Yes we know it's raining. Yes we know there's a hosepipe ban (in the south). But no we don't need it repeating every single day by every single newspaper, Twitter account holder and television presenter, comedian and pundit. 'Some drought eh?' has become the most boring phrase in Britain.
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Bahrain is a bit like our weather. Part Sunni, part Shi'ite.
However, thanks to Bernie Ecclestone's relentless pursuit of adding a few million pounds to his multi billion pound bank account, we all know a bit more about the desert kingdom these days.
If it wasn't for Bernie, the tabloids would not be covering the problems of Bahrain in the way it has. Special mention for the Daily Mirror for a feature this week that explained the situation concisely and informatively. That's what tabloids can do when they try. And if the readers are bored, they're still never more than a couple of pages away from a Simon Cowell story.
You can say what you like about Cowell but when it comes to repulsive billionaires, he's no Bernie Ecclestone.
Of course, Bernie isn't doing it to highlight the injustice and anti-democracy violence in some faraway land. He reckons there's a lot of fuss whipped up by the media who don't really know what's going on.
He knows what's going on because the ruling family have shown him the nice quiet streets of the capital, Manama (now sing the Muppet song, doo doo doodoodoo).
Meanwhile, in the villages beyond the scope of Bernie's prune-faced glare, around 1,000 demonstrators have 'disappeared.' Often helped by Saudi tanks probably sold to them by, er, us.
You always know when you are dealing with a particularly nasty regime when you start to get statistics on the 'disappeared.' El Salvador, Pol Pot, Saddam, the Gulags, Ruanda - every great mass murdering dictatorship has been at it.
In Manama (doo doodoo doo), all you get are convoys of young men from Saudi Arabia driving to the brothels and bars of a country that is run on strict Middle East interpretations of Islam. That is, alcohol and adultery are illegal. Unless you are a rich Sheikh from across the border prepared to pump lots of money into the country. Or part of the US military which still hang out in the region.
So Formula One has educated us all about the state of play out there.
We should thank its midget bosses and jockey-sized drivers, their Pussycat Doll hangers on, the big name alcohol and cigarette companies desperate for the exposure and the fact that machines racing round a circuit attracts around a thousand times as many reporters as an Arab Spring uprising.
Quite why Bernie needs the money is not certain. He's already older than Mr Burns judging by the looks of him and he certainly doesn't spend it on haircuts.
The drivers say that sport has nothing to do with politics. One can only assume they are too young to have heard of apartheid. Or too stupid.
---------------------------------------------------
I have deliberately not mentioned my day out at the FA Cup Semi Final up to now. However, what I would say, is that for a national sporting centrepiece, Wembley Stadium has the worst toilet facilities of any ground since Southampton knocked down the Dell.
And that adds to the other downsides such as the lack of atmosphere, the £6.50 burgers and £4.50 pints of beer and hour long wait to get on to a tube train.
Plus making the game a 6pm kick off to ensure that a good majority of the fans were drunk, abusive and more prone to violence (the family next to me walked out early after a rant too many from fans behind them.)
The queues for the gents was round the block a full hour before kick off. I didn't dare venture there at half time in case I missed the second half. Actually, perhaps that wasn't a bad option in retrospect.
Once inside the loos themselves it was chaos and there was no system of queuing (even at lower league clubs you get better organisation).
It's not so bad for the ladies. Like any modern stadium, the organisers like to show how much they care about equality by building as many toilets for women than men. Then they go and host a lot of football matches where 80 per cent of the crowd are male and wonder why there are no queues at the ladies but chaos at the gents.
So, FA. Move the game to a decent time and a decent ground and have done with it.
That's all...Solly
Saturday, 21 April 2012
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Pray Silence
If praying is what prevents a 23-year-old footballer from dying, then what's the point of doctors?
It's not meant to sound flippant. I was there. It was horrible. I desperately hope he survives.
I was at White Hart Lane yesterday, as I have been for most home games for the past 38 or so years and witnessed scenes that I have never seen before at a football match.
Like pretty much everyone there, I never saw Fabrice Muama fall to the ground but it was quickly pointed out that a player was down and that no one was near him. I saw his leg jerk off the ground as a couple of players tended to him but this may well have been a reflex action as he was rolled on to his back.
Confusion turned to grim realisation that this was not a case of fainting or some kind of fit. Seconds later teams of medics had scrambled to the far side of the pitch to deal with him. You could see a machine brought on which was used to try and jump start his heart and players with head in hands, some clearly in tears.
A man came out of the crowd from the lower East Stand, He was ushered through by fans and stewards, possibly one of those situations where someone shouts "I'm a doctor" and he was applauded on to the pitch and back off again when the medical teams got there.
I later heard a rumour he owns a heart screening business so I'm not sure if that necessarily makes him a medical expert though one would assume fans would not be so keen to get him on the pitch if he'd shouted 'let me through, I'm a medical equipment salesman.'
It was genuinely distressing to be there. And shocking too. What was also striking was just how shocked everyone seemed to be. Fans in particular.
There were some extreme reactions, particularly a young man two seats from me who, coincidentally is also called Solomons (it's not as uncommon at White Hart Lane as it would be, at, say, Spotland.)
I've seen him over the years, coming to Spurs with his dad since he was a nipper. During the drama, he simply burst into tears. His dad consoled him, others looked away embarrassed, I simply patted him on the shoulder because I had no idea what else I should do. Besides, we might be related.
Some dads with kids visibly upset were the first to leave, others stayed, perhaps out of ghoulish curiosity or because leaving seemed to be rude and unsupportive.
No one supposed, for just a minute, that the game was going to go on but people wanted to hear the announcement officially I guess, and when it came, they applauded and then left, quietly and slowly - the exits were rammed anyway but there was no fuss, no arguing. People just made their way out, in turn, and in a very obvious state of bewilderment.
Perhaps, thinking about it, it was bewilderment rather than shock. Watching a young man collapse and, perhaps, die on the pitch, and see the attempts to revive him, is out of context. You feel like you're invading something that should be private, not played out before a crowd of around 35,000 fans.
I sit immediately behind a TV camera (when games are being televised live) and the cameraman had turned the lens away from where the action was happening, under orders from the ESPN management. Later, I wondered if we should have all done the same. But, appallingly perhaps, you can't.
The usual ground noise was gone. On the way out everyone was looking into their smartphones to get the latest newsflash - many were waiting to hear if he had died, I imagine. That's not morbid, but a kind of closure. After all, we had witnessed something dreadful but without a conclusion and that can be even more upsetting.
Then the Twitter cavalcade started. Players Tweeted 'pray for Fabrice'. Managers came on to the radio to say 'he's in our prayers' and even before that, on the pitch, some players were notably praying.
I wonder if they considered why their religious belief would help the player now when it hadn't stopped him having a heart attack in the first place. Does God let these things happen to see if we pray for them to get better? And if that's the case, why do people die suddenly without a chance to see if their faith can be resurrected.
Or indeed, all those millions of others who die of heart attacks, cancer, war, famine and whatever other fate befalls them. Many of those are probably in someone's prayers every night.
And if praying is all it takes to bring people back to life, then did we need the wonderful medics, doctors and St John's Ambulance lot who got to the player within two minutes of his collapse.
After all it is they, and not God, who may, just, have given him a chance to live.
Spurs right-back and a neighbour of mine, Kyle Walker, Tweeted 'even if you aren't religious, pray for Muamba.' Poor Kyle, he doesn't quite get this whole religion thing does he?
You see, neighbourino, there's no point praying to a God you don't believe in - it doesn't make sense and if there is a God, he's probably saying 'Oh, NOW you want my help do you?'
But I accept the sentiment. Although it would have been nice to see a few more players Tweet about how brilliant the medical staff from both clubs were in that situation.
So why others put their faith in an ancient myth of which there is no proof, I'll put my faith in science, medicine and the hard work and dedication of people who have gone through years of training to deal with this kind of incident.
I'll hope for his recovery as much as anyone else in the country but forgive me if I don't pray for it.
Get well soon, young man. And if you do, don't thank God, thank doctors....Solly
It's not meant to sound flippant. I was there. It was horrible. I desperately hope he survives.
I was at White Hart Lane yesterday, as I have been for most home games for the past 38 or so years and witnessed scenes that I have never seen before at a football match.
Like pretty much everyone there, I never saw Fabrice Muama fall to the ground but it was quickly pointed out that a player was down and that no one was near him. I saw his leg jerk off the ground as a couple of players tended to him but this may well have been a reflex action as he was rolled on to his back.
Confusion turned to grim realisation that this was not a case of fainting or some kind of fit. Seconds later teams of medics had scrambled to the far side of the pitch to deal with him. You could see a machine brought on which was used to try and jump start his heart and players with head in hands, some clearly in tears.
A man came out of the crowd from the lower East Stand, He was ushered through by fans and stewards, possibly one of those situations where someone shouts "I'm a doctor" and he was applauded on to the pitch and back off again when the medical teams got there.
I later heard a rumour he owns a heart screening business so I'm not sure if that necessarily makes him a medical expert though one would assume fans would not be so keen to get him on the pitch if he'd shouted 'let me through, I'm a medical equipment salesman.'
It was genuinely distressing to be there. And shocking too. What was also striking was just how shocked everyone seemed to be. Fans in particular.
There were some extreme reactions, particularly a young man two seats from me who, coincidentally is also called Solomons (it's not as uncommon at White Hart Lane as it would be, at, say, Spotland.)
I've seen him over the years, coming to Spurs with his dad since he was a nipper. During the drama, he simply burst into tears. His dad consoled him, others looked away embarrassed, I simply patted him on the shoulder because I had no idea what else I should do. Besides, we might be related.
Some dads with kids visibly upset were the first to leave, others stayed, perhaps out of ghoulish curiosity or because leaving seemed to be rude and unsupportive.
No one supposed, for just a minute, that the game was going to go on but people wanted to hear the announcement officially I guess, and when it came, they applauded and then left, quietly and slowly - the exits were rammed anyway but there was no fuss, no arguing. People just made their way out, in turn, and in a very obvious state of bewilderment.
Perhaps, thinking about it, it was bewilderment rather than shock. Watching a young man collapse and, perhaps, die on the pitch, and see the attempts to revive him, is out of context. You feel like you're invading something that should be private, not played out before a crowd of around 35,000 fans.
I sit immediately behind a TV camera (when games are being televised live) and the cameraman had turned the lens away from where the action was happening, under orders from the ESPN management. Later, I wondered if we should have all done the same. But, appallingly perhaps, you can't.
The usual ground noise was gone. On the way out everyone was looking into their smartphones to get the latest newsflash - many were waiting to hear if he had died, I imagine. That's not morbid, but a kind of closure. After all, we had witnessed something dreadful but without a conclusion and that can be even more upsetting.
Then the Twitter cavalcade started. Players Tweeted 'pray for Fabrice'. Managers came on to the radio to say 'he's in our prayers' and even before that, on the pitch, some players were notably praying.
I wonder if they considered why their religious belief would help the player now when it hadn't stopped him having a heart attack in the first place. Does God let these things happen to see if we pray for them to get better? And if that's the case, why do people die suddenly without a chance to see if their faith can be resurrected.
Or indeed, all those millions of others who die of heart attacks, cancer, war, famine and whatever other fate befalls them. Many of those are probably in someone's prayers every night.
And if praying is all it takes to bring people back to life, then did we need the wonderful medics, doctors and St John's Ambulance lot who got to the player within two minutes of his collapse.
After all it is they, and not God, who may, just, have given him a chance to live.
Spurs right-back and a neighbour of mine, Kyle Walker, Tweeted 'even if you aren't religious, pray for Muamba.' Poor Kyle, he doesn't quite get this whole religion thing does he?
You see, neighbourino, there's no point praying to a God you don't believe in - it doesn't make sense and if there is a God, he's probably saying 'Oh, NOW you want my help do you?'
But I accept the sentiment. Although it would have been nice to see a few more players Tweet about how brilliant the medical staff from both clubs were in that situation.
So why others put their faith in an ancient myth of which there is no proof, I'll put my faith in science, medicine and the hard work and dedication of people who have gone through years of training to deal with this kind of incident.
I'll hope for his recovery as much as anyone else in the country but forgive me if I don't pray for it.
Get well soon, young man. And if you do, don't thank God, thank doctors....Solly
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Cor Blimey Trousers
Why do football managers have their initials on their track suit tops? I've never been able to work it out. Surely everyone else knows who they are. Perhaps it's for the laundry staff so they can hand them back but then why doesn't everyone have their initials on their training kit?
And the Fulham staff, for instance, have got to realise which king-sized zip up top belongs to Martin Jol without needing the letters MJ on it.
Which leads to the obvious conclusion that it's either vanity or perhaps one manager started it all off many years ago and the others have simply followed.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The government wants to step up the old Thatcherite policy of buy-your-own council homes after a few years of Labour trying to discourage it.
It was, of course, introduced in order to get more Tory votes in working class areas and succeeded, in particular in the kind of towns built to cope with the overflow from major cities - the British version of white flight. Here in the south it helped the Conservatives to win seats like Basildon and Harlow for instance.
But with an estimated 74,000 council flats and houses a year going private, it does create an enormous shortfall of public housing. That, in turn, lets in enterprising private landlords who can secure a decent and guaranteed rental income from a local authority.
It also leads to six bedroomed houses in Hampstead being rented out to a family of 11 Eastern European benefits claimants which in turn sparks the kind of Daily Mail protest that so worries the Tories.
Now I'm not against working class people moving from council to private. I did it, when my parents went from an East End council house to their first home for instance. It was the first time any of us had lived in a house that wasn't owned either by a council or a brewery.
But how about some kind of rule that for every council house bought by its tenants, the local authority has to provide another one of its own to replace it?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
What's the point of the Halifax? Apart from its ability to make the worst adverts on television, is there really any need for this High Street chain of banks?
The Halifax is owned by the pisspoor HBOS group which in turn was foisted onto the much better-run Lloyds TSB (and the name TSB might as well be ditched too, come to think of it.)
This means the group that owns Lloyds Banks in the High Street also owns Halifax Banks in the High Street.
So you have the ridiculous site of a Lloyds Bank just a few doors down from a Halifax with both offering pretty much the same products to the same kind of customers.
It might be different if the Halifax was still a good old northern run building society which put its customers first.
And that's what Lloyds thinks. It reckons the Halifax has a bit more of a working class image which attracts a different set of customers that Lloyds itself.
This comes from the days when it was mutually run for the benefit of cloth cap northerners who wanted a safe haven for what little they could save in order to build up a nestegg.
Old style building societies - when we had the Abbey and the Halifax and the Woolwich and all those others that are now banks - used to have something like 15 times as much money in savings as it had in loans. Which of course makes it far harder to suddenly go bust owing billions of pounds in failed Ponzi-style mortgage schemes.
But it's not like that any more. The Halifax is nows a greedy, run of the mill bank famous for making crap adverts, overweight staff and tacky interiors.
Having a Bank of Scotland chain makes a bit more sense, if only to satisfy the sweaties and have some kind of historic, national identity north of the border. Though the days when having the word 'Scotland' in a bank's title meant trustworthy and good with money went out the window around the time Fred Goodwin did to the country what he did to that pretty, female worker in his department.
But Lloyds now has a whopping great chunk of our money helping it get through these difficult times (don't mention it lads). And a lot of that is now spent on a chain of banks, expensive promotions and the multimillion pound marketing and advertising budget that no longer has a purpose.
So scrap the Halifax, switch the accounts to Lloyds (or one of it's many other trading names) and spend the money saved on paying off the debt to the taxpayer.
------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of adverts, there is a long running commercial for the Ford Focus which you can't avoid. It shows some Germanic sort called Mattheus wasting his time driving around Europe visiting the sites of 'his favourite book' on two tanks of fuel.
His favourite book happens to be The Da Vinci Code, which suggests Mattheus is one of those people who finds it hard to read without his mouth moving at the same time.
Or perhaps he's only ever had three books and he's already coloured in the other two.
Anyhoo, the point is that when the advert was first shown, the voiceover said, quite clearly 'his favourite book, The Da Vinci Code'. But within a couple of weeks they had edited this down to 'his favourite book' without ever saying what it was.
Were Ford embarrassed by the fact it couldn't find a Focus owner who had ever read a decent novel? Or did Dan Brown feel he was not a Ford-type of guy and order the name of the book to be removed.
So I rang Ford. And they said that the reason they edited the advert was because having too much information in it distracted the viewers from the overall product and message.
Yes, that's right. Potential Ford Focus buyers are so distracted by hearing the words 'The Da Vinci Code' that they plum forget what car was being advertised.
----------------------------------------------------------------
On the programme Room 101 (a phrase from the book 1984 which has inspired me to buy a Ford Focus and try and visit all the places named in the novel) guests were asked to choose something that really annoys them they could banish forever. Predictably, celebrity chefs were picked. They were picked by the panel show fixture Micky Flanagan who has only got to appear on Deal or No Deal and Question Time and then we can have him on the our screens on a permanent 24-hour loop.
And the reason he picked them? Because, in his words, every time you turn on the TV there's a celebrity chef. No. Every time you turn on the TV there's Micky 'I'm a geezer' Flanagan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
If Catholics are against having gay marriages in church because they can invent a biblical reason why it's God wouldn't approve, then should they not have a medical examination for every bride to make sure she's a virgin and a criminal records check on every prospective bride and groom to make sure they have never been convicted of any crime that is specifically mentioned in the bible?
Of course, they could start with their own priests.
Thus endeth the rant....cheers, Solly
And the Fulham staff, for instance, have got to realise which king-sized zip up top belongs to Martin Jol without needing the letters MJ on it.
Which leads to the obvious conclusion that it's either vanity or perhaps one manager started it all off many years ago and the others have simply followed.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The government wants to step up the old Thatcherite policy of buy-your-own council homes after a few years of Labour trying to discourage it.
It was, of course, introduced in order to get more Tory votes in working class areas and succeeded, in particular in the kind of towns built to cope with the overflow from major cities - the British version of white flight. Here in the south it helped the Conservatives to win seats like Basildon and Harlow for instance.
But with an estimated 74,000 council flats and houses a year going private, it does create an enormous shortfall of public housing. That, in turn, lets in enterprising private landlords who can secure a decent and guaranteed rental income from a local authority.
It also leads to six bedroomed houses in Hampstead being rented out to a family of 11 Eastern European benefits claimants which in turn sparks the kind of Daily Mail protest that so worries the Tories.
Now I'm not against working class people moving from council to private. I did it, when my parents went from an East End council house to their first home for instance. It was the first time any of us had lived in a house that wasn't owned either by a council or a brewery.
But how about some kind of rule that for every council house bought by its tenants, the local authority has to provide another one of its own to replace it?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
What's the point of the Halifax? Apart from its ability to make the worst adverts on television, is there really any need for this High Street chain of banks?
The Halifax is owned by the pisspoor HBOS group which in turn was foisted onto the much better-run Lloyds TSB (and the name TSB might as well be ditched too, come to think of it.)
This means the group that owns Lloyds Banks in the High Street also owns Halifax Banks in the High Street.
So you have the ridiculous site of a Lloyds Bank just a few doors down from a Halifax with both offering pretty much the same products to the same kind of customers.
It might be different if the Halifax was still a good old northern run building society which put its customers first.
And that's what Lloyds thinks. It reckons the Halifax has a bit more of a working class image which attracts a different set of customers that Lloyds itself.
This comes from the days when it was mutually run for the benefit of cloth cap northerners who wanted a safe haven for what little they could save in order to build up a nestegg.
Old style building societies - when we had the Abbey and the Halifax and the Woolwich and all those others that are now banks - used to have something like 15 times as much money in savings as it had in loans. Which of course makes it far harder to suddenly go bust owing billions of pounds in failed Ponzi-style mortgage schemes.
But it's not like that any more. The Halifax is nows a greedy, run of the mill bank famous for making crap adverts, overweight staff and tacky interiors.
Having a Bank of Scotland chain makes a bit more sense, if only to satisfy the sweaties and have some kind of historic, national identity north of the border. Though the days when having the word 'Scotland' in a bank's title meant trustworthy and good with money went out the window around the time Fred Goodwin did to the country what he did to that pretty, female worker in his department.
But Lloyds now has a whopping great chunk of our money helping it get through these difficult times (don't mention it lads). And a lot of that is now spent on a chain of banks, expensive promotions and the multimillion pound marketing and advertising budget that no longer has a purpose.
So scrap the Halifax, switch the accounts to Lloyds (or one of it's many other trading names) and spend the money saved on paying off the debt to the taxpayer.
------------------------------------------------------------
Talking of adverts, there is a long running commercial for the Ford Focus which you can't avoid. It shows some Germanic sort called Mattheus wasting his time driving around Europe visiting the sites of 'his favourite book' on two tanks of fuel.
His favourite book happens to be The Da Vinci Code, which suggests Mattheus is one of those people who finds it hard to read without his mouth moving at the same time.
Or perhaps he's only ever had three books and he's already coloured in the other two.
Anyhoo, the point is that when the advert was first shown, the voiceover said, quite clearly 'his favourite book, The Da Vinci Code'. But within a couple of weeks they had edited this down to 'his favourite book' without ever saying what it was.
Were Ford embarrassed by the fact it couldn't find a Focus owner who had ever read a decent novel? Or did Dan Brown feel he was not a Ford-type of guy and order the name of the book to be removed.
So I rang Ford. And they said that the reason they edited the advert was because having too much information in it distracted the viewers from the overall product and message.
Yes, that's right. Potential Ford Focus buyers are so distracted by hearing the words 'The Da Vinci Code' that they plum forget what car was being advertised.
----------------------------------------------------------------
On the programme Room 101 (a phrase from the book 1984 which has inspired me to buy a Ford Focus and try and visit all the places named in the novel) guests were asked to choose something that really annoys them they could banish forever. Predictably, celebrity chefs were picked. They were picked by the panel show fixture Micky Flanagan who has only got to appear on Deal or No Deal and Question Time and then we can have him on the our screens on a permanent 24-hour loop.
And the reason he picked them? Because, in his words, every time you turn on the TV there's a celebrity chef. No. Every time you turn on the TV there's Micky 'I'm a geezer' Flanagan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
If Catholics are against having gay marriages in church because they can invent a biblical reason why it's God wouldn't approve, then should they not have a medical examination for every bride to make sure she's a virgin and a criminal records check on every prospective bride and groom to make sure they have never been convicted of any crime that is specifically mentioned in the bible?
Of course, they could start with their own priests.
Thus endeth the rant....cheers, Solly
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Dear reader, I married her
Nothing says I Love You on Valentine's Day quite as much as a Smiths/Morrissey song but I'm torn between Girlfriend in a Coma and You're The One For Me Fatty.
I don't know what the fuss is about. As they say, if you lock your wife and your dog in a shed for an hour, guess which one is happier to see you when you open the door.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OK officer, it's a fair cop. Come and slip the cuffs on and load me into the back of the Black Maria, I'm guilty.
You see, at the Ilford CID Christmas party of 1983 we ended up at the Red Lion and I'm pretty sure I put into the whipround that saw several of our local Regan and Carter lookalikes get served with a large Bell's or two.
In return I was obviously hoping that at my twice weekly police calls for the Ilford Recorder I would be able to ask one or two detectives a question here or there and get more than the standard two word response.
If only it had stayed there, maybe I would only be looking at community service. But I couldn't stop. Every Thursday I'd pick up a pile of newly published papers and drive round to the various fire stations on my beat and hand out free copies so they could read my latest Folk Focus column or look through the classifieds to buy a second hand Cortina from the Murder Mile showrooms of Seven Kings High Road.
In return I'd get a cup of tea and a Lincoln biscuit, paid for no doubt by honest GLC ratepayers. There's a law against that you know. At least there is now that they've dusted off the 1906 Bribery Act.
There's other TICs too. I occasionally bought a pint for local press officers from Redbridge Council, mainly the two old blokes who had been there when 'all this was fields' but more so when a newly graduated young lady joined them.
In fact I not only bought her a white wine spritzer at The Angel, and then claim it on expenses, I bought her several more at The Warren Wood and, in a desperate quest to get the inside track on the Fairlop Waters Planning Sub-Committee decisions ahead of deadline, I even had sex with her. That was a bit harder to put on expenses I must admit.
To her credit, she never gave me any inside information on council matters. And 26 years later we're married with two teenage children and a labrador. She still doesn't give me any decent stories but perhaps that's because we don't have sex as often either.
Naturally I married her in order that, decades later, if plod called round at 6am she wouldn't have to testify against me. It's an extreme measure, I grant you, but it's always best to plan ahead.
As a journalist and a tabloid one, and a former Sun man, I'm appalled at the arrests of several of my former colleagues including a couple of good mates this week.
But I'm not going to beat my chest about it like Richard Littlejohn and Trevor Kavanagh did, so brilliantly in the Mail and Sun this week.
And there's a simple reason for that. No one gives a shit if journalists get arrested. We can bleat on as much as we like about civil liberties and freedom of speech but that just makes readers turn round and say 'you were not so bothered when the police shot a Brazilian bloke on the Tube' or any other number of rights' abuses gleefully reported in the tabloids.
Both Trevor and Richard's pieces were, I suspect, written more for the benefit of their comrades in the industry - what are known colloquially as tabloid scum - rather than the general populace.
One look at the comments section under their stories quickly tells you that.
There is a simple fact. Journalists have been buying drinks for coppers for hundreds of years. Many of those that did it on local papers now work for organisations like the BBC and The Guardian.
Senior executives on newspapers have gone further. In return for considerable favours they have paid considerable amounts. I suppose in the eyes of the law, a few pints at the Red Lion for a detective constable is no different to a fully paid weekend in a spa for a chief constable.
But there is a world of difference. And there's a world of difference in those executives invited to present themselves at their local nick and a van full of anti-terrorist officers taken off other duties to burst into the house of a 67-year-old Fleet Street legend who helped literally scores of us when we started our Fleet Street careers, going through his draws, looking under his floorboards and searching his attic.
As I said, there are a lot of decent reporters on broadsheets and broadcast who have, at some time, bought a drink for a public servant, not to mention nicking a family photograph by pushing a coathanger through a letterbox.
I could name names but then I'm not a dirty little grass like Will Lewis or Simon Greenberg, dobbing on former mates to save their own skins. Though I doubt it will save their reputations. Already hated by the public, they are now universally hated by journalists too. Nice going boys. Did they teach you that at Harvard?
As they should say on Crimewatch, don't have nightmares - we're only tabloid scum. Evening all...Solly
I don't know what the fuss is about. As they say, if you lock your wife and your dog in a shed for an hour, guess which one is happier to see you when you open the door.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OK officer, it's a fair cop. Come and slip the cuffs on and load me into the back of the Black Maria, I'm guilty.
You see, at the Ilford CID Christmas party of 1983 we ended up at the Red Lion and I'm pretty sure I put into the whipround that saw several of our local Regan and Carter lookalikes get served with a large Bell's or two.
In return I was obviously hoping that at my twice weekly police calls for the Ilford Recorder I would be able to ask one or two detectives a question here or there and get more than the standard two word response.
If only it had stayed there, maybe I would only be looking at community service. But I couldn't stop. Every Thursday I'd pick up a pile of newly published papers and drive round to the various fire stations on my beat and hand out free copies so they could read my latest Folk Focus column or look through the classifieds to buy a second hand Cortina from the Murder Mile showrooms of Seven Kings High Road.
In return I'd get a cup of tea and a Lincoln biscuit, paid for no doubt by honest GLC ratepayers. There's a law against that you know. At least there is now that they've dusted off the 1906 Bribery Act.
There's other TICs too. I occasionally bought a pint for local press officers from Redbridge Council, mainly the two old blokes who had been there when 'all this was fields' but more so when a newly graduated young lady joined them.
In fact I not only bought her a white wine spritzer at The Angel, and then claim it on expenses, I bought her several more at The Warren Wood and, in a desperate quest to get the inside track on the Fairlop Waters Planning Sub-Committee decisions ahead of deadline, I even had sex with her. That was a bit harder to put on expenses I must admit.
To her credit, she never gave me any inside information on council matters. And 26 years later we're married with two teenage children and a labrador. She still doesn't give me any decent stories but perhaps that's because we don't have sex as often either.
Naturally I married her in order that, decades later, if plod called round at 6am she wouldn't have to testify against me. It's an extreme measure, I grant you, but it's always best to plan ahead.
As a journalist and a tabloid one, and a former Sun man, I'm appalled at the arrests of several of my former colleagues including a couple of good mates this week.
But I'm not going to beat my chest about it like Richard Littlejohn and Trevor Kavanagh did, so brilliantly in the Mail and Sun this week.
And there's a simple reason for that. No one gives a shit if journalists get arrested. We can bleat on as much as we like about civil liberties and freedom of speech but that just makes readers turn round and say 'you were not so bothered when the police shot a Brazilian bloke on the Tube' or any other number of rights' abuses gleefully reported in the tabloids.
Both Trevor and Richard's pieces were, I suspect, written more for the benefit of their comrades in the industry - what are known colloquially as tabloid scum - rather than the general populace.
One look at the comments section under their stories quickly tells you that.
There is a simple fact. Journalists have been buying drinks for coppers for hundreds of years. Many of those that did it on local papers now work for organisations like the BBC and The Guardian.
Senior executives on newspapers have gone further. In return for considerable favours they have paid considerable amounts. I suppose in the eyes of the law, a few pints at the Red Lion for a detective constable is no different to a fully paid weekend in a spa for a chief constable.
But there is a world of difference. And there's a world of difference in those executives invited to present themselves at their local nick and a van full of anti-terrorist officers taken off other duties to burst into the house of a 67-year-old Fleet Street legend who helped literally scores of us when we started our Fleet Street careers, going through his draws, looking under his floorboards and searching his attic.
As I said, there are a lot of decent reporters on broadsheets and broadcast who have, at some time, bought a drink for a public servant, not to mention nicking a family photograph by pushing a coathanger through a letterbox.
I could name names but then I'm not a dirty little grass like Will Lewis or Simon Greenberg, dobbing on former mates to save their own skins. Though I doubt it will save their reputations. Already hated by the public, they are now universally hated by journalists too. Nice going boys. Did they teach you that at Harvard?
As they should say on Crimewatch, don't have nightmares - we're only tabloid scum. Evening all...Solly
Thursday, 9 February 2012
Keeping It Wheel
Karl Lagerfeld thinks Adele looks fat. I think he looks like Davros in sunglasses.
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Do you think newspaper yes/no phone-in polls are a massive waste of time and money that tells us nothing of the public mood at the time?
For yes, take 25p out of the saucer on the windowsill and chuck it in the bin. For no, do the same.
-----------------------------------------------------------
And talking of the Evening Standard (yes we were) is there anything more ridiculous than its regular fashion feature in which it photographs three people wearing, say, blue slippers, and says it is the latest London trend? Next week: They go to the paralympic basketball finals and report back that three-wheeled wheelchairs are the latest must-have accessory for the modern capital fashionista. Possibly under a headline like 'The Wheel Deal' or 'Keeping It Wheel'.
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If you have missed the recent editions of the Leveson Enquiry, this is basically the impression it gives. All journalists are slimeballs but this is because all editors are Nazis who tell them to do wrong things. All celebrities are two-faced hypocrites apart from Hugh Grant who really is quite dim. Steve Coogan needs his hair cut and isn't very funny when he's not Alan Partridge. Lawyers are rubbish and have no idea what happens in newspapers. Heather Mills is completely barmy. Piers Morgan is completely smarmy. And when he gets up from having sat down for more than five minutes, Max Clifford leaves behind an oil slick that would even shame BP. And he looks like he wears Blofeld's cat on his head. And he's mates with Simon Cowell. And his 'clients' pay him around £200,000 a year for his services. Thank goodness there is now someone who everyone can hate even more than journalists and for that we should all be grateful.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Do any of us actually listen to what is said on adverts? If you did, you'd realise what a massive cock-up you are probably making in your choice of toothpaste. You see, Aquafresh has a unique molecular complex. That's right. It means the crap that you use only has some ridiculous unoriginal or possibly second-hand molecular complex and Lord alone knows what that's doing to your gnashers.
And Pantene has its best ever formula. So for all these years you poor schmucks have been using some second rate Pantene formula. You should be ashamed of yourself.
--------------------------------------------------------------
For the sake of the national team, and without any partisan bias, I think Alan Pardew, Roy Hodgson or my local Tube driver would all make excellent managers of the England football team and that there is absolutely no one else, anywhere, who should be even considered for the job for at least another 10 years.
And a lot of us who feel this way will be singing 'Pardew for England' when Spurs play Newcastle on Saturday.
To parrot the best headline in any newspaper this month, 'Arryvederci - Solly
----------------------------------------------------------
Do you think newspaper yes/no phone-in polls are a massive waste of time and money that tells us nothing of the public mood at the time?
For yes, take 25p out of the saucer on the windowsill and chuck it in the bin. For no, do the same.
-----------------------------------------------------------
And talking of the Evening Standard (yes we were) is there anything more ridiculous than its regular fashion feature in which it photographs three people wearing, say, blue slippers, and says it is the latest London trend? Next week: They go to the paralympic basketball finals and report back that three-wheeled wheelchairs are the latest must-have accessory for the modern capital fashionista. Possibly under a headline like 'The Wheel Deal' or 'Keeping It Wheel'.
------------------------------------------------------------
If you have missed the recent editions of the Leveson Enquiry, this is basically the impression it gives. All journalists are slimeballs but this is because all editors are Nazis who tell them to do wrong things. All celebrities are two-faced hypocrites apart from Hugh Grant who really is quite dim. Steve Coogan needs his hair cut and isn't very funny when he's not Alan Partridge. Lawyers are rubbish and have no idea what happens in newspapers. Heather Mills is completely barmy. Piers Morgan is completely smarmy. And when he gets up from having sat down for more than five minutes, Max Clifford leaves behind an oil slick that would even shame BP. And he looks like he wears Blofeld's cat on his head. And he's mates with Simon Cowell. And his 'clients' pay him around £200,000 a year for his services. Thank goodness there is now someone who everyone can hate even more than journalists and for that we should all be grateful.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Do any of us actually listen to what is said on adverts? If you did, you'd realise what a massive cock-up you are probably making in your choice of toothpaste. You see, Aquafresh has a unique molecular complex. That's right. It means the crap that you use only has some ridiculous unoriginal or possibly second-hand molecular complex and Lord alone knows what that's doing to your gnashers.
And Pantene has its best ever formula. So for all these years you poor schmucks have been using some second rate Pantene formula. You should be ashamed of yourself.
--------------------------------------------------------------
For the sake of the national team, and without any partisan bias, I think Alan Pardew, Roy Hodgson or my local Tube driver would all make excellent managers of the England football team and that there is absolutely no one else, anywhere, who should be even considered for the job for at least another 10 years.
And a lot of us who feel this way will be singing 'Pardew for England' when Spurs play Newcastle on Saturday.
To parrot the best headline in any newspaper this month, 'Arryvederci - Solly
Monday, 30 January 2012
Pick 'n mix capitalism
Four more former colleagues from The Sun have been arrested this week. I worked with all of them and have spoken to many others from our vintage. I think the general consensus is that a lot of Wapping refuseniks are sorry to see one of them, in particular, in this situation, but their reaction to the fate of the other three can best be described as a snigger.
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David Cameron made a speech about a week ago defending capitalism. Which is fair enough. After all, capitalism rewards hard work and those who pull themselves up by their bootlaces to make money, achieve things beyond their expectations and to compete in a free market economy. All by sheer determination and talent rather than through who you know, an old school tie and inheriting rather than earning money.
But which bit of capitalism do you want? No, really. Because it's quite clear we all like bits of it. The bits of it that mean we can make money mainly.
The bits of it that say businesses should be privately owned and run with the purpose of making capital by buying and selling according to market forces and that those who make the money should be rewarded for it. And controlling labour but at a rate which is economically viable to all concerned.
Like banks of course.
The bits of capitalism that says private businesses make more money if the state doesn't interfere too much. Like banks.
And when the last Labour government relaxed regulation, it meant they had the freedom to make lots of money. Instead, of course, they lost lots of money. But when you let a child go out into the world you allow them to make mistakes. They learn by them. Although you'd rather they didn't make mistakes that end up with you having to sell your house to cover them.
Too much regulation, they argue, and we'll be off. We'll take our ball and go and play in Hong Kong or somewhere. Of course they never do but the threat is enough to keep regulation as loose at Fred Goodwin's zipper.
Then there's the bit of capitalism that says that the state can own RBS but not manage it. Bankers manage banks, not politicians. So they can pay themselves what they want. Cameron believes this, even though he tried to put a seven figure cap on it. So the boss paid himself £953,000 instead. Except it wasn't that, was it? Experts reckon he pocketed around £5 million overall. But that's capitalism too.
In fact, it's probably the purest form of capitalism you can get. A company owned by the state but allowed to operate as if it wasn't in the hope the state gets its money back and more.
And bosses rewarded for their success in such a way it generates half a million quid for the exchequer, which could hire 100 nurses (though of course it won't).
But suddenly we don't like that bit of capitalism. It smacks of inequality even though capitalism allows for inequality in that it wouldn't work if everyone got the same.
And so when it comes down to it, we like our capitalism in easy to digest bite size chunks and not in great big whopping pay packets for a bloke who, when dressed in his riding gear, resembles a Michelin man with a penis on his head. That was such an unfortunate photo Stephen.
For even if we could sympathise a little with a man who gave up a safe job earning millions for a dodgy one earning millions, the sight of him in his black velvet hunting jacket and white cravat, astride a horse and holding a whip while in a knob hat, is enough to want to us all to see him thrown to the dogs.
I don't own the copyright to the photo so you'll have to click on the link to see it though I'm sure you already have.
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/30/article-2093630-0D5959CA000005DC-979_306x423.jpg
Tally ho....Solly
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
David Cameron made a speech about a week ago defending capitalism. Which is fair enough. After all, capitalism rewards hard work and those who pull themselves up by their bootlaces to make money, achieve things beyond their expectations and to compete in a free market economy. All by sheer determination and talent rather than through who you know, an old school tie and inheriting rather than earning money.
But which bit of capitalism do you want? No, really. Because it's quite clear we all like bits of it. The bits of it that mean we can make money mainly.
The bits of it that say businesses should be privately owned and run with the purpose of making capital by buying and selling according to market forces and that those who make the money should be rewarded for it. And controlling labour but at a rate which is economically viable to all concerned.
Like banks of course.
The bits of capitalism that says private businesses make more money if the state doesn't interfere too much. Like banks.
And when the last Labour government relaxed regulation, it meant they had the freedom to make lots of money. Instead, of course, they lost lots of money. But when you let a child go out into the world you allow them to make mistakes. They learn by them. Although you'd rather they didn't make mistakes that end up with you having to sell your house to cover them.
Too much regulation, they argue, and we'll be off. We'll take our ball and go and play in Hong Kong or somewhere. Of course they never do but the threat is enough to keep regulation as loose at Fred Goodwin's zipper.
Then there's the bit of capitalism that says that the state can own RBS but not manage it. Bankers manage banks, not politicians. So they can pay themselves what they want. Cameron believes this, even though he tried to put a seven figure cap on it. So the boss paid himself £953,000 instead. Except it wasn't that, was it? Experts reckon he pocketed around £5 million overall. But that's capitalism too.
In fact, it's probably the purest form of capitalism you can get. A company owned by the state but allowed to operate as if it wasn't in the hope the state gets its money back and more.
And bosses rewarded for their success in such a way it generates half a million quid for the exchequer, which could hire 100 nurses (though of course it won't).
But suddenly we don't like that bit of capitalism. It smacks of inequality even though capitalism allows for inequality in that it wouldn't work if everyone got the same.
And so when it comes down to it, we like our capitalism in easy to digest bite size chunks and not in great big whopping pay packets for a bloke who, when dressed in his riding gear, resembles a Michelin man with a penis on his head. That was such an unfortunate photo Stephen.
For even if we could sympathise a little with a man who gave up a safe job earning millions for a dodgy one earning millions, the sight of him in his black velvet hunting jacket and white cravat, astride a horse and holding a whip while in a knob hat, is enough to want to us all to see him thrown to the dogs.
I don't own the copyright to the photo so you'll have to click on the link to see it though I'm sure you already have.
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/30/article-2093630-0D5959CA000005DC-979_306x423.jpg
Tally ho....Solly
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
In sickness and in Shelf
The BBC have a lovely new film to promote its natural history programmes. Over snippets of cutesy animals, his royal highness, David Attenborough, reads the lyrics to What A Wonderful World.
It's simply beautiful. Then comes THAT shot of two baby polar bears and David says 'I hear babies cry and watch them grow' and as a nation, we all shout 'yeah, in a bloody zoo!'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My wife, my business partner and several friends and acquaintances are among what is probably a majority who fail to understand the emotional bond between a fan and his (or her) football team.
Let's say it's a man. Better still, let's say it's me though it may be you too.
The relationship between a fan and their team is, quite simply a marriage. Or at least a good marriage.
You are in it for life. You want to be in it for life. Although there are times when you think, why the hell do I do this. But you do it. Sometimes it's a bit routine. You wonder whether there is more to life and what might have happened if you had supported that other lot down the road or someone more glamourous or a bit younger. But then you think, nah, I'm actually the luckiest man in the world when all's said and done.
It's just like marriage. You do it once a fortnight and sometimes it feels like you're just going through the motions when you fail to get as excited as you once did, but then occasionally you do and you come out, pause for breath, light a cigarette and mutter 'fantastic.'
Of course, it can be dispiriting. The kids let you down, they run off with someone else, they get arrested. Though most of the time you're just proud that they try their best for you and wish them luck when they leave home.
Occasionally you turn up drunk or say something stupid in front of guests and they all feel embarrassed for you.
It can be expensive but you don't think of the cost. It's only when you tot up how much it's cost over your lifetime that you realise - blimey, I could have bought a Bentley for that.
But a Bentley doesn't lift you to the same heights or such depths of despair. And if you were going to pop your clogs, you'd much rather it was watching the ones you love than in the seat of a car.
Of course some people get married more than once but that first one is a bit of mistake. You were a bit hasty and fell for the first team that caught your eye but eventually you end up with 'the one' and it was always meant to be.
And there are different marriages of course. What I am describing applies to Spurs, I feel.
If you support West Ham then it's like marrying a childhood sweetheart and hoping that one day you'll buy your own council house and Liverpool is an arranged marriage. Your parents insist on it and, it turns out, you end up being loyal and comparatively happy with a tendency to complain a lot.
Arsenal fans thought they were marrying some posh bird with a bit of an exotic accent but despite enjoying plenty of trips to Europe and lots of sophisticated nights out, they've very little to show for the last few years.
Chelsea fans married some East European catalogue bride for her dad's money and Manchester United fans are like those smug married couples who, every Christmas, send you a card detailing all the wonderful achievements of their children. Little Ryan had a bit of a falling out with his brother. Ginger ran away from home and we thought we'd lost him but he came back again.
At least, most of the time it's like a marriage. However, for our lot, this season has been more like an affair. It's been a real blast, a lot of fun and quite invigorating. And now, even though it's all over, you can say 'well it's been worth it' and go back to normal, hoping for the occasional high, accepting there will be good days and bad days, but sticking with it until the bitter end. Oh yeah, and it looks like dad may be going to prison.
------------------------------------------------------------
A while ago I mentioned Evening Standard pisspoor columnist Sarah Sands who tried to argue for the existence of God by claiming the sitcom Rev was funnier than anything about atheists and Leonardo di Vinci did some nice paintings. Today she's at it again. To paraphrase her column, she argues that because religion has such beautiful churches, religion is a 'good thing'.
Reading this rubbish, it reminds you that the best city in the world has one of the shittiest local newspapers serving it. As with its mayor, London deserves better.
Knock knock. Who's there. M.A.B. M.A.B. who? M.A.B. it's because I'm a Londoner.
See ya....Solly
It's simply beautiful. Then comes THAT shot of two baby polar bears and David says 'I hear babies cry and watch them grow' and as a nation, we all shout 'yeah, in a bloody zoo!'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My wife, my business partner and several friends and acquaintances are among what is probably a majority who fail to understand the emotional bond between a fan and his (or her) football team.
Let's say it's a man. Better still, let's say it's me though it may be you too.
The relationship between a fan and their team is, quite simply a marriage. Or at least a good marriage.
You are in it for life. You want to be in it for life. Although there are times when you think, why the hell do I do this. But you do it. Sometimes it's a bit routine. You wonder whether there is more to life and what might have happened if you had supported that other lot down the road or someone more glamourous or a bit younger. But then you think, nah, I'm actually the luckiest man in the world when all's said and done.
It's just like marriage. You do it once a fortnight and sometimes it feels like you're just going through the motions when you fail to get as excited as you once did, but then occasionally you do and you come out, pause for breath, light a cigarette and mutter 'fantastic.'
Of course, it can be dispiriting. The kids let you down, they run off with someone else, they get arrested. Though most of the time you're just proud that they try their best for you and wish them luck when they leave home.
Occasionally you turn up drunk or say something stupid in front of guests and they all feel embarrassed for you.
It can be expensive but you don't think of the cost. It's only when you tot up how much it's cost over your lifetime that you realise - blimey, I could have bought a Bentley for that.
But a Bentley doesn't lift you to the same heights or such depths of despair. And if you were going to pop your clogs, you'd much rather it was watching the ones you love than in the seat of a car.
Of course some people get married more than once but that first one is a bit of mistake. You were a bit hasty and fell for the first team that caught your eye but eventually you end up with 'the one' and it was always meant to be.
And there are different marriages of course. What I am describing applies to Spurs, I feel.
If you support West Ham then it's like marrying a childhood sweetheart and hoping that one day you'll buy your own council house and Liverpool is an arranged marriage. Your parents insist on it and, it turns out, you end up being loyal and comparatively happy with a tendency to complain a lot.
Arsenal fans thought they were marrying some posh bird with a bit of an exotic accent but despite enjoying plenty of trips to Europe and lots of sophisticated nights out, they've very little to show for the last few years.
Chelsea fans married some East European catalogue bride for her dad's money and Manchester United fans are like those smug married couples who, every Christmas, send you a card detailing all the wonderful achievements of their children. Little Ryan had a bit of a falling out with his brother. Ginger ran away from home and we thought we'd lost him but he came back again.
At least, most of the time it's like a marriage. However, for our lot, this season has been more like an affair. It's been a real blast, a lot of fun and quite invigorating. And now, even though it's all over, you can say 'well it's been worth it' and go back to normal, hoping for the occasional high, accepting there will be good days and bad days, but sticking with it until the bitter end. Oh yeah, and it looks like dad may be going to prison.
------------------------------------------------------------
A while ago I mentioned Evening Standard pisspoor columnist Sarah Sands who tried to argue for the existence of God by claiming the sitcom Rev was funnier than anything about atheists and Leonardo di Vinci did some nice paintings. Today she's at it again. To paraphrase her column, she argues that because religion has such beautiful churches, religion is a 'good thing'.
Reading this rubbish, it reminds you that the best city in the world has one of the shittiest local newspapers serving it. As with its mayor, London deserves better.
Knock knock. Who's there. M.A.B. M.A.B. who? M.A.B. it's because I'm a Londoner.
See ya....Solly
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