Good Golly Miss Molly!

Yes, that's right. The recent brouhaha - or should I say bwouhaha, witchetygwub, wah, wah, wah - over part-time celebrity and roving journalist Carol Thatcher's use of the word "golliwog" to describe a frizzy-haired French tennis player. (Original report here). OK, so it was foot in mouth stuff, and not the best thing to say in the company of the likes of the potty PC presenter Adrian Chiles and the "alternative" comedienne Jo Brand (what is it with people with the surname Brand, eh?) But to elicit such a shitstorm? It simply beggars belief.

According to reports, Thatcher saw the player on screen and offered the rather off the cuff and admittedly asinine suggestion that he - or his hairstyle - reminded her of the Golliwog that could have been found on the side of a jam jar. Not a big deal, one would have thought.

The name of the player concerned has itself created its own sub-debate, with some journalists deciding that the former PM's daughter was referring to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga; I personally would cast doubt on this as Tsonga is mixed-race - thus fairly light skinned - and has short cropped hair. I would wager that she was talking about his compatriot Gaël Monfils - who during the recent Australian Open was sporting a hairstyle that looked - dare I say it, like that of one of the Golliwogs in Enid Blyton's controversial and now heavily-abridged Noddy tales.

Gaël Monfils

Golly

Still, this is beside the point - for the remark which was "leaked" to the media was allegedly made off-camera, when Thatcher was in the company of Chiles and Brand.

We all know about Jo Brand - the fiery, feminist comedienne who has made man-hating barbs her very own niche. It is highly likely that she would have immediately countered Carol Thatcher's comment - but not taken it any further. Chiles however is a different case entirely - in fact, I'd go so far as to say that the man is a basket case. Here's what he has had to say about race in Britain:

"I want all the species to marry each other so that in 300 years' time we are all the same colour... White people can't talk about whiteness without sounding racist. I would love my daughter to marry an Asian or black man."

Hmm. It is quite clear that he man is completely bonkers. However, I am more perturbed by his use of the term "species", which if anything betrays a level of ignorance way beyond any remark by Carol Thatcher about Golliwogs playing tennis. Of course, Chiles maybe so bonkers that he probably believes that human beings should breed with elephants and fruit bats. Or something.

Some people have called this a storm in a teacup. I'd say that even that is too strong a term. It's more like a fart in a paper bag.

They're not so bright... They're orange

A funny story coming out of Euro 2008 - where Swiss railway workers have been instructed to wear yellow safety vests instead of their usual orange ones - save they start being followed around by clueless Dutch supporters.

What a shame. I would have recommended that the workers kept their orange jackets on, and clambered aboard the 17:45 to Vladivostok...

Seeing Red

Well, Euro 2008 has begun, and my not being here had had much to do with a combination of this, work, and more tinkering around with the house...

The tournament started well for the Mannschaft with a regulation 2-0 win over Poland on Sunday, with both goals put away with some style by Poldi who is proving to be more prolific in the white shirt of Germany than a Bayern one - let's us he can take this form through to the new season. It could have been more against the Poles, but at least there was none of that heart-in-mouth drama felt in Dortmund two years ago.

The exact opposite occurred in the second game yesterday against Croatia - a team I have utterly despised since they first came on the scene. I am not saying the result was undeserved - the German team that ran out against Poland seemed to have gone walkabout, and the 2-1 scoreline was absolutely merited, the Croats' bizarre and somewhat fluky second goal notwithstanding. I was more put out by the fact that the legendary wind-up tactics of the Croats worked yet again, with Bastian Schweinsteiger goaded into a childish reaction resulting in a silly red card mere minutes from the final whistle.

The British commentators and analysts seem to love the Croats' rock-and-roll star coach Slaven Bilic, but curiously have turned a big blind eye to the fact that not only is his class of '08 as dirty as they've ever been but also well trained in the skill of holding their hands to their face and hitting the deck like they've been shot. OK, so Schweini should have been more mature and let it go - but it is clear that the aptly-named Jerko Leko had been well drilled by his boss. Who can ever forget Bilic's disgraceful I've-just-been-shot-in-the-face act in France 1998 which resulted in French stalwart Laurent Blanc being dismissed? My feeling was that Schweini's offence merited no more than a yellow card - and if the referee had been able to see everything that would indeed have been the outcome - but you simply cannot raise your hands to an opponent. Especially a Croat wind-up merchant, who is always going to do down faster than an Amsterdam prostitute.

Oh well.

Austria's deserved last-minute penalty against Poland has kept the group wide-open - Germany just need a draw against Austria to go through (barring the Poles beating Croatia by three or more clear goals) but nothing less than a resounding victory is required. A repeat of the recent 3-0 win in Vienna would be nice.

Blair-faced cheek

I know "hate" is a word that should only be used in the most extreme circumstances, but I cannot help the fact that it always seems to bubble to the surface every time I hear the name Tony Blair (left, performing the role of the "Claw").

Blair. It even sounds like some sort of sickness. Blair. Blurgh. Blech. And, of course, blah, blah, blah.

I could see that evil glint in this fellow's eyes back in 1997 when he and his minions - Prescott, Mandelson, Blunkett, ugh - were garlanded into Parliament on the back of a stodgy but not particularly bad administration under John Major. "We need change," was the clarion call - change for the sake of it, more like.

In ten long years, Blair and his Nu-Labour government set about dragging this country down the road of media-driven madness, straight to the land of the sound bite, spin-doctored statement and the outright big black lie. It was Blair, with his syrupy, diarrhoea-inducing speech at the funeral of Princess Diana, who kicked off the whole idea of false and meaningless empathy. It was Blair, through his uncouth propaganda minister Alastair Campbell, who took political jiggerypokery to levels unseen before. It was just the beginning of what was ten years of emotional and political blackmail, overseen by a smarmy, grinning Fagin whose charm was just about enough to convince the critics. Lie after lie, meaningless statement after meaningless statement, we fell for it - hook, line and sinker. It was liked being sold a cut-and-shut by a dodgy car salesman, but on a national level.

The faults of the Major government could be distilled down to the rather pathetic dalliances of individuals like Jeffrey Archer, Tim Yeo and David Mellor - whose shenanigans made for some particularly lurid headlines but had zero affect on our daily lives. John Major didn't rely on sound bites, his government didn't fall prey to media hacks, and crucially the Conservatives didn't take us into a war based on layer upon layer of propaganda, emotional blackmail, abject stupidity and a pack of lies based on a ten-year old essay by a university student.

Blair arrived at No. 10 in a rush of media frenzy - backed by pop stars, actors and charlatans, company with whom he felt at home with. Blair symbolised what was dubbed "Cool Britannia" - a concept lionised by his supporters at the time, but in hindsight fit only to be mocked. It was on the back of this nebulous set of ideas that the children of the sixties really got to work: it saw the burdening of teachers and nurses with multi-level managers and crazy politically correct schemes, the promotion of the indolent through the promotion of a soft-headed social agenda, and the transformation of the police force from a respected institution to a bunch of miserable, paper-heaving automatons. Traditional figures in the police force were marginalised, and those who marched in time to the Nu-Labour revolutionary drumbeat were handed the reins. Gone were John Stalker and Paul Condon; in came the likes of Richard Brunstrom and Tony's namesake, Ian Blair. Each brought with them their own brand of politically correct stupidity, and a procedural imbecility that has led to instances where security vans are making 120-mile round trips to transport a prisoner some 200 yards.

Of course, one cannot blame Blair for all of these things, but it is pretty clear that he was there to oversee - or turn a blind eye to - all of this madness as it was being churned up. It is no great surprise that the glut of inane reality television - epitomised by the on-screen lunatic asylum that is Big Brother - has flourished in the Nu-Labour Empire. It is like ancient Rome, but without the gladiatorial contests, which would have fallen foul of some silly health and safety law. It is as if the population are being trained to be morons.

Blair's legacy now rests in the hands of his erstwhile colleague and friend Gordon Brown, who was given control when everyone knew that the slowing down of the US economy would have a knock-on effect here. Unsurprisingly, Brown has been castigated as some new and rather comical master of disaster, the man behind the now creaking economy and crashing property market. While things have not been helped by his pre-programmed, dour personality and distinct lack of charm and grace, it can't be of any help that his former boss and friend is now in bed with the media hacks: both Tony and his odious, postbox-mouthed wife Cherie have taken every opportunity to lay into the hapless McBroon, accusing him of destroying all the wonders they created - knowing full well that the game was up when they jumped from the sinking ship and straight into the cushy lifeboat of highly-paid corporate endorsements, cheap shot autobiographies and Mickey Mouse ambassadorial roles.

And then we have the story that prompted me to write this, outlining how Tony and Cherie used taxpayers' money to fund their burgeoning property empire. Of course, all of the paperwork detailing their expenses were mysteriously shredded. Funny, that.

The US Election Saga

At long last, the nomination of the Democratic party candidate for the impending US elections has come to an apparent end, with Barack Obama finally toppling the intransigent and painfully annoying Hillary Clinton. Not that Mrs Clinton seems to have got it yet, as she is still blabbing away like some warped harridan. My money is on Republican senator John McCain to walk into the Oval Office come next January, and when he wins by a landslide everyone will wonder what all of this wasted time, effort and money was all about.

So, everyone in the media is loving the fact that America is going to see its first person-of-color Presidential candidate, and witness this bright young thing take on the seventy-something ex-military white male McCain. I don't suppose it really matters that Obama's entire campaign has rested on a series of soundbites punctuated with turgid speeches about loudmouthed church ministers - da man is black, yo.

The whole "black" thing is just tiresome, and so pitifully American. It's just like all of that bullshit over Halle Berry being the first "black" woman to win the Best Actress Oscar™. One could have just as easily have argued that she was just one of many white women to have won the award. With that straight hair and less than deepest, darkest African looks, I am sure some of the Sistas wouldn't see things the same way. Dat Halle Berry? She's jussom dumb honky.

I think Barack Obama is in a wonderful position as he can pick and choose who he wants to be depending on his audience. To black people he is Barack Obama (with emphasis on the African pronunciation of his surname). To white people he is Barry Obama. To Irish people is Barack O'Bama. To Muslims he is Barack Hussein Obama. And to the Jews he is Baruch Obama. Or is that Baruch Oyvey-Bama.

The guy is mixed race, end of discussion. He's 50% white and 50% black, with an Indonesian stepfather. Who knows, maybe he eats grits for breakfast, fried chicken and watermelon for lunch and lamb bloody satay for dinner.

Or is that racist?

How to become a TV chat show host...

...Austrian style.

OK, I know Österreich has been taking some stick in the international press for the past month or so for being a haven for psychopaths and other assorted wackos (until next month, when we see how Scheiss their football team is), but OK, I think I've seen it all now.

Not long ago, to be able to front any sort of show on television or radio one had to have certain qualifications. You had to be a journalist, author, a recognised critic, or an expert in a certain field. Think of Brian Walden, the Dimblebys, Frost, Parkinson, Aspel. And Gordon Ramsay, lol.

These days you can get on TV on the back of any alleged claim to fame. You can be a "Wag" like Coleen McLoughlin. You could get your tits out, like Jordan. You can even have a sordid affair with a footballer, like Rebecca Loos.

But all of these examples pale into insignificance when one hears that Natascha Kampusch, the Austrian girl who was kidnapped at the age of ten and held in a cellar for eight years by a psychopath, is to front her own new show, Natascha Kampusch meets...

What next? "Abductee" Shannon Matthews to host her own show on bedroom furniture? Kate and Gerry McCann to host their own show on modern parenting skills?

Dewsbury: Part II

Some of you who might have spared the time to read my blog - time that might otherwise have been spent on cutting your own wrists, lol - will probably remember my exposé on the West Yorkshire town of Dewsbury, posted on 11th April.

It seems that the population of this miserable hellhole can't let a day pass by with some tragedy or another - for only this week, not far from the house where Shannon Matthews was "abducted", a teenage boy was beaten to death by a gang which included children as young as twelve. Yes, you read that right - twelve. I have for a long time harboured deeply negative thoughts about some communities - for want of a less flattering term - oop north; some would say that I am being grossly unfair, but the truth is unavoidable, to the point where the mainstream serious press have started to draw the same conclusions - which might even lead some to suggest that they are reading this blog and others like it.

The outlook is pretty bleak to say the least - what else can you expect in a place where there is a particularly pungent mixture of political effluence? On the one hand we have the likes of the BNP and their Islamic extremist counterparts; on the other we have potty politically correct policies that serve no purpose than to make us outsiders laugh. Take this, from an article in the local rag, the Dewsbury Reporter:

Kirklees was the first council in the country to set up reporting centres for disability hate crime – known as 'disablism'.

Oh, they must be proud. So proud. As proud as they are of their "vibrant" multi-cultural community and Muslim elders that refuse to be photographed with the outgoing mayor because she just happens to be a woman. It's little or no wonder some people are voting for knuckleheads like the BNP. Come to think of it, it's little or no wonder they are also faking abductions, hanging kids from trees and beating each other up into a merry pulp in the local park. Some people are clearly optimistic though - or more likely deluded. You've just got to laugh.

The terrifying thing however is that Dewsbury and other similar run-down towns, with their poor, mass-breeding native population and large numbers of intransigent and non-integrated immigrants, are something of a window of the future. A bleak vision of what this country will become unless something is done now.

Perhaps it is just too late - for if we are all going to Hell in a handcart, it might be better just to jump on rather than walk.

Che... Que?

I have often been bamboozled and disturbed by the affection lavishly (or is that slavishly?) heaped by the liberal media on the so-called revolutionary and Communist skullduggerer Ernesto "Che" Guevara: while anyone from the right of centre is roundly pilloried and ridiculed, this "people's fighter" is very often glorified and lionised. The "hip" people wear t-shirts with his ugly mug - often in a lurid shade of very Bolshevik red - staring flatly into space, and his excesses are quickly brushed under the carpet.

Ah, but he was a kindly Argentine doctor after all - a peacemaker, a healer, some sort of angel for the far from angelic loopy, loony left. The man on whom the glorious Citizen Smith was modelled.

Plenty of these t-shirt wearers will no doubt be in Cannes this week, where yet another Che biopic - hot on the tail of the rather tedious Diarios de motocicleta - makes its way onto the silver screen. This new production by Oscar-winning director (or is that Oscar™-winning director) Steven Soderbergh, the title for which is as yet undecided, promises to be a laborious four-hour snooze-fest which will thrill and no doubt inspire the leftist fashionistas but bore the rest of us rigid with ideological mumbo-jumbo.

Diarios de motocicleta - "The Motorcycle Diaries" - covered the early life of Che, portraying him as some free-spirited youth who wanted to change the world with his love, passion and lust for life... It marketed itself with the rather disingenuous strapline Let the world change you... and you can change the world. Erm, right.

Every time I see that rather demonic face I think of that other, less promoted, image of "Che" - that of Bolivian security officers prodding his rigid corpse. Maybe I should print t-shirts of this - with the legend Rest in Hell, Che - you Commie ****.

The Girl from Brazil

So, the Missing Madeleine McCann Mystery takes yet another new and rather bizarre twist, as we now hear of an eye-witness "seeing" her catch a flight to Brazil, of all places.

Madeleine McCann 'spotted on plane to Brazil'

I am now waiting for the late Gregory Peck to make an appearance wearing a crisp white suit. Pursued by a rather cranky Laurence Olivier.

Pretentious Nosh

I stumbled across this interesting article this afternoon:

Fat Duck falls short in battle of haute cuisine

I simply do not get this fashionista obsession with haute cuisine - in fact haute anything, with haute being a simply byword for "pretentious and so far up its own rear end it can see through its own mouth". For one, I cannot for the life of me understand why people would choose to fork out hundreds of pounds for an otherwise insubstantial 'meal' that has the appearance of a lump of caramelised dog turd accompanied by some small pellets of rabbit shit and gentle spraying of foamy monkey semen. With coagulated tortoise sick in a cat piss jus for dessert.

An alleged masterpiece from the Spanish haute cuisine restaurant El Bulli. According to the Telegraph, "some 8,000 people eat there every year, with around 400 attempting to book each table for a meal costing an average of £150 per head." They must all be bloody insane.

This is not 'food', but in the same bracket as the pretentious guff some would call 'art'. The claim often made by the so-called (and for the most part self-appointed) "experts" is that only the chosen few actually understand all of this oity-toity nonsense, but the truth is that most of them are making things up as they go along.

I have been to plenty of excellent restaurants across the world, and given that I have never spent more than £100 per head I can safely say that none of them would make this list, such as the excellent Edo Sushi Bar in Berlin where you can get an excellent all-you-can-eat deal for 15 Euros.

As for Gordon Ramsay - the man cannot make Yorkshire puddings for toffee. My Mother's home-made recipe trounces his flat, miserable insults to all right-thinking Yorkshire folk hands down.

Saturday Shopping Saga

So, where do I begin?

The morning began as the day was to go on, with what was soon to become the Currys television nightmare. I had popped into Currys on the way back from work on the Friday, with the aim of buying what would be our second set, a TV-DVD combo. After mentioning a good dozen times that I was after a black model (that's the TV set, not Naomi Campbell) I walked out with what I thought was a successful purchase. Fool me for not checking there and then, for when I got to the new house to set things up in readiness for the technician from Sky to set up our new system we found that the set was... White.

OK, a white television set would have been good as a kitchen or bathroom accessory, but it was just not going to fit with Caroline's plan for the bedroom. A plot was then hatched to return the unit in the early afternoon, after first having gone to Ikea to save some money in what was a heavily-advertised 21st anniversary 21% off offer on all goods. Unfortunately, Caroline's attempts to stir me from my heavy slumber came to nothing, and we woke up around 10am. This led to our having to quickly adjust our schedule, and I set off to the local branch of Currys for what I thought would be a fairly straightforward operation. Little did I know that it would be the beginning of an annoying saga.

When I got to the store, I was informed by customer services that as they had no models of the television I wanted in store, and that I should go to the Hayes branch where they had ten in stock. Happy in the knowledge that the chances of ten people who might have wanted the same item getting there before me was pretty remote, I happily set off down the Uxbridge Road.

And here's where the real drama began. After waiting a quarter of an hour without even being acknowledged and having to listen to a rather tedious argument between the customer service advisor and another disgruntled customer, I was told that they had no items in stock. Having being told that they had ten, I was rather surprised - but didn't question it as it might well have been a case of the previous people fobbing me off. Desperate for a working unit to put in the new place for the Sky technician, I suggested replacing my choice with another similar or even higher-priced unit. The desk monkey said she would speak to the manager, but after a few minutes came back and said that there was nothing they could so - this was 'Ruislip stock' and hence no exchange could take place.

At this I really blew a gasket. Citing the "returns can be made at you local branch" line on the leaflet that came with my receipt - not "returns should be made at the branch where you purchased the item" - I demanded that the manager speak to me himself. I waited. And waited. And waited. Soon I was convinced that he just didn't want to show, fearing that I might want to tear his head from his shoulders. Or something. I voiced my complaints again, and another sales assistant came over. After being informed of the problem, he keyed in a few search terms into his terminal and... Voila! The ten available items came up. So, effectively, I had been left boiling and bubbling for the best part of forty minutes due to what could only be put down to inefficiency, incompetence and utter muppetry.

With the new black television safely in the car, I called the Sky technician and arranged to meet at the new house so that we could get cracking. I whip the TV out of the box, hook it up to the aerial, plug it in... And... Nothing. Nichts. Nada. I fiddle around with the cables. A loose connection, perhaps? Still nothing. By this time the Sky guy has arrived, and we don't have a TV that actually works. So as he starts attaching the dish to the wide of the house, I set off for Currys again. When I get there I am immediately recognised by the staff; this is helpful as I get served without having to wait. They perform the standard tests on the TV, which still doesn't work. After getting another set (not before someone first brings out another white one!) and switching the wires around, the conclusion is that the power cable has either blown a fuse or is simply kinked. Armed with the now working TV, I head off back home. The Sky guy has been nice enough to hang around - and I still have the viewing card in my wallet.

When I get back I hook up the TV again, and it switches on. Hurrah. Still no one hundred percent success though, as now the remote doesn't work. Yawn. Thankfully the technician, who proved that excellent customer service can be achieved, is able to work with the controls on the set itself and get Sky up and running. Job done. (We later find out that the remote not working is down to one of the supplied batteries being dead.)

So with the TV now working and Sky all set up, we head out to Ikea to see if we can make a killing on the bedroom furniture. Well, that was the idea. The Ikea idea, if you will. After spending a good hour and quarter stuck in traffic that was moving more slowly than the British advance at Verdun, we watch the queues of unknowing people lining up to join the fight for a space at the Ikea car park as we fly into an empty slot outside the nearby Tesco. We head straight up to the wardrobes section, where there is a queue that snakes back a scarily long distance. Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of half a mile. Well maybe not as far as that, but I wanted to shoehorn that quote in there.

As we sloooooooooooooowly work our way up the queue, a member of staff makes the annoucement that they are running out of stock... Not long afterwards, they are pretty much out. There are three options open - (a) order the lot at the discounted rate and wait eight weeks. Yes, you read that right, eight weeks; (b) try and get what we can to make some sort of saving; (c) give up and come back another day to pay the full whack.

We decided to go with for option (b), and managed to find four items that were still available at the pickup points. Well, better than a poke in the eye. Armed with the list we start looking for a trolley, only to find out that people are lining up for them too, and standing in a queue that snakes back some hundred yards or so. As I resign myself for what looks like another hours of stationary boredom, Caroline goes to check out the items. She gets back some ten minutes later to inform me that these items are also now gone, save for a few examples where the contents appear to have exploded from their packing out onto the shelf. Oh well, it saves waiting an hour for a bloody trolley. In fact, you'd have to be off your trolley to undertake this sort of mad mission.

After gathering what we could find from the list of other wanted items, we make our way to the tills, struggling to keep all of the stuff from falling. The meandering walk to the tills was not helped by people milling about aimlessly, clueless clowns just stopping dead for no good reason, and the now familiar tropical Ikea Brent Park microclimate. We reach the tills. We pay. We head out to the car, finding a trolley on the way. At which I then decide to have a scan of the receipt, only to see that the twenty-one percent offer hasn't been applied. You just couldn't make it up, as they say. I decide it would be best if I load the car, while Caroline takes the receipt and my card to the customer service people.

After loading out hundred-plus pounds worth of stuff in the car, I get some cash out to buy some smoked salmon before heading back to the store. After looking around the store and being accused of being blind on account of looking right through her, Caroline and I meet up and get the refund applied to my card.

We then head to Tesco to get a few essentials - bagels and beer being among them - and finally head back home. To then discover that Oliver has pissed on the carpet by the front door. Not his fault I guess, I wouldn't have thought we'd have spent five hours shopping - worse still, shopping for stuff we were probably never going to find.

We then head back out to new place after emptying the loft, and in the process of sorting things out see what was probably the crowning glory of the day - a fire that was taking place three or so streets away. Yep, that's right.

And so ended a very frustrating and - for shorts bursts at least - interesting day.

The need to be "famous"...

It's rather sad, isn't it? When I was young I just wanted to be able to do something good when I grew up, and be good at what I did - or at least be the best I could be. To learn, to share ideas. Very few people seem to have that mindset these days - in the West, at least. Maybe there is something we can learn from many countries in the third world who still happen to value education and retain an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

What I am most concerned about is this growing fixation with being famous for the sake of it - and as such all it takes these days is for some moron to do or say something outrageous. It staggers me how many people there are that are passed off as 'celebrities', when in reality many of them are talentless oxygen thieves that unwittingly provide entertainment for the masses, products of cheap and tacky reality television shows. The unfortunate thing is that these people are paid silly money for what is essentially doing nothing. The net result of this madness is that we have book deals with people who cannot write, and television shows hosted by people who cannot read an autocue or for that matter even speak properly.

Some may call my attitude 'jealousy' - but this is far from the case. After all, how can anyone be jealous of some vacuous moron who has contributed a net sum of nothing to humanity? How can one be jealous of their pitiful, seedy, paparazzi-infested lives? Nah, it's not jealousy. It's righteous anger. Anger at the fact that hard-working people, many of who actually contribute to society - whether this be by the sharing of skills and knowledge or helping others - are working all hours God sends for a fraction of what some imbecile who may have opened her vile trap on Big Brother would get for a tacky photoshoot. It's insulting, to be honest.

Here are some examples:

- Jade Goody: famous for being a daft moron, and ugly to boot - both on the inside and the outside. Why?
- Coleen McLoughlin: book deals, promoted as the "face" of Asda (in spite of her piggy nose), wannabe "style icon" ... famous only because her boyfriend has starred in three films about a green ogre. Why?
- Jodie Marsh. Witless attention-seeker whom looks like a very bad drag act, and a pair of fake breasts clearly intended to take the attention away from her shovel-like nose. Why?
- Jordan. Disgusting, bloated self-publicist with nothing constructive to say. Why?
- Kerry Katona. A 'singer' who by her own admission couldn't sing, alcoholic, drug addict and baby-machine. Why?
- The Cheeky Girls. Talentless, manufactured stick insects who managed to settle here even before their country was made a member of the EU. With one of them going to marry some moron-for-an-MP that looks like an alien. Why?

Why? Why do we care?

It's a truly sad fact that the first names that come to mind are all women - probably down to the fact that what they might have to say is largely inconsequential. The denizens of the trash media machine are not interested in intelligent women; after all, they are dull and boring - even if they might happen to be beautiful. They might get a story - for example, the brouhaha with the new Madame Sarkozy, Carla Bruni - but it soon peters out as soon as it is realised that there is no real mileage. So yes, Carla Bruni might have had some years old photographs of her as nature intended do the rounds at the auction houses, but once it has been said well... That's about it. She's far too intelligent and sophisticated to be seen clambering drunk out of car on the way to some grubby nightclub.

The media hounds only really want the brash, loud, moronic and uncouth; the infamous Big Brother contestant Jade Goody is a case in point. Just what has this daft moron ever had to say that might in any way merit her 'fame'? Tunisia is in East Angular, or whatever. Cambridge is in London. And yet this feckless imbecile is now a millionaire whose ugly mug is being plastered across the tabloids, tacky magazines and cheap entertainment shows. She cannot speak English properly and in all probability has reading skills that are inferior to a very slow ten year old, but this has not stopped her "writing" books that have been lapped up by a public that has been conditioned to be interested in the miserable lives of people whom in a more common sense world would be of zero consequence. I'd actually go so far to say that the last decade has produced a greater number of people unable to actually read their own book than the past ten centuries.

The worst thing is that these imbeciles through their "fame" soon become something of a beacon for young children - whose (in the main, C2/D/E) parents are happy to go along with it driven by the thought that "well, if Jordan can become famous, why can't my little Neveah?" Education becomes something of a peripheral issue, and the average teenage girl, intoxicated by the cheap and nasty bling-unterkultur, soon wants to emulate her heroine. By the time she is sixteen, she is wanting breast implants more than a decent education. After all, A-levels and a degree will get you into a boring, humdrum job, while massive plastic breasts that look like watermelons will get you into the pages of Nuts or into the bed of some footballer. It would be laughable were it not actually true.

You'd be lucky if you found a pre-teen or teenage girl today who might on the other hand want to become a modern Marie Curie.

This 'easy life' is somewhat tougher for boys as they cannot get on by simply dyeing their hair or getting breast implants. Many young boys might desperately want to be the next David Beckham, Wayne Rooney or Cristiano Ronaldo, but the cold fact is that they won't get anywhere if they don't actually have the talent. And given that only a small percentage actually make it, the dashed dream will result in large numbers of boys turning to petty crime to make up for the deficit caused by their lack of education.

The Drugs Trade

I have written on this issue on numerous Internet forums and bulletin boards, usually in response to "recreational" drug users who frivolously bang on about the fun they have on Friday and Saturday nights with friends, loud music and a bag of the infamous "Colombian marching powder". Here's a recent snippet.

Ultimately, what people just don't get is the misery that the drugs trade actually creates. Everybody from your loaded snorting merchant banker through to your common street crackhead believes that the only issue concerns their own rather pathetic little lives, but the truth is that this industry's tentacles stretch far beyond the cocktail party or dark back street alley. They reach back to countries like Bolivia and Colombia, where the fate of entire populations are in effect determined by this criminal racket.

Then we have the media and celebrity types who bang on about world poverty, free trade coffee and the like, only to go home a do a couple of lines of coke. It was hilarious, for example, to see Kate Moss wearing one of those 'make poverty history' wristbands - only to later see her getting busted for snorting a drug that creates untold misery in the very countries these campaigns are supposed to help.

Personally I'd have the manufacturers and dealers eat their product with gusto. And if there was any sign of a lack of enthusiasm, I'd force it down their throats with a stick.

Personal Responsibility

It really does irk me every time I read or hear about some story where someone has taken an unnecessary risk and as a result has come a cropper, only for a cavalcade of people to empathise with them. It irks me even more that when I point out the obvious fact that taking risks exposes one to additional danger, I am often accused of suggesting that the victim somehow "deserved" it.

In the clear and objective light of day such this accusation is, of course, abject nonsense; more than it being a case of my being callous and unfeeling, it is a simple matter of people not having any idea on what constitutes personal responsibility. What next, suggesting that a person who walks out on the streets of South London with a sign on his back saying "I have a mobile 'phone and a hundred quid, please mug me" is simply unfortunate?

A story in case is that of the Italian hitchhiker and "world peace" activist murdered in Turkey, discussed here; it is clear that while this woman didn't "deserve" to be murdered - nobody in their right mind would suggest that - it is pretty bloody obvious that she was taking an unnecessary and dare I say it stupid risk in trapsing around an Islamic country dressed as a bride.

The same applies to drug (ab)users - in a post on a popular bulletin board I (perhaps rather callously) described the death of former children's television presenter Mark Speight as being "no great loss" - on account of the fact that he was a useless druggie who was out of his head on a cocktail of illegal substances while his fiancée - also a useless druggie - was boiling to death in the bath at the time. I was taken to task for showing a distinct lack of empathy, but I ask you - who in hell can empthaise with such a waster, and worse still, a waster who then chose to take his own life because he couldn't face up to the fact that were it not for his and his fianceé's nasty, sordid habit, they would both be very much alive today?

It's as if nobody has any personal responsibility for their actions any more, and that somebody else - society, the weather, the neighbour's dog - is somehow to blame. And that the rest of us should be welling up and feeling sorry.

Well, no.

Yet another posthumous Darwin Award winner...

An Italian woman artist who was hitch-hiking to the Middle East dressed as a bride to promote world peace has been found murdered in Turkey.

OK, right. So a single woman dresses up as a bride, decides to take a bit of an amble on the streets of an Islamic country, and winds up dead. Now, call me callous if you want but I see this as a simple case of walking into trouble. A simple and clear case of taking what was a pretty obvious risk - a risk somebody even with the most rudimentary knowledge of the region would have been aware of.

People have been quick to describe Turkey as being a country popular with Western tourists, but fail to realise that beyond the confines of the friendly holiday resort lies a country - and a native population - that is infinitely more unpredictable. Despite its status as a popular holiday destination, Turkey is one of those countries were a simple wrong turn can transport you almost into another dimension. One moment you can be in the grounds of the very secular Istanbul university, and the next you could be in the back garden of someone who is still waiting for Richard the Lionheart's infidel hordes to storm in horseback, with scimitar unsheathed.

OK I am exaggerating with the scimitar bit, but you get my drift.

Nobody asks to be murdered. But it was foolish all the same. One could walk into central Riyadh in one's underwear championing world peace, but that's not going to stop a bunch of mediaeval hotheads wanting to throw stones.

According to the woman's sister, "Her travels were for an artistic performance and to give a message of peace and of trust, but not everyone deserves trust."

Well no shit, Sherlock.

The McCanns - back at No. 1

After what was a short holiday from the front pages where their place was taken by the story of Shannon Matthews, the story of Madeleine McCann - or should I say the story of Kate and Gerry McCann (left, looking like politicians) and their ongoing mission of brazen self-publicity and political hob-nobbing - flew back to the top of the headlines with something of a vengeance this week.

First we had the couple make a trip to Brussels in an attempt to pull more strings with politicians and lay claim to the introduction of a single child alert telephone number - 116 000 - which had been reserved by the European Commission for the purpose long before Kate and Gerry McCann or their team of highly-paid professional advisors even thought of the idea. One can only balk at the audacity of these people; it just beggars belief.

It is quite clear that Kate and Gerry McCann are enjoying the media attention they are getting - so long as it is on their terms and with everything dictated by them or their team of professional advisors led by the former BBC journalist and government spin-doctor Clarence Mitchell.

Of course, if things don't go their way... It is somehow a "smear".

I have said it before and I will say it again - I am not going to rule out the suggestion - however outlandish it may sound - that Madeleine McCann died in the apartment that night and her parents, not wanting to be charged for neglect and risk their other children being removed, decided to cover it all up with this crazy "abduction" story - which has been packed with contradiction, confusion and anomaly right from the beginning.

The story has been backed by their friends - the "tapas seven" - or at least those members of the group who are in on the whole thing, complete with bizarre, bigfootesque sightings of shifty individuals carrying children wrapped up in blankets. After all, these people had also left their children unattended while they and the McCanns went off gallivanting to gorge on tapas and vino - and as such were equally as guilty of neglect.

In yet another twist to this bizarre story, the McCanns are also threatening "revenge" against the Portuguese police - painted as the master "smear-mongers" - by refusing to take part in a reconstruction of the events that took place on and around May 3rd 2007. Now, maybe this just me being obtuse, but if one was offered the chance of taking part in such a reconstruction, would one not jump at the opportunity in doing something that might help jog peoples' memories, and put aside whatever petty gripes they have with the authorities in Portugal?

To suggest that not attending would constitute "revenge" is also a rather odd way of putting things. Rather than being a "dish best served cold", it is more like a case of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.

The constant evasion, side-stepping and refusal by the McCanns and their publicity team to see even the slightest criticism of their behavior as "smears" simply adds fuel to the flames. In short, the couple doth protest too much, methinks.

This couple have presented themselves as social activists, public speakers and martyrs - while at the same time making a complete and utter hash of any attempt to show themselves as good parents. For all their cries about "smear campaigns" and deluded feelings of victimhood, they themselves have forgotten that there is and only has been one victim in all of this - their poor little daughter.

Dewsbury...

The talk of the media during the past month or so have been the slowly unravelling story of young Shannon Matthews and her toxic excuse for a family, and the wonderful Yorkshire town of Dewsbury - likened by some to Beirut. In response to the criticism of this potential backdrop for a Christmas special edition of The League of Gentlemen, the Guardian chose to sent one of their scribblers up to the former mill town to meet a few of the natives. This is what they found...

The Real Moorside Story

It goes without saying that this article is highly sanitised, and pretty typical Guardian fare. OK, yes - so the place is hardly Beirut; but then no place in this country can truly fit this description - thankfully.

What made me chuckle is the apparent friendliness between the native British and Asian communities - something that does not fit at all well with the fact that Dewsbury is one of the most popular stomping grounds for the BNP, who have achieved something of a foothold in the local council. This of course sits alongside an increasingly separatist Muslim community that provided a number of operatives that took part in the planning and execution of the 7/7 attacks in London, and was also home to the young reader of the infamous Anarchist's Cookbook.

This is just the political side of things; on the ground, we have the case of Shannon Matthews and her nasty extended family - but this sort of story should come as no surprise to a community that not long ago was having to read about a twelve-year old girl who tried to hang a five-year old boy from a tree, and which some thirty years ago was the prowling ground for the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe. In December of last year a Muslim boy, Ahmed Hassan, was stabbed by six white youths at Dewsbury station; earlier this year a mass brawl involving local Pakistani Muslims, Iraqis and Hungarians (?!?!) was reported in the ward of Ravensthorpe, supposedly on the back of claim being made about local Muslim girls being "touched" by loose-handed Magyars. Then of course there are the stories of local girls - Muslim, British, whatever - being sexually propositioned by Iraqi Kurds in the street, and Imams striking British girls for showing off their shoulders. It was even the place highlighted in the news where demands were made on the already pressured NHS to have nurses turn patients' bed five times a day towards Mecca. (That's the religious shrine, not the evening entertainment for the non-Muslim residents).

Kirklees District Council has figures that are higher than the English average for violence, theft, sexual offences and burglary - something that is not at all in line with the picture painted by the Guardian article.

Of course, the Guardian scribblers, like me, live far and away from places like this; in fact they live even further away and higher up, based in their nice ivory towers. Their being invited for a cup of tea, to sit on some happy person's loo, to watch people deadhead their flowers - it's akin to the Red Cross' guided tour of Theresienstadt. Not that Dewsbury is that much like a concentration camp, of course.