People looking for loopholes so that they can get out of paying for something, but who at the same time strenuously pitch themselves as crusading fighters for liberty, freedom and justice. Case in point: Neil Herron, from Sunderland. Neil is the public face of whinging campaign group Parking Appeals and has been courting the media this last week due to his attempts to have parking law scrutinized and tickets rescinded at the High Court in London. Neil’s had the rule book out. He’s going to Australia and he’s going to bowl fucking Bodyline.

‘If you're a minute late back from a meeting you get a £120 fine. If you're an inch over a white bay, you get a £120 fine,’ Neil whines.

Now Neil, like Richard the Lionheart before the gates of Jerusalem, is absolutely convinced that he is right. You can see it in his complacent, gloating fat face. You can hear it in the strident tones of his voice. Essentially, Neil’s unhappy that councils don’t back up the thick, luminescent bright, high-visibility lines on roads indicating parking restrictions with street signs pointing down to the tarmac saying ‘PARK HERE AND THA’LL GET FINED, YOU DAFT BASTARD!!!’, and that – like oil and water; cross-ply and radial; grape and grain – red lines (zones) and yellow lines (restrictions) shouldn’t be mixed. OK. But reading between the lines (boom boom) this seems like a campaign group on behalf of egocentric twats who think they’ve got a right to stick their cars wherever they want. Right on, man. ‘They used the wrong shade of yellow,’ Tony from Doncaster complains, getting behind the campaign. ‘It should have been Naples Yellow and they slapped down Winsor Lemon. School Boy error.’ He remembers to add, raising an obese fist into the air: ‘We’re just doing this for the people! Can I have my money back?’

Don Bradman retires from the field with his top teeth in his pocket.

I picture Neil driving a Lexus. Metallic gold. Leather pack. Pork pie in one hand, mobile ‘phone in the other, nudging pedestrians aside to curb his IS500. Another skin touching session with Dave from the Corby branch. An ego to match his bonus target. He’s five minutes late after stopping off for a cappuccino fix in the Little Chef at Newport Pagnell. Sod it, here’ll do, he thinks. Stuff everyone else. This could clinch that vital maxi-pack order. Neil chubs off to get eye balls on with Dave over a powerpoint presentation, a few obligatory youtube.com clips thrown in, some Costa Rican gold and a squint at the secretary’s arse as she sways through the open plan office.

Five minutes later, the parking enforcement officer – Colleen, 47, thick ankles and a huge loan with Bright House to pay for – totters up. Eagle-eyed she spots the Lexus straddling the double-yellows. Colleen, another tick towards satisfying her daily target, slaps a ticket on the Lexus. Job done, away she goes.

Neil comes out. Blood pressure through the fucking roof. A ticket! A fucking bastard ticket! I cannae fookin’ believe it! Here he is, keeping the country’s economy going, backbone of Britain and he gets a fucking ticket. Thin end of the wedge. Tip of the bloody iceberg. Why does he fucking bother? He is incensed on behalf of every right-thinking motorist in the land. Bring me my bow of burning gold, bring me my arrows of desire... Bring me my spear! Oh, clouds unfold! Bring me my hundred and twenty quid!

If barrel-chested, broad-shouldered Neil wins his court case the judgement will see councils having to refund wads of money to motorists, leaving a massive hole in the council finances. Now, I’m not a whole-hearted lover of councils. However, this seems to me nothing more than peevish individuals wanting to get their own way for the sake of it. And the upshot? The resulting council deficit will mean that my bins will be even more maggoty than they are now and there’ll be even more chance of getting mugged as the council switches off the street lamps.

There’s a similar story from Sheffield, from back in the summer, where Alan Bangert complained about Sheffield City Council’s lack of marking on a particular junction (signs but no lines – the reverse of Neil’s concerns). Alan was caught out not once, not twice, but three times by the same junction controlling movement over tram lanes. So apparently this wasn’t a mistake by Alan, unless he’s totally fucking stupid. No, it seems he was making a conscious decision to disobey the traffic directions. Because he wanted to. The rebel. He says: ‘It’s a traffic management system that was operating illegally. It needed addressing.’

Another martyr to his own wallet.

Most motorists don’t like Traffic Cops. Understandably on occasion. Stereotyped – not necessarily unfairly – as Nazis with sweet tooths, lingering around the donut shops, who spend all day on their knees checking tyre pressures while tutting self-righteously, and then sensuously indulging themselves with Swiss Rolls in concealed lay-byes as they hypocritically pick off speeders and nudge their waistlines closer to the steering wheel. Neither do they like parking enforcement. But both are a necessary curb. Motoring is indicative of the state of society. Anti-social, impatient, egocentric, selfish, careless. And whining fuckers like Neil and Alan typify a way of thinking and acting.

Well bowled, Harold.

Thursday 25th September 2008. Standing on the first tee in the bronzed light. 10AM. Silkstone golf course, resting on one elbow, reclined decadently before me, a smile on her full lips, an elusive promise between her grassy contours. Like a huge, expansive 18th Century playground. Flambeau lit and damp. A woman of pleasure. Capability Brown, arms folded, lips curled in a shrug, stands in the light rough, watching with reserved approval. That bunker on the 5th is something of an unnecessary eyesore.

I line up my shot. A blue print drawn in my mind. Red line arcing out into the sky, a thick, elongated arrow cresting downwards. Swing. Booshta! A clean connection on the club face, a sense of satisfaction filling my body as I hold the follow through and feel the ball extend out into the landscape, a broad, solid ribbon unfurling in its wake. Like a medieval siege attack on some stubborn walled city. The graphite shafted trebuchet launching the flaming Titelist Pro-V comet full tilt.

'Nice shot,' Aetheling says between gritted, plaque coated teeth, as he mounts the raised rectangle of clipped grass. Chewing nicotine gum in another attempt to quit smoking. Stakes his ball between the two yellow markers.

This, I think to myself, re-bagging my club, a swig of still cold Lucozade, is not exactly as it appears. The clubmanship and friendliness. I recall Niccolò’s words: The only sound, sure and enduring methods of defence are those based on your own actions and prowess.

The standard nervous twitch, the superstitious rituals. As Aethling starts his down-stroke I cough.

And so it begins.

People who go on ‘I want to change my life by becoming a wine tredder in Tuscany’ programmes who we hear as the credits roll are still living in Luton ‘but exploring the possibility of a move in the future.’

Do you know the programmes I mean? Afternoon fodder for the unemployed, pensioners and shift workers. A place in the sun, New life in the country, Laos or bust!

Phil and Lynn spend a week traipsing about some mediaeval Slovakian hillside, shown ‘round by a shifty-looking bloke who is patently one of Arkan’s Tigers on the run, when it dawns on them that they’re not going to be able to get Sky Movies 1 or a decent cup of café latte with the obligatory blueberry muffin. ‘Well,’ says Lynn, ‘it looked so nice when I saw Judith Chalmers visiting the country on TV.’ Did it, Lynn, really? And that was the sum total of your research, was it? Watching Judith Chalmers in shorts, legs like two over-cooked chipolatas, bounce around in some taverna and you though, ‘Ey up, that’s the place for me!’

Brenda says about Australia, after having a barbecued wombat for breakfast: ‘It’s a bit warm, isn’t it?’ Australia? Warm? You’re shitting me. Who’d have thought it? I bet that came as a shock. It always looks so tepid on Neighbours or Home and Away, doesn’t it, Brenda? You half-witted fucker. Husband Mick, badly sunburnt and pining for a pint of John Smiths, says: ‘And I haven’t seen a kangaroo yet,’ as he checks his mobile ‘phone to see how Aston Villa have got on away from home. Chuckles all ‘round. No kangaroo, Mick? But I bet you’d eat one between a big bap, wouldn’t you? You free-loading twat.

There was a couple on from Sheffield yesterday afternoon. I could quite easily have killed the entire family and not felt like I’d done anything wrong. Mum, Dad and two whining, obese kids. All expenses paid to Canada. Shown a number of properties, job interviews arranged, schools sorted out, foot massage and a complimentary Mountie thrown in. Then, at the end of the thirty minutes, they head back to Hillsborough because they realize they can’t buy decent fish and chips in Toronto. I tell you, if I was the producer they’d be fucking walking it back.

In every episode of each programme, regardless of whether it’s New start in North Korea or Life Swap Siberia, there’s always a moment of crisis. Some fat kid starts crying because they had to eat a starfish, Mum can’t cope because she’s four hours behind Greenwich Mean Time and won’t be able to be online for the big Gala Bingo link up, Dad can’t grow tomatoes in the slightly acidic, loamy soil that blankets this particular area of Rhodes. In other words, stuff they should have considered before they even filled the application form in.

Will the Brooks family be returning to Bristol, or will they be starting a new life in Morocco…

Cue the commercial break and the nice people from Picture telling me how easy it is to borrow twenty-five grand if I’m a householder.

I think we all know the answer to the question posed by the well-tanned, big-titted presenter, don’t we? The Brooks family will be back to the semi in Temple Meads before you can say ‘all expenses paid’.

What a waste of time and money. None of the bleeders ever go. It should be like joining the army. Once they sign up with Yorkshire Television, Wild Rhino Productions or whatever then they’re in. No turning back.

Rita and Terry from Rawmarsh – you’re going to live in Ethiopia whether you like it or not, you set of time-wasting bastards. Now that I’d like. I’d watch those programmes gleefully. First fifteen minutes like the present format. The moment of crisis arrives. Rita: ‘Ooh, Terry, I’m not sure this new life is for us…’ Bobby Davro appears from behind a parasol festooned Margarita. ‘Sorry, love, read the small print, you’re stopping.’

We go to the ad break on Terry clutching his chest, Rita with her mouth open and the kids crying.

I’d be skipping through into the kitchen to fire up the kettle. Back on the sofa with a steaming coffee and a plate of Hobnobs to watch Rita complain about her dysentery, Terry trying to source parts for the family’s 1972 Vauxhall Station Wagon and the kids in tears endlessly about being bullied by crackhead gang bangers and being unable to get a signal on O2 Tanganyika. All the time knowing the fuckers are there for five years.

That’d serve the time-wasting bastards right.

Crack open bourbons.

Dear Baby Cow Productions,

Having been a big fan of Saxondale (third series?) and Gavin & Stacey I've got an idea for a sitcom I'd like to run past you. I envisage a six episode thirty minute format run. It's about Brian and Tony two gay dentists living and working in Rotherham, South Yorkshire called THE TOOTH FAIRIES. Timothy Biggins (hot on the heels of his jungle celebrity win) would be ideal for Tony with perhaps Ross Kemp going against stereotype in the role of Brian.

Here's a dialogue taster for you:

SCENE, CONSULTING ROOM. TONY HAS JUST FINISHED WITH A PATIENT WHO IS STILL RECLINED IN THE DENTAL CHAIR.

TONY [PULLING OFF LATEX GLOVES]: 'OOH, THAT WAS A NASTY ERUPTION YOU HAD THERE, MR PEACE. GOOD JOB YOU'VE GOT NO GAG REFLEX, I HAD TO FORCE MYSELF RIGHT TO THE BACK OF YOUR THROAT!'

MR PEACE, EYES WIDE AND LOOKING NERVOUS, MUMBLES SOMETHING INCOHERENT AS HE RINSES WITH MOUTH WASH.

TONY: 'LOVELY, DEAR, JOB DONE. NOW SPIT!'

CUE LAUGHTER.

Let me know what you think. Having been clouted 'round the back of the head with inspiration I'm banging out the first full episode this afternoon. Working title: 'DRILLING FOR ROOT'.

I think we've got a winner on our hands.

Best wishes.

Friday 4th June 2004

Yet again scenes of carnage and loss in Iraq are splashed across our TV screens. As I watch I feel disgusted by the cynical attitude and opportunism of charities and so-called humanitarian groups. Many of the wounded civilians are drummed up by outfits like Amn*sty, who basically would not exist without suffering to manipulate the consciences of what one Rolex-wearing ground worker for an ostensibly libertarian charity called ‘bleeding heart liberals’. One representative for M*** Sans Frontier actually walked up to one young lad outside a school in Basra and poked him in the eye with a stick, then bundled him into the back of an ambulance claiming he’d been caught by shrapnel. This image on the TV earned that charity five million euros in donations. It is not unheard of for L*berty to aim low and shoot civilians when they know that a film crew is in the area. And workers for the R*d Crescent are notorious for taking pot shots into crowded market places with mortars and then ‘blue-lighting’ to the incidents they have created, thus swelling their coffers when the event is broadcast into homes around the world.

And so-called ‘terrorist’ attacks on ex-pats working in the Gulf being blamed on Islamic fundamentalists. How many of these terrorists have faced trial and been truly identified? Is it simply coincidence that Amn*sty are known to have bulk purchased 360° sun beds and tea towels? I think not.

In October 2003 UN advisors began secret investigations into the activities of ostensibly charitable/humanitarian organizations in Iraq following complaints from the family of a man from Baghdad who had been photographed scrabbling in the dirt searching for his false teeth and lost dignity. The images had been taken by a Swedish freelance photographer and were subsequently used by Amn*sty in an ad Australian campaign. An American soldier who was assisting the man was seen stood by with his rifle seemingly trained on the Iraqi’s head. The image where the Squaddie discovered the teeth and was handing them to a now smiling – albeit gummily – Iraqi was not used.

UN investigator Jean Pierre Gatin reported back to the UN in March 2004 that, ‘exploitation by libertarian organizations of Iraqi civilians for political and financial ends [was] widespread.’ Gatin furthermore cited a Western news source who admitted that collusion between the media and humanitarian charities was now on a professional basis. The source (Tom Fischer), who has since been transferred from overseas events coverage and now reads the regional news in Minnesota, said that the two worked hand in hand, and ‘manipulation of events to achieve a desired moral and political bias was policy’. Gatin concluded: ‘Liberal and humanitarian agencies are taking an opportunistic approach to events, and in some instances even fuelling discontent for their own ends.’

Since the start of the war profits – sorry, donations – of/to libertarian organizations have risen by 253% (cf. European Union). However, this upsurge in morally motivated financial masochism is slightly distorted as it also coincides with the release of a Billy Bragg retrospective box set.

Originally posted on Rum & Monkey

Thursday 26th October 2006

The latest bizarre twist in the McCartney marriage rupture broke upon a shocked press last night as Lady Heather Mills-McCartney revealed that estranged husband Paul used to make her dress like former Beatles drummer and voice of Thomas the Tank Engine Ringo Starr during kinky love-making sessions.

‘It was degrading,’ former model and charity campaigner, Lady Heather sobbed. ‘But I did it out of love. That’s all Paul said we needed.’

Pervy Paul would insist that sexy Lady Heather don a black 1963 Beatles wig and tap out the 4/4 beat to ‘She Loves You’ across the erstwhile mop-top's withered buttocks with drumsticks. ‘Then grabbing hold of me, he would scream, "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" at the crucial moment,’ Lady Heather confided tearfully.

‘He had a stash of the wigs,’ a plucky Lady Heather said, ‘stockpiled from the 60s. He always said that they’d be worth a bob or two on eBay. He had some ‘Fab Four’ lunch boxes and some autographed pictures by John, George and Ringo as well. He kept them in the garage.’

Broadminded mono-ped Heather, 38, who starred in a series of soft porn teen masturbation-fodder movies in her 20s, claims that Sir Paul, knighted in 1997, who following his time in the Beatles went on to enjoy success in the 1970s with super-group Wings, gave her a satin military suit for their first wedding anniversary - an exact replica of the one worn by Starr on the iconic Sgt. Pepper album cover. ‘He even had a stick on Zapata moustache that he’d had fashioned from stray locks of Ringo’s hair that he’d sometimes insist that I wear even though he knew it made me sneeze. What should have been the loving, passionate embraces of a husband and wife were turned into a grotesque parody. It was like a weird orgy at a Beatles convention.’

The McCartneys, who first met in 1999, were married in 2002 at a lavish celebrity wedding at Castle Leslie in Ireland where best man, gay crooner Elton John, was seen to finger Paul's ring nervously before the ceremony.

Kitted up for action. Mills-McCartney ... an artist's impression of Mills as former Beatles sticksman Ringo Starr

Picture: Clive Tregarron

‘Civil liberties campaigners have expressed alarm that millions of car journeys are to be stored on a national database for five years,’ reports AOL. ‘While the original period for which the data was planned to be held was two years, the Home Office has confirmed that it was now being kept for five years.’

This has come to light after a Freedom of information request by the Guardian newspaper which grandly references Jeremy Bentham to call the policy ‘Panopticon highway’.

What the Guardian, AOL (cookie, anyone?) and Keith from Inverness (‘it’s Big Brother!’) are getting so worked up about is the ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) system. This is a method of information gathering that has been around for years, anyone who has watched Traffic Cops will be familiar with the idea. Cameras linked up to computers with clever software which can ‘read’ number plates, then in a few nanoseconds (they promise) check that registration number against such databases as the DVLA, insurance company information and the Police National Computer. Handy to have, you might think? Not so Carl from North Yorkshire: ‘police state its just a way to spy on people would not give the plod the time of day there all full of shite.’ Carl goes on to say he had his van broken into and the police weren’t interested. In fairness they probably couldn’t follow Carl’s Joycean stream of consciousness rant. Full stops, Carl. I think Carl has perhaps been given a fixed penalty notice at some point. Ian from Brighton largely concurs with Carl: ‘Yet another nail in the coffin as we head to a total police state. This government has no interest in human rights when it is the motorist. This action must be stopped at all costs.’ ‘Will the government stop harassing motorists and catch real criminals?’ adds Colin from Bath. Henry Porter, shifting his Che Guevara beret, looking up at Paul Weller on the ‘Red Wedge’ tour poster for inspiration, Arlo Guthrie’s ‘Victor Jara’ playing in the background as he types, reports in the Guardian that ANPR: ‘is a system that was never sanctioned or debated in parliament and which threatens the freedom of movement, assembly and protest.’ He concludes: ‘With parliament dead from the neck up when it comes to issues of liberty, it is difficult to know how the ANPR surveillance and the equally important proposal to seize data concerning all phone calls, text messages and internet connections, can be resisted. But resist we must if we are to save our free society.’ Right on. What exactly is a free society, Henry? Pushed to its logical conclusion it is total liberty for every individual to live their lives exactly as they wish. In which case, I’m bigger, nastier and greedier than you, Henry, so I’m coming ‘round to your rather nice house tonight to take it over and bugger your wife. It’s my Right. The levels of self-righteous paranoia in the Guardian newsroom must be intoxicating. ‘I told you, Graham, didn’t I tell you,’ hot shot scoop news hound Henry taps an index finger on his reporter’s notepad, glances around the room nervously, adjusts his Robert Redford wedge culled from All The President’s Men, ‘they’re watching us!’

In the last couple of years the ANPR system has been expanded from mobile cameras mounted in Road Policing Group cars to static cameras placed on the main access roads into and out of most English towns and cities. A silent sentry. Or, if you like, ‘an invisible omniscience’. Obviously, given Red Ken’s iron grip on London with his Earth Saving congestion charge, I must confess a slight worry about future tax gathering uses for the cameras. Which might cause some fusing of ideals for your left wing, liberties for all, green campaigner at a later date.

I just don’t like paying, to be honest.

But what Henry, Carl and Brenda from Doncaster (‘bloody government snoopers!’) seem to be oblivious about is that the government are as keen to handcuff the police in red tape as they are to gather information about freedom fighting citizens (‘Power to the people!’ cries Woolfy Smith). The Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act 2000 means that mounting even simple observations of suspected criminals by police has become at times like trying to run the 110 metre hurdles with a fridge strapped to your back. And the fact that the cases Henry Porter highlights – such as surveillance on the copper suspected of fiddling his invalidity – are recorded and in the public domain speaks volumes for the police’s limits and responsibilities.

And so, as Peter from Blackpool queries, what about the rights of the individual? The chances of the police or anybody being interested that you drive to work at 8:15AM Monday to Friday, that on Sunday morning you popped over to your Auntie Pauline’s to watch Country File or that you’re nipping across the Pennines to Birch Services on the M62 twice every month to have your end away in the Travelodge with some woman you met on the internet is slim. However, being alerted to the movements of a stolen car and its possible direction of travel might conceivably be of interest to ‘the plod’. And so might any leads built on information from a witness who manages to pass the last three digits of a registration number as a car speeds away from a school after abducting a child.

OK, then what about this five years business? declaims Aethelwulf from the Isle of Wight. Why would the police want the information to be held for so long? Five years, I mean? Come on! Robert Black, murdering bastard paedophile and long distance lorry driver was arrested in 1990, four years after he abducted and raped 10 year old Sarah Harper before throwing her – still alive – tied up and in a bin liner into the river Trent. A long way from her home in Leeds. He’d previously abducted, raped and murdered two other girls – Susan Maxwell, eleven years old when she was killed and five year old Caroline Hogg – while he was munching on his Yorkie and delivering white goods around the country to your home and mine. Had the police had a system that could be interrogated to find what vehicle was where and when at times of interest, perhaps Black’s name might have appeared earlier in the investigation. As it stands, any information gathered could possibly add to evidence at court.

By cosseting the devil’s advocate rights of the anonymous individual it protects the right to privacy of the paedophile that’s just snatched the child on its way home from school and the car thief that’s just put someone’s door through to take their car. The uninsured driver that’s about to right off your shiny new car. I wonder if Eric from Aberdeen will still think ANPR is ‘an infringement of [his] liberties’ the day when it’s his BMW that’s gone missing from the driveway or his child that’s in the boot of someone’s 'dark-coloured, possibly blue' Vauxhall Vectra on their way to being sodomized and murdered.

Fibbers, York, 28/01/2005

Chris Helme (the former Seahorses singer) is a man with brackets after his name. If you see what I mean. Which, given his performance at Fibbers on Friday night, is a shame.

Helme’s story is Britpop legend - talent spotted busking outside Woolworth’s in his home town of York by ex-Stone Rose John Squire for Squire’s new band, the Seahorses (it’s an anagram of ‘He hates roses’, you know? And also, the more erotically weighted cry of ‘O, the she arses!’) formed in the wake of the Roses disintegration in 1995/96. The band was augmented by two other York musicians - Stuart Fletcher on bass (still with Helme in the band the Yards) and Andy Watts on drums. Two singles and a vastly under-rated album, Do it yourself, were released in 1997, and a second set recorded but never released before the group disbanded acrimoniously in early 1999. ‘[John Squire] thought that I had little peddles in my throat, where I could pretend to be Joe Strummer one minute and Liam Gallagher the next,’ Helme says of his differences with Squire.

And accepted music industry wisdom (if there is such a thing) says that should have been it for Helme. A footnote in Squire’s career. Get back to your busking, you elfin-locked Northern warbler. But - and it’s a big BUT - the saving grace of Helme’s involvement in the Seahorses are two of the three songs he contributed to the album. That is ‘Blinded by the sun’ (also a single) and ‘Hello’ which equal, if not surpass, Squire’s own efforts (chief amongst these being the monumental ‘Love is the law’ and ‘Boy in the picture’ - get the album out and listen to it again, it’s better than some floppy-hatted Stone Roses devotees would lead you to believe).

For the sake of these tunes Helme generates serious interest in his own right and evidences the fact that he was more than simply a voice for Squire’s ideas.

And so, partly on the back of this, but also on the strength of the work he’s been putting in post-Seahorses, and in particular with his present band, the Yards, Helme has attracted a good crowd in Fibbers on a freezing cold and rainy night in January.

Helme starts the show foot-stepping out a 4/4 time signature accompanied by handclaps, and then launches into an accapella blue-eyed soul version of the blues. Helme’s voice has matured since his Seahorses days - richer and fuller - and he clearly enjoys singing. The set consists of Helme and his acoustic guitars, with occasional support from Yards guitarist Chris Farrell (cousin to Colin) on a Les Paul at his side. He’s also joined at intervals on the stage by Hayley Hutchinson, a York singer/songwriter who has recently released her own debut album, adding harmonies to Helme’s main vocal in a way reminiscent of Bob Dylan and Emmylou Harris on Dylan’s Desire album.

It’s a good if not ground-breaking set - mid-Atlantic folk blues, with a occasional nods towards 70s singer/songwriter rock - and Helme is top quality. But the crowd are split, between the appreciative and those who can’t shut up talking, which is a pity. And infuriating. If the stupid wankers gabbling away just back from the stage had shut up for a few minutes they might have realized just how good Helme is at what he does.

The fact that the crowd is restive isn’t lost on Helme who fights a losing battle to get their full attention. He finally gets it when he mumbles into the microphone, ‘I haven’t played this song for a long time, for a number of reasons.’ Then gifts the crowd with a blistering unaccompanied version of ‘Hello’, which blows the Seahorses recording to the wall.

He finishes to huge applause at just after eleven having been onstage for just over an hour. I thought I caught a glimpse of a beardless John Squire at the back, his trademark long fringe hanging down over one eye, nodding his head at the last song as he rubbed his stubbly chin between a thumb and index finger stained with Prussian Blue and Burnt Umber. He walked thoughtfully out into the Stonebow and the rain. Maybe he’ll buy the Yards’ album when it’s released in April.

I first connected to the internet in 1986 using my BBC Home Micro and a dial up solid connection modem at 2400 bits per second. It would take me a week to download a monochrome image of Sam Fox with her briskets out. Thanks to connection speeds on Freeserve I have been able to re-live those days – Freeserve customer, 2001

The internet is dead.

I remember 1998 and 1999. The wonder of it all. Aladdin’s cave. Pandora’s box. Just two of the sites I visited. I couldn’t get enough. Information at my fingertips. The New World Library. Broad-minded cheerleaders. These days the content is more visually sophisticated, with grown up multi-media, animation, bells and whistles, but few web sites actually hold my interest anymore. My surfing has narrowed to BBC News, online shopping, a bit of Wikipedia and personal blogs that interest me. Beyond that the internet’s main attractiveness (after bill paying) now lies in its ability to connect us to other people. You too can talk, masturbate with and marry (via an online ceremony with I-Click.com) a Texas death row criminal thanks to the wonders of MSN Messenger. Share a cyber drink with work colleagues (thanks for that) on Facebook and find out how the old school bully is getting along on Friends Reunited. But where’s the time? Parkinson’s Law. The same twenty-four hours, four times the work. Ten times the expectations. I have a friend who is a systems analyst. He preaches his vision of a Cyber Utopia. Our time liberated. A day’s work done in two hours, the remainder spent wind surfing while listening to classical music. He has no conception of time and motion. It will never happen. Management will see to it that we have to upgrade our minds like Intel chips. Work faster, harder. For the same money.

Anyway, I’m going to fire up the web cam. Buster in Alabama State Pen is waiting for me. Have a virtual pint on me. Cheers.