening. Chomping, smacking, belching, loud breathing. She covers her ears as she stares at them: Seven pigs eating from seven individual troughs. They bury their snouts in the slop and gobble it as if they haven’t been fed in a week. Occasionally, they come up for air and let out a loud grunt. The sow who gave birth to her looks at her and squeals. Seven pigs stare at her. ‘I said what the fuck are you doing?’ the sow demands. ‘Why do you have your hands over your ears like that?’ The girl does not reply. She lowers her hands and returns to eating her slop. The pigs stare at her for a moment and then return to their own gobbling. She dreams of lacing their food with poison. She watches, smiling to herself as they clutch at their throats and fight for breath. The man who fertilised the sow that bore her claws at his swelling throat. He tears into the flesh, and blood pours from the wound, covering the front of his gravy-stained tee-shirt. The sow lets out an agonised wail; her face has turned purple. Suddenly she vomits blood which splats onto the worn carpet. She falls forward onto the floor, face down in her own gory vomit. She jerks and writhes as she fights for air. Her body convulses, and then falls still. She dies in agony, as do the other six pigs. It is a wondrous sight which fills her heart with joy. She wants to dance, to sing; celebrate her emancipation from this group of animals. She blinks, and they are all there again, shovelling food into their porcine faces, oblivious to all around them and any idea of manners. Her “brother” licks his plate clean and then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He lets out a huge belch and then smiles proudly, as if he has just performed some momentous act instead of proving that he belongs in a pen somewhere. This is what passes for a family in the underclass. No one works, everyone smokes, the men drink every waking hour and the women allow men to fuck them without any thought of birth control. Pregnancy is good business for these families. More babies mean more benefits, more money for nothing. Babies mean council homes. More babies mean bigger council homes. It’s a great career choice – plenty of free time, and if you have enough kids you can have more money coming in than those idiots who work upwards of forty hours a week. Why do that when you can sit on your arse all day, getting drunk, watching television and getting paid for it? Most of these people can barely read or write, yet who are the idiots in this picture? The girl finishes her meal and takes her plate into the kitchen. She puts it on the draining board and then goes upstairs to the bedroom she shares with her younger sister. She lies on her bed, folds her arms behind her head and stares at the ceiling. Before long, she sinks into a deep sleep. * She knows before she even looks at the test. She can already feel it growing inside her. Last night she thought she heard its tiny voice calling to her. The test is positive. She is pregnant. She lets out a long sigh, and then she clears away all the packaging and takes it, along with the test, to her room. She puts them under her mattress before sitting on it. She rests her elbows on her knees and stares at the floor between her legs. It’s too early. She has no boyfriend to help her, to set up home with, and to help financially. She will have to rely entirely on her mother, and she’s useless. If she was anything like a good mother, then her own kids would have turned out better rather than the boys being convicts in waiting and the girls being sluts. She looks across at her sister’s empty bed. It is unmade; the duvet lies in a heap at the bottom. There are shoes strewn across the floor; clothes too. A pair of her sister’s knickers lies atop a high-heeled shoe beside the bed. The gusset is visible, displaying a large blob of yellow discharge. The girl feels her stomach turn. How can she bring a baby into this? This is not a home; it’s a doss-house for eight vagrants joined by matching DNA. This is not a family; it’s eight people existing in a state of mutual convenience. There is no warmth in this family. There is no love, no welcoming hearth; no family bosom to run to in times of trouble. Here there are only harsh words, threats, and violence. It is a dysfunctional commune in which differences of opinion are solved with fists, and beatings are always just a single word away. At least when men are fucking her they hold her. They say nice things to her, even buy her things. They make promises of long relationships, romantic holidays, days out in the countryside. She knows it’s all bullshit, and that as soon as they shoot their spunk into her and then roll off and go to sleep, all bets are off. But it’s nice while it lasts. Just for that brief time she feels loved, and wanted. She feels like more than she could ever hope to be. ‘Are you going to tell anybody?’ She jumps, and looks up. The cat with the white streak is sitting on her sister’s bed. It’s watching her expectantly. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ She asks. ‘That really doesn’t matter,’ the cat replies. ‘What matters is the new life growing inside you. I told you I would help you when the right time comes. This is the right time.’ ‘You said there was going to be trouble.’ ‘I think that little secret you’re hiding under your mattress qualifies as trouble, don’t you?’ She lowers her eyes, shrugs her shoulders. She sighs, and covers her face with her hands. * ‘Fucking slag,’ says her father. ‘Why couldn’t you keep your fucking legs closed?’ The girl says nothing. She looks to her mother for support. Her mother lowers her eyes. ‘And whose is it?’ her father demands. She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’ ‘Come on, Dad,’ says her elder brother. ‘When you have a tin of beans and you fart, you don’t know which bean it was.’ ‘Fuck off,’ she says as her brothers burst into laughter. ‘This is nothing to laugh about,’ her father says. She gets up to leave the room. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ he demands. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she replies, and heads for the door. ‘Well, try not to fuck anybody while you’re out,’ he calls after her. She walks through the park, the cat walking by her side. It’s cold, and the grey sky is threatening rain. She really doesn’t give a shit. It could piss it down for all she cares – as long as she’s out of that fucking house. ‘How many potential fathers are there?’ The cat asks. She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Do you care?’ ‘Not really. What does it matter if I know who the father is? He wouldn’t do anything about it; he’d probably just deny it and tell me to fuck off and never bother him again.’ ‘You don’t know that for certain,’ the cat tells her. She says nothing. She looks around her. In the distance is a bench on which sit two men who might be middle-aged, though they look older. They’re sharing a large bottle of cider. It’s ten-thirty in the morning. ‘Do you think there’s any hope for humanity?’ she asks. ‘There’s always hope,’ says the cat. ‘Hope is what remains when belief has gone,’ the girl replies. ‘It’s like faith; when there’s nothing solid to believe in, you hope; you say you have faith. It’s an abstract concept with no other purpose than to help us deal with reality.’ ‘When did you become so cynical?’ he asks. ‘I was born cynical,’ she replies. ‘I simply choose to embrace it rather than try to fool myself that the world is a good place.’ ‘It’s better than nothing,’ the cat says. ‘Is it?’ They walk past a small tree with almost half its bark peeled off. People used to carve their names into trees; things like “A B Lvs B C”, surrounded by a love heart. Now they try to destroy them. Humanity has become the world’s bully: Its natural resources are its lunch money, which mankind simply takes at will, before administering an almighty wedgie in the form of bombs dropped on each other that destroy the ground and pollute the air. ‘Have you ever loved anyone?’ the cat asks. ‘I don’t even know what love is.’ ‘It’s that thing that hurts, even when it feels good.’ ‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ the girl replies. ‘I never said it makes sense,’ the cat replies. ‘I just asked if you had ever experienced it.’ ‘You ask an impossible question,’ says the girl. ‘You ask me to look back on a lifetime of pain and ask if any of it felt good. You may as well ask the river which of all the stones it has washed over does it remember most fondly.’ She is becoming irritable. ‘There must have been times of pleasure in your life,’ the cat persists. ‘Pleasure is not love,’ the girl responds. ‘It’s just a blip on the long dark road of misery that is life.’ ‘Come now,’ the cat chides. ‘Life is a gift; something to be treasured.’ ‘My life is not a gift!’ the girl shouts angrily. ‘It’s a curse; a millstone around my neck, slowing my meandering progress to that beautiful moment when the darkness comes and I’m done with it. A gift, you say? So someone gave this existence to me? Then may I meet them while I still have strength in my hands that I may throttle their own gift out of them.’ ‘What about the baby that grows inside your womb?’ says the cat. ‘Do you not see the life you give it as a gift?’ They reach the top of a high grassy bank. The girl sits down and looks across at a new housing estate built on the site of an old scrap-yard. It looks nice; pleasant. It looks like the kind of place she could never be found – at least not since they took the scrap away. It looks too good for her. The people who live in those nice new-build houses probably work for a living. They’ve probably never been to jail. Their sons and daughters go to college and university instead of the dole queue and the young offender’s institute. The cat sits beside her and says, ‘You can make your life better, you know. Not just for you, but for your baby.’ ‘Why would I want to do that?’ she asks quietly, blinking away tears. The cat thinks for a moment, and then it sighs. ‘I actually don’t know what to tell you,’ it says. ‘There’s no answer I can give that you can’t tear a million holes through. So, why not just do it because you can?’ The girl nods. ‘The old “you only get out of life what you put in” thing.’ The cat snorts laughter. ‘No,’ it says. ‘That’s a load of bollocks. The vast majority of people in this world get nowhere near out of life what they put into it. Then there are a select few who put in hardly anything and get everything. You only get out of life what the celestial lottery gives you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try to make your own lot just a little bit better. ‘Think of life as a piece of land,’ it goes on. ‘You can just leave it to grow as it will. Chances are it will produce enough food to sustain you. But you can also tend that land, and make it grow better – more nourishing food; maybe even some sweet treats. But the point is – while you may never have the abundance that others do, and you’ll never get out of your piece of land what you put in; at least what you do have will be that little bit sweeter; not so bitter.’ ‘I think I’d rather just pave the whole thing over and starve to death,’ says the girl. She sleeps; she dreams. Standing on a doorstep above street level, looking down at a little girl walking between her parents into a thick fog. Just before they disappear into it the little girl looks up and she realises she’s watching herself. Her parents, standing over her. They look impossibly tall as they stare blankly down at her. They glide together and become one; some grotesque melding of the male and female. With horror she realises she is seeing both faces in one. But the faces are no different; they’re both the same. Her parents are one and the same person. She runs down a long grey corridor lined with doors. None of the doors have handles. None are open. Behind, she hears her parents coming after her. She runs, desperately trying to escape them. Won’t somebody help her? Where’s that fucking cat when she needs it? A room with no doors, just four grey brick walls. No ceiling; there’s just unbroken darkness. It’s sinking down towards her. She lies naked, spread-eagled on the floor, waiting for it to envelop her. Then her father is lying on top of her. He too is naked, and he rams himself into her. As he fucks her with almost animal aggression she screams and cries out for him to stop. ‘It’s wrong!’ she screams. ‘You mustn’t!’ She looks again into the face and now it is her mother, then her sister, then one brother after another. It hurts; there’s so much pain. Oh God it hurts! You’re going to kill the baby. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’ She wakes, screaming ‘Nooooo!’ She sits bolt upright in bed, clutching her duvet to her chin. She is dripping with sweat. Her sister, in the bed opposite, startled and frightened by her sister’s scream in the night, screams too, and shoots up in bed as the thunder of footsteps coming down the landing is followed by the door flying open and her dad shouting, ‘What the fuck’s going on in here?’ The girl gasps for breath. Her stomach hurts. She’s sweating. She’s dripping with it; so wet. Her father switches the light on, and then his eyes widen in horror as he says, ‘What the fuck…?’ She looks down and sees the duvet is soaked with blood. ‘Call an ambulance,’ her father yells. ‘What’s happened?’ her mother asks. ‘Just call the fucking ambulance, woman!’ The girl gazes down at the blood-stained duvet, and then she calmly lies down. She waits – more for death than an ambulance; certainly more than sympathy. She closes her eyes. She wonders where the cat is. He’s notable by his absence. You just can’t trust cats. Especially if you’re a mouse or a bird. She wishes she was a bird, and she could just get out of this bed and fly away, right up into the sky, and look down at a world that never really wanted her in it. She would soar, and swoop, she would be free. She would shit on the heads of those she despised. That bastard who fucked her and then pretended he didn’t even know her. He loves his car. He’s just washed it. He spent almost an hour waxing it and buffing it to a beautiful shine. Well, how about a nice big dollop of shit on the roof for you, bastard! You fucking said I was the one. You fucked me and then told everybody you didn’t even know me. Well fuck you! I’m a bird. I can shit where I want, and I’m going to do it on your car every day. You hurt me, you bastard! Fucking bastard! She squeezes her eyes together, clenches her fists and lets out an almighty scream – as much of despair as of pain. She wakes in a hospital bed. It’s early morning. Auxiliaries are handing out tea and toast. The old woman in the next bed has shit herself. It stinks. She’s calling out for a nurse, but they’re too busy to help her. They’re understaffed. They’re doing their best but they’re knackered. The old woman will just have to lie in her own shit for a little bit longer. The nurses are trying to save a man’s life at the moment. He’s gone into cardiac arrest. He’s going to die in the next few days anyway; all they’re doing is delaying the inevitable. But that’s what getting up every morning is – delaying the inevitable; delaying that moment when the blessed relief of death’s hand comes. The baby’s gone. Miscarriage – nature’s own abortion. So much for the pro-life lobby. She doesn’t know how to feel. Where’s the instruction manual for stuff like this? Where’s the fucking troubleshooting guide for when it all goes to shit? Where’s the fucking helpline – press 1 for miscarriage, press 2 for domestic violence, press 3 for a totally fucked-up life? She’s alone. Her so-called family are at home getting some rest. It’s been a rough night for them. The old woman is crying now. She calls out for a nurse; she says she’s had an accident. Will someone help her? Will someone help her? Will someone help? The girl yells, ‘Nurse, will you help this fucking woman? She’s shit herself! Fucking help her!’ She snatches the drip from the back of her hand. Blood gushes from the vein as she tosses the catheter aside. She gets out of bed. She’s only wearing a hospital gown. It’s open at the back, but she doesn’t give a shit. She staggers to the old woman’s bed and whips the sheets back. The stench of shit hits her like a solid object. ‘Why won’t somebody help her?’ Darkness returns, and that’s all she knows. Her mother brings clothes. She dresses and they take a taxi home. ‘Want a cup of tea?’ her mother asks. ‘No,’ the girl replies. ‘I’m going for a walk.’ She walks along a street full of eyes all looking at her. She knows they’re all watching from their windows. Their curtains twitch; their sibilant whispers fill her ears and torture her mind. She wants to cover her ears and scream for them to stop. She knows what they’re saying: “She lost her baby”; “slag – doesn’t even know who the father was”. They can see into her; they can see her soul, and they’re watching and judging. This walk was a bad idea. They’re all watching her, and she doesn’t want that. The cat appears on a garden wall beside her. It watches her. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ she says. ‘You were supposed to help me when I needed you. But when I needed you, you weren’t there.’ ‘Yes I was,’ it replies. ‘I was with you the whole time. I made sure no harm came to you.’ ‘I lost my baby!’ she growls. ‘How the fuck is that no harm coming to me?’ ‘But you’re alive and well,’ the cat tells her. ‘It wasn’t your time to have a baby. You need to trust me when I’m telling you I’m here for you.’ ‘Fuck off,’ she says, and turns away. ‘You don’t even exist.’ She runs away, back to her house. She goes straight to her bedroom and sits on the bed. Nobody has changed it. She sits on the pillow, hugging her knees to her chin as she stares at the huge blood-stain on the duvet. It has dried around the edge, congealing into a crust. Her blood; her baby. Nobody gives a shit. Had she died, how long would it be before one of those lazy cunts downstairs decides to strip her bed and burn the sheets? And all those bastards outside want to do is judge her and gossip about her. They laugh at her, call her a slag. She is a figure of ridicule to all who see her. The only time she’s not treated like shit is when some cunt wants to fuck her. Oh, then they’re all sweetness. Blokes love you when they want to grope your tits and put their filthy cock into your fanny. But as soon as they’ve spunked in you they want nothing to do with you. Anger boils inside her, quickly turning to rage, and she punches herself repeatedly in the crotch, ignoring the pain it causes. Then she claws at her tits until she draws blood. She presses her fists to her temples. She wants to scream, but that would just draw attention to her. She wants to hurt herself, but she also wants to hurt others. None of them give a shit about her, so why shouldn’t she just take a hammer and cave every one of their fucking skulls in? That patch of blood on the bed. You’d have thought they would have at least stripped it. The patch is getting bigger; growing, expanding across the duvet cover. It reaches the edges and drips blood onto the carpet. She watches as it comes closer, inching its way towards her bare feet. It reaches them, envelops them. It’s warm; not entirely unpleasant. It climbs her legs, coating them with a gelatinous warmth. Moving quicker now, it rises up her body. She closes her eyes, lays her head back and allows it to wash over her completely. It’s warm; it actually feels good. She opens her eyes and finds herself floating in an underwater world of pure red. She kicks her legs and propels herself upwards. She turns and somersaults. It’s like being underwater, but she can breathe. She feels free! God, it’s like being a bird! She flies here and there, spinning in this ocean of her own making. There is nothing and no one else here. She’s entirely alone, and that’s how she likes it. She swoops downwards, arms by her sides; just using her legs to move her through the red. There’s a loud bang and she is back in her bedroom, staring at the door that has just been thrown open. Her younger sister stands there, looking angry and impatient. ‘Didn’t you fucking hear me shouting you?’ she says. ‘Your tea’s done.’ She walks back out, grumbling, ‘Fucking deaf. Twat.’ She looks at the blood patch. It’s as it was before; as it should be. A large, round-ish, drying puddle of life. She closes her eyes, wishing herself back to that warm place. Like everything else good in her life, it has come and gone. She goes downstairs where her only meal of the day waits on the coffee table. It’s sausage, egg and chips cooked in dirty fat, with little black bits all over them. There’s salt and vinegar on the table; both are covered in grease. She grabs her plate and knife and fork and sits down. The food looks and smells repugnant. She looks around at the family of pigs shovelling it into their mouths. Her sister looks at her and says, ‘What’s the matter with you, dopey? Forgot how to use a knife and fork?’ She stares at her, and it’s as if she can feel the blood in her veins running black with pure hatred. She can feel it, making its cold way to her hands, her head and her feet. She jumps up, shoots across the room and slams her plate into her sisters face, pressing it hard and twisting as she growls with animal savagery and her sister screams. ‘What the fuck…?’ she just about hears her father roar in the background. She senses him come towards her, and then he grabs her arm. She still has the knife and fork in her hand. With a shrieking, furious scream, she slams them into his side. He screams. His hand moves from her arm. She runs out of the house, into a street now dark, but no less exposed. She can feel their eyes on her – all of them. Those windows with the lights in – they’re all standing there, watching her. They can see what she is deep down. They can see her soul. ‘Stop looking at me!’ she screams, and she runs, keeping her head down, hoping that if they can’t see her eyes then maybe they won’t be able to see all the way inside her. She doesn’t feel the hard floor beneath her bare feet. She doesn’t feel the tiny bricks or pieces of glass that cut her or embed themselves in her flesh. She runs along the street to the grassy bank on the left. She runs up this. Close to the top is a large bush. She hides in there and looks out for any prying eyes that still might be looking for her. ‘It’s actually quite cosy in here, isn’t it?’ The cat is sitting beside her. Its eyes seem to glow in the dark as it looks up at her. ‘What do you want?’ she shouts. ‘Why are you here? You said you were here to help me, but you haven’t helped me. You haven’t done anything. Why won’t you fuck off?’ ‘I can’t,’ it says. ‘Not until my work is done.’ ‘What work?’ she demands. ‘You’re a fucking cat.’ ‘I’m also your guide,’ it says. ‘My guide?’ she replies. ‘Guide for what?’ ‘You have a journey ahead of you,’ the cat tells her. ‘You’re taking your first steps along a dark, winding road. I’m here to guide you; to try to make your passage as free of pain as possible.’ ‘Well, you’re not doing a very fucking good job so far, are you,’ she says. ‘If your boss comes along I’ll be telling him you’re shit. Anyway, where am I supposed to be going?’ ‘You’ll know when you get there.’ ‘If you don’t stop talking in riddles I’m going to throttle you!’ she snarls, exasperated. ‘Feel free,’ the cat replies, and actually lifts its chin a little. ‘I’m already dead – don’t you remember?’ ‘How am I supposed to remember,’ she says. ‘I only met you the other day, and you don’t look dead to me.’ ‘I didn’t look dead before, either,’ says the cat. ‘My eyes were open – remember. I was still warm; it was just that my head kept flopping about and hanging down. Your brother was laughing. You were crying and shaking me, and my head just flopped back and forth. You held me against your chest; your tears fell onto my fur; you rocked back and forth with me, crying and singing softly. You pressed your face against my head, kissed me over and over. But the damage your brother did could not be undone. That taught you not to mess with his stuff, didn’t it?’ The girl cries as the memories of that day came flooding back to her. She begged him not to do it. She promised she would never touch his stuff again. It was an accident when she broke his action figure; she would tell mom and dad not to buy her anything for Christmas and to buy him a new one – anything, just don’t hurt my cat! Blue lights from the street below. Police and ambulance services arriving at her house. The police will be coming for her soon. You don’t stab your father and get away with it. Anyway, better the police get to her before he does, because he’ll beat the shit out of her, maybe even do some stabbing of his own. It wouldn’t be the first time. He once pinned her brother’s hand to the kitchen table with a fork. The cat has gone. She’s alone; always has been, always will be. She rises from the bush and walks slowly down the grassy bank to the pavement below. The street is filled with the flashing blue lights from the emergency vehicles outside her house. People stand on their doorsteps as they try to see what’s going on. Her sister is sitting on the front wall, sobbing as she talks to the police. Then she notices her and points, shouting, ‘There she is! She’s a fucking loony!’ Now all eyes are turned to her. Two police officers come running towards her. She waits. She is not afraid. If anything, she is a little relieved. This way, she won’t have to face her so-called family; their fury, ridicule and their violence. She is arrested and placed in handcuffs. She stands passively. The police speak kindly to her. One is male, the other female. They gently usher her to one of the three waiting police cars and put her in the back, all the time speaking in soft tones to her. The WPC has noticed her bare feet and says, ‘Let’s go and get you some shoes.’ As she goes into the house, the male officer gets into the front seat. He regards her with genuine sympathy. He knows her family well; knows the kind of life she has lived. ‘Are you okay, love?’ he asks. ‘Can we go?’ she asks. ‘Yeah; we’ll go in a minute,’ he says. ‘Let’s just get you some shoes first, eh?’ ‘I’m okay,’ she tells him. ‘I don’t need shoes. You’ll just take them off me at the police station anyway.’ The officer nods. He has been in this job a number of years. He knows that hers will not be the first pair of her family’s shoes outside a cell at the station and they would doubtless not be the last. ‘Do you want to know how your dad is?’ he asks. ‘Does he want to know how I am?’ she replies. ‘Does anyone want to know how I am?’ ‘Your mom asked about you,’ he lies. ‘She’s worried about you.’ ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For what?’ ‘Trying to make me feel better.’ The cell at the police station is bigger than she expected. It has a thick, solid steel door, which the officers have left open a few inches. Opposite the door is a slab on which is a thin, plastic-covered mattress. She lies on this, staring at the door; a cheap blanket covers her. She can hear a young man at the custody desk, swearing and hurling abuse at the police. Even in here, she can tell by how slurred his speech is that he’s drunk. She has experienced enough drunkenness to know what it sounds like. They should beat him, she thinks. They should break his kneecaps with their sticks. Cripple him, make it so he can’t go out and get drunk anymore, so he can’t smash anyone’s window or beat the shit out of someone for no other reason than that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They bring the little cunt onto the cell block. He peeks in as he passes her cell. ‘Oi oi!’ he shouts. ‘Put me in with her. Do you wanna fuck, love?’ ‘Come on,’ says the officer and shoves him towards the next cell. ‘Hey, who you fucking pushing, you cunt?’ The yob shouts. ‘I’ll give you a fucking slap in a minute.’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ says the officer, and the yob is thrown into the cell. There’s a loud bang as the door is slammed shut. In the coming hours, the yob will throw up on the floor; later he will try to wash it away with his own piss. After that, he will shit in his hand and smear it on the walls before falling asleep on the hard cot. On Monday, he will appear in the magistrates’ court where he will stare contemptuously at the school head-teacher on the bench. There’s no point fining the little twat because he’s never done a day’s work in his life. So they’ll give him 40 hours of community service, none of which he will do, and he’ll just get lost in a system unfit for purpose, only to come back on the radar the next time he breaks the law. The girl sits up as a plump-ish woman just on the wrong side of thirty walks in. She smiles at the girl and introduces herself. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ she asks. The girl says nothing but shuffles along to give her room to sit. She smiles and thanks her as she does so. ‘They’ve asked me to come and have a chat with you if that’s okay?’ the woman says. The girl says nothing. She eyes the woman warily. People have come with offers of help before, but they all talk the talk and then when it comes to actually standing up and facing down the bastards who have made her life a misery they turn tail and run for the hills. ‘You’ve had quite a couple of days,’ says the woman. ‘I’ve been talking to your mom and your sister. Is there anything you want to talk about?’ ‘Like what…?’ the girl says. ‘Well, from what I’ve heard, you’ve been through a lot over the last couple of days. You’ve had a lot of stress.’ ‘My entire life has been a lot of stress,’ says the girl. ‘Now because I stab my father I’m asked if I want to talk about it…?’ ‘Why did you stab your father?’ the woman asks. ‘I had the knife and fork in my hand,’ the girl replies. ‘He grabbed my arm; he was going to hurt me; I decided to hurt him first.’ ‘Does your dad hurt you a lot?’ She nods. She says nothing. ‘Does your father ever touch you?’ ‘You mean has he sexually abused me?’ the girl says. ‘Does he come into my bedroom at night and fuck me, shoving my face into the pillow so my crying won’t wake up my sister in the next bed?’ ‘Is that what he does?’ ‘God, what’s with all these questions?’ the girl says, getting angry. ‘Why do you keep asking me questions? Is this an interview? I thought the police were going to interview me.’ ‘Okay, I’ll stop asking questions. I’ll just sit here and keep you company – that is unless you want to be alone.’ The girl smiles sardonically. ‘I’ve always been alone,’ she says. ‘From the day I was born, I was alone. Probably the last time I had any tender physical contact was the moment the midwife smacked my arse and put me in that plastic NHS cot with a lamp to keep me warm. ‘When I was scared, there was no one I could talk to; no one who would reassure me and tell me everything was going to be okay. When the kids at school used to tease me because my clothes were shabby I had no one to hold me and tell me they loved me. When the other kids were all going to each other’s birthday parties I used to have to sit there and listen to them talking about what a great time they had. Nobody ever invited me to their party. I wished they would. ‘Do you know how it feels to not fit in, but to want nothing more than that? Do you know what it feels like to be an outsider in every single area of your life? To not fit in with the kids at school; with your family; anywhere?’ ‘Is that how you feel?’ the woman asks. ‘It’s how I am,’ the girl replies. The woman nods thoughtfully. Then she says, ‘I think I can help you, you know – if you’ll let me.’ The room is small, but it’s all hers. She doesn’t have to share it with anyone. She has a nice little bed, a desk, shelves, a television with satellite channels, and a DVD player. The walls are plain, painted a soothing pastel yellow. The girl lies on her bed, with her arms folded behind her head. She stares at the ceiling, luxuriating in the warm comfort of her blue towelling onesie. She actually can’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed and happy. She never wants to leave here. She’s been here for nearly a month now. She doesn’t really mix with the other patients and they don’t give her any trouble. They’re okay, but everyone here is a little damaged. The nightmares are starting to become a little less intense. They’re getting fewer and further between as well. There’s a light tapping on the door and she calls, ‘Come in.’ The door opens and in walks a middle-aged, prematurely-balding man in jeans and a tee-shirt. He has a kind face and laid-back demeanour. He is one of the doctors. ‘How are you this morning?’ he asks, and he sits in the leather chair near the door. ‘I’m okay,’ she replies. ‘Good,’ the doctor says. ‘And I hear the dreams are getting better…?’ ‘A bit.’ He lightly taps his fingers on the arms of the chair as he watches her. He crosses his legs. ‘Do you feel like joining any of our groups here yet?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You should give it some thought,’ he says. ‘This is a big place; we have a number of groups. If you like movies, or books, we’ve got groups for those. We have chess tournaments, and every month we have a competition on the Wii machine in the main hall. I was cheated out of the Wii bowling championship last month; the batteries in my controller must have been low.’ The girl smiles. ‘So, what do you think?’ he says. ‘We’re having a Monopoly tournament this weekend; can I put your name down? The winner gets a prize, a nice little trophy and bragging rights.’ ‘Okay,’ says the girl. ‘Great,’ he replies. ‘We can introduce you around at the little mixer we always have beforehand. You might make a few friends. We have a good crowd here, with some real characters. I just know you’ll enjoy yourself.’ ‘I like it here,’ she tells him. ‘Well, I’m pleased about that. We like having you here.’ ‘When do I have to leave?’ He looks, surprised, at her. ‘What? You’ve only been here a few weeks.’ ‘I know, but…’ ‘Well,’ says the doctor. ‘We’d like you to stay here for a good while yet – if that’s okay with you.’ She smiles again. She feels happy. ‘I’d like that,’ she says.

RIP Ernest Borgnine

Sad to hear that Ernest Borgnine died today. He was 95 years old, and apparently died of renal failure. I remember him from some of the disaster movies I used to watch as a kid, and particularly from Airwolf. He was at his best playing the wily sidekick, and had an easy humour about him. He will be missed.

He Did us Proud

Roger Federer walked away with the Wimbledon championship today. I won't say he won, because that would imply there was a loser, and Andy Murray DID NOT lose. He fought hard, he was brave, and showed he had the heart of a lion. He made his family, fans, his sport and his country proud. He was up against one of the greatest champions the sport of Tennis has ever seen, and he put up a good fight. He made Federer toil for every point, he made him bring out his best game, and there couldn't be a right-thinking Briton in the world who wouldn't say that while he may not have lifted the trophy, he was still a winner today. I'm please to say that in every way but one, he did prove me wrong. Well done, Andy.

Come on, Andy!

It's the Wimbledon Men's Final. Andy Murray is playing against Roger Federer. Just by being in this final, Andy has achieved what no other British player has done for 76 years. As I'm writing this, he's down 2 sets to 1, but by no means out...yet. I've reached that age where the glass isn't just half empty, it's also got a dead fly floating in it and a layer of phlegm at the bottom. I no longer have any expectations when it comes to British or English participation in anything. Yes, in my old age, I have become cynical, bitter, spiteful, and a little bit smelly. England competed in the European Championships this year. I didn't expect them to win. Andy Murray is in the Wimbledon final. I don't expect him to win. I hope I'm wrong, though. We have the Olympics in about 20 days. I don't expect us to do too well. I have become my grandfather - a joyless curmudgeon who thinks if you can't say anything bad about something, then you might as well just keep your gob shut. Anyway, come on, Andy. Win Wimbledon and prove me wrong.

Leave Katie Holmes Alone

What the hell is wrong with the press? Katie Holmes is going through a marriage breakdown, she's worrying that her daughter is going to be abducted by a bunch of loonies who think we're all lizards, and rather than the press giving her some space they're just hounding her! And they print such bullshit, too. It's like - ooh, look, Katie Holmes is walking down the street, ooh she's doing some shopping, ooh she's getting into her car. Well WHOOP DE FUCKING DO!!! They say she's looking miserable and upset because she's not smiling. Who walks down the street with a big smile on their face? People would think you're a nutter! Go to London and walk down the street - you won't find a smile anywhere. You'll see scowls, stink-eyes and an occasional glare, but you'd have more luck finding Jimmy Carr's tax returns than a smile. So, are all these people miserable? Actually, yes they probably are, since it's London. Okay, that's a bad example, but you know what I mean! Don't be so frigging pedantic. Why can't papers like The Sun just print the news, stop trying to be funny and show some humanity when people are going through tough times? They come out with all these sad little puns for headlines, and you read them and think, "What sad little basement-dwelling man made that shit up?" They really are like a bunch of kids. The press always say that people have the right to know. Why is that? What gives us the right to know that someone is getting divorced? What gives us the right to have them followed and photographed like some new species of baboon? It's time the government stood up to these dickheads and said, "Oi - you're a newspaper. Report the news or we'll shut you down." Of course, they won't though. Especially not that smarmy git David Cameron. It was the Sun newspaper that almost got him elected. Yeah, remember Cameron, you weren't even popular enough to win outright; you had to join up with the Lib Dems and make Little Nicky Clegg your bitch. Now you hold on to power like a drowning man hangs on to a piece of driftwood. The first chance anybody gets they're going to throw you out, you pair of twats. Sorry, I got a little off the subject there, but I really cannot stand David Cameron and Little Nicky Clegg. Anyway, Katie Holmes... Right, I've been lucky enough to get divorced twice. The first time, I was over the moon. The second time, it broke my heart. But the last thing on planet earth I would have wanted at those times was a twat with a camera sticking his lens in my face. Why do they do it to poor Katie? Just because she's famous, it makes her less human than the rest of us? Okay, I guess that's enough. In the end, my message to the papers is, JUST FECKING STOP IT, OKAY! Rant over.