Anything, Anywhere But Under Sufferance

I've been to Florida several times now. All without a hitch. So I thought I knew how to holiday there without too many problems. I didn't.  And this past year has shown me precisely how a combination of factors can combine to turn a dream three-week stay in the sunshine state, into a partial mental breakdown, financial ruin, bewilderment at what has happened across the state and then to cap it all, the return of a familiar friend at the end of the holiday.  This is probably going to be a long one. So strap yourself in, get yourself a stiff drink and if you are planning to head back there in what is left of 2023 or 2024, learn from my mistakes. Disaster 1 - Departure Day - Thursday 3rd August 2023 You won't see a simile that reads " as beautiful as Manchester Airport on a cloudy August morning" . It is by no means the ugliest airport, but I don't think there is a pretty airport really.  However it is its function rather than aesthetics that interest me today as...

You are probably bored of hearing about it, I am and I've had it. So here's some of the more unusual observations I have made about the pandemic. 1. Donald Trump is a mealy mouthed arsehole. I mean I am no fan of Boris, but compared to that orange-flecked shit-gibbon, Boris is a fucking saint. His ramblings are that of a true megalomaniac and one with a totally unfounded and unwarranted belief in his own ability. If anyone needs a punch in the mouth with a BMW M5 Series, it is him. 2. Clapping the NHS is a lovely gesture. But it is just a gesture. I do hope people will remember this when the next election comes around and will then vote for a party that will fund it properly and not sell it off to the highest bidder and force private healthcare upon us all as a result. I'm hoping Boris's time spent in hospital may have altered his mind on this a bit. But, it's pretty much Tory policy to sell off the things that save you for a bit of extra money. 3. The lockdo...

Funny how things turn around isn't it? It wasn't that long ago that I could have made this post bemoaning yet another season of athletic ineptitude by a Liverpool team. Then Jurgen Klopp came along, tinkered with a few things and one Champions League Trophy, one UEFA Club World Cup Trophy and one European Super Cup trophy later, we are looking at arguably the greatest ever season in English football history by a single team. At the time of writing, Liverpool have dropped 2 points out of the 72 they have had available to win. After 24 games, they have amassed 70 points. No team has ever won as many points at this stage of the competition in the history of the top division in English football. Or in European football's top divisions for that matter. Their nearest challengers, Manchester City, have 51 points from the same number of games. In total, if Manchester City were to win every single one of their 14 games remaining in the Premier League this season, they could...

It's generally rare that FIFA get anything right. In truth, whether it was Sepp Blatter and his dodgy dealings or not, the organisation is so corrupt, insidious and woeful that I am genuinely surprise that anybody would trust them to organise Boris Johnson's hair, let alone a World Cup or two. This week, FIFA announced their best player and team of the year and all that malarkey and of course, we are told that football is a game of opinions. Only, I am baffled by some of them. I'm not going to go into manager of the year, suffice to say that Jurgen Klopp won, Mauricio Pochettino was second and Pep Guardiola was third. As much as I love Klopp, Guardiola should have won and as for Pochettino beating Guardiola, well that makes about as much sense as Cantona's recent speech. Player of the year, Ok, Messi got it and I understand he had a great year so I'll go with that. Van Dijk I feel was unlucky as for me, he had the biggest impact, but he's a defender, so t...

How have we got to this? Brexit has seen off two Tory Prime Ministers to the point where it seems Britain is now desperate to 'out-stupid' America by 160,000 people (out of 60-odd million) electing a lying, fascist, over-privileged, misogynistic anglophobe with the social graces of eel shit and the intelligence of an anal bead. It's like America has gone "Look! We've elected an Orange Vegetable as President! Nobody can out stupid us!" and Britain has said "Hold My Beer..." We're going to leave on October 31st, no matter what has or has not been agreed, nobody has a clue what is going to happen, but more to the point, the wealthy that will engineer this brutalisation of the majority of the country, won't be impacted, or stand to make a shed load of cash from it. We've empowered the far right and emboldened them to the point where people are being openly challenged about their heritage and 'right' to be in society because the...

This week was Bonfire Night, November 5th, a 'celebration' of a failed act of terrorism against the crown which is now remembered by councils banning bonfires, fireworks with about as much fizzle as John Major's wardrobe and the chance to, effectively, burn money. It never used to be this way. I can remember as child Bonfire Night was always one of the major events of the year, perhaps second only to Christmas. Where I lived, groups of kids would spend weeks before the date collecting "Bonnie Wood" and storing it in a variety of disused garages and other 'secret' hidey-holes. There was a palpable sense of anticipation every year, fuelled by the singing of "Remember, Remember" in school and the scary adverts warning you not to pick up sparklers at the wrong end, or otherwise play with fireworks. When the night arrived, I was always amazed to discover it wasn't a school holiday. Even so, you'd rush home from school, get outside to help...

Chapter One Vernant Spatchmole was angry, not a big red face, blotchy, sweaty angry, but a sullen, moody, James Dean with a ciggy hanging out of his mouth rebel-without-a-cause angry. He knew that this dark look would attract the girls, that and his bulging bank account that throbbed with activity. Yet he remained elusive, an as yet untainted gentleman, whose only venture into true depravity came when he bought a Vauxhall Agila (Slogan: The car so shit, even crap old drivers won't bother with it) and then sold it a few days later to act as a water feature to a braless Charlie Dimmock. Sat opposite him was a nubile young woman, with breasts, that were bouncing up and down as she breathed huskily. She was meant to be interviewing him for her first assignment for "Cock" magazine, but had spent most of the morning simply in awe of his magnificent presence. Her name was Joanna Pohkme, an up and coming young journalist who had earned this placement on "Cock" t...