Goodbye Freedom

Well it's sort of goodbye freedom. In the loose sense that we have any real freedom these days. I refer of course to yet another piece of arse-gravy nanny state-ism emanating from the increasingly dictatorial and lunatic BMA. They want to ban smoking in cars. yes, that's you, the person who likes a quick puff on your way to work. The person who doesn't want to stand outside work for a fag but will sit in their own car, their private property for a smoke. 


It's all to protect the children apparently. Yes, that's right, the children who's parents have stopped letting them walk 500 yards to school, the parents who fill their lunchboxes with Mars bars and Cheesestrings, the parents who give them money for 'chips with everything' school dinners. The parents who use Nintendo Wii/PS3/X-Box360's as babyminders. The parents who drink a couple of bottles of red in the evening as an example of how to drink responsibly.


It's intrusive. It's the nanny state working overtime. It's health fascism. It's plain wrong. Lock the BMA twats up in a room and let as many smokers as possible breathe into that room. We really need to stop listening to fucking unelected know it all preaching intellectuals telling us what to do, and influencing an already too powerful government into legislating for laws no-one needs or asked for. 


Later Mugs, GJ

Destroy FIFA!!!!

This is a place for me to avoid sport in general. If I have something to moan about regarding my sporting obsessions there's plenty of other sites for me to go.

But this.......

FIFA Bans England from wearing the Poppy

has made the GJ blood boil. 

I respect the right for anyone NOT to wear the poppy, that's the beauty of freedom of choice but no-one has the right to prevent others wearing it. The Poppy is not a religious or political symbol, anymore than the breast cancer ribbon. It's a symbol of remembrance simple as that. 

FIFA is a corrupt, vile, obnoxious organisation headed ny a corrupt despot. And yet our FA and countless governments endorse it by appeasing it. They should hang their heads. 

Wear the shirts, to hell with FIFA, donate the fine to the poppy fund. Damn them all and show them for the amoral organisation they are.

And then leave it. Quit. Walk away. Watch the others follow, Germany, Spain, Italy and most of the major European footballing nations would  do the same. And then Brazil, Argentina, USA and others. FIFA would crumble and a new organisation could follow, one based on democratic and meritocratic principles.

Plus ca change, vive le revolution!!

Later you mugs, GJ

I had a dream that I was at Eton and  had asked my mate, Little Georgie Osbourne (as we knew him at Eton) if he fancied making me pay more tax, work more hours, take home less pay, pay more duty on alcohol and cigars, pay extra VAT, donate more to bankers bonuses, up the price of gas and electricity, throw some of my mates on the dole, decimate the police, dismantle the NHS, reduce the armed forces capability, whack up student fees, stick his nose into the Euro despite us not being in it, cut the BBC, stop the schools rebuilding programme, engineer a continuing housing slump and increase the retirement age to stop me drawing a pension I've been paying into for 33 years. I asked if he could do all that in 18 months.


He just laughed and said 'Impossible....no party could do all that'.................oh hang on.....


Later you Mugs, GJ

Pain and more pain

See that picture? It's by James Gillray depicting gout (the Gout) as he calls it. It's from 1799, back in the days when Ibuprofen and Voltarol would have sounded like Russian city names. It feels just as it looks, a devil driving its teeth direct into the bone. And completely latched on to you. It hurts more than when I dislocated and fractured my hip in a motorbike accident in 1992. I've never given birth but I reckon this comes close to that pain. 


Its ruined my new cycling exercise regime. I can't sleep. Yeah it's pushing 8 on the Grumpometer. And the worst thing today? Just making it to the toilet only to find there's barely any loo roll left. There's a roll upstairs. But I just manage on 4 sheets used sparingly. Indignity and pain? It's a double bonus day! 


The GoutDevil is snoozng now, driven down by my inactivity and the Voltarol. When it's finally gone i will then set about finding it's nest and wiping it out completely*


Later Mugs, GJ


*Apparently finding the trigger will be pure luck. Well the more I hunt, the luckier I get. 

It's simple

I like a moan, in fact I like it a lot. It keeps me happy. But sometimes it does my head in. Especially those who's life is a constant moan. And they want tgo tell you about it all the time. It's the cornerstone of their conversation. i'm a moaning knobber, but these people have PHDs in Moaning. Doctor Fuckwits, all of them. 


Later Mugs GJ

Gout. Why?

3 weeks and no gout and then today I wake up and can't walk. Well I can but I'm hobbling. Which of course means I look like a knob. Or a lead swinger. Maybe I need a plaster cast to get any sympathy. Either way the grumpometer is now at 7 on the scale of 10. 


Aaah, the grumpometer I hear you ask. This is a new high tech method of measuring grumpiness. Ratings of 1-3 are mere tetchiness. 4-6 is sarcastic mumbling, 7-9 is wishing the world would just fuck the fuck off and moody silence. 10 then brings in the Angerometer scale where ranting, shouting and violence to inanimate objects kicks in. This scale is exponential and therefore has decimal points from 0.1 to 10. I have never reached 20 but all I'm saying is that probably involves custodial sentences and psychiatric treatment in Europe. Maybe in the US it might mean 20 years in a small apartment on Death Row. 


But for now, the gout means its just a miserable day of pain.  Good job we still have the light and it's not raining....oh hang on....


Later Mugs, GJ

OK, so I had just about worn out the role at work, basically buggering about with Smart phones and the like. So I thought to myself....'If I know things are getting a bit thin work wise, then how long before the decision makers and beancounters know that?.

I've done nearly 17 years there but Plan A is to remain there until I'm 60 (yes, just 10 fucking short years away) ...well 10 and a bit...and then if The Company, and more importantly The Government allow me I'd rather like to retire. I do seem to be stuck in the generation that will never be allowed to retire (another subject for another day) or for whom retirement will be seen as a scourge as loads of saddo's continue to work past 65/67/69 (..pick an age..any age) and society makes it a norm to work until you die rather than enjoy a few years of lay ins and golf or whatever.

(Thats enough ranting...Ed)

So, when SirYesSir sent out the email saying that a colleague was moving on, I decided to grab the bull by the horns. I asked him into a vacant office and for the first time in my life I said 'Gissa job'...well more or less... 'more like 'Gissdat job'.

And he looked at me with snipers eyes, deep into the soul, smiled and said OK.

Now, call me old fashioned but this was very daring for me, someone from a generation where if you wanted a job you waited for it to be advertised then applied for it. Very quaint and honourable. Today's 'go getter' attitude is very different. Push, cajole, annoy, ask, demand is the new way. I expected of course to have a month to transition into the role, to hand off my old stuff and to gently bed in to the new. I asked on the 23rd December.........

......and I started on the 4th January. Lumped straight into meetings with humourless German directors, vacuous wannabees, Anne Widdecombe-like spinsters, puppy dog careerists and utter arseholes. There has to be someone nice coming along.

Feet and floor barely know each other. Arse barely made contact with any seat for more than 15 minutes.

I asked............and I certainly got.

Later GJ

OK, the re-launch has been slow, but it will happen, honest!

Cuts deep

Brief and to the point, so everyone will feel the affect of the cuts....cuts caused in part by the banking crisis and subsequent recession, and by an incompetent City-arse licking government led by Gordon Brown who's fiscal policies had already decimated pensions.

However, International Aid remains set at £7.7bn raising to £11.5bn. Just explain to me why we're prepared to give away money to corrupt governments, such as Pakistan, which is also harbouring people sworn to terrorise the people of this country, or India...which can afford a Space program whilst cutting back vital public services?

And there's me thinking charity starts at home.

Still, a Tory government in every way, despite what the now discredited Lib Dems might say, always comes along and dismantles the very structure and fabric of society whilst favouring the rich. It's their way.

The BBC, the NHS, the armed services...what next ....the Open University?

Later, GJ

Oooh, that felt good.

Good to tap on the keys.....

Good to feel the cognitive gears whirring again........

So, here's the score. If you know me then cool, but keep my identity quiet else I'll pick up my ball and go somewhere else to play. I will say what I like about who I like but no names will ever be mentioned, just my own childish pseudonyms for people.

So, lets finish the prep work and get some work done

Later, GJ

Well well well

You can't keep a good man down. Or in my case a bad one. Ok, maybe just a slightly average, short-ish, plumpish, ageing rocker like me. I toyed with a new blog, with anonymity running through it. A place to comment on the general shite-ness of life, things that don't work, people that don't work, the battles of an ageing man in a society that doesn't care, in a house full of women.

Perhaps I could just called the blog 'Marginalised'

Anyway, pip pip, back soon, watch this space, see you anon and any number of other hackneyed geezer cliches.

Later, GJ

So farewell then Jack

And so it ends.

After 5 years or so of trying to express to others, the the ups and downs of my life, the things I've liked, loved and hated, the things that have angered, frustrated and inspired me and the various characters who play a part in my life, I'm off.

It all started through the boredom of a job I hated and the wasting affect it had on my annoying, questioning, challenging mind. And it was anonymous. The mistake I made was letting those close to me in on the secret, and that immediately closed down an avenue of writing as I could no longer truly write what I thought of people, despite keeping them anonymous. As word grew it became obvious to the the readers who knew me who others were and it just took the sting away a bit. If I ever do this again, it will remain my secret and that's that.

Now I'm in a job which is a crossroads point for me, the fun has worn off and I'm battling to move the team forward and the choice for me is coast through life moaning but accepting my lot, or keep bashing away annoying the fuck out of Billyboy, The Tub Thumper (now my boss again) and all of the rest of the Ivory Tower inhabitants it is my misfortune to have to work for. I can't write about that forever though.

I keep busy writing occasional articles for Chelseablog, and am looking now at how to sate the creative aspects of my life as technology changes. Podcasts fascinate me and there's a Chelsea fans one I might try and gatecrash.

The social media and networking phenomenon is fast rendering blogs as less and less relevant and it's no coincidence that the blogs people want to read are now focused on specific topics, be that sex, football, politics, media or whatever. When I started , blogging was new and exciting but the blogosphere has become so huge and so full of similarity and mediocrity it's hard not to get ground down. I find myself rather enjoying the challenges of middle age and Facebook and Twitter. Facebook I've cracked, Twitter is still to be proven to me as a useful way of communicating or keeping in touch.

I still want to write, but am serious about drafting a novel, or a play....or even scripts, but for me the blogging adventure is over...not dead....just asleep and who knows when or if Grocerjack will ever wake up. All good things must end and right now it feels like that to me. The site will remain for as long as allowed without being updated and well...never say never....but as far as I can tell, this is it.

As The Dragons would say, "I'm out"

Thanks to everyone who's ever read or commented. It was fun.

Au revoir mes amis, GJ

Way to go Sting

I like The Police.

I don't much like Sting's solo stuff.

I did quite like Fields of Gold mind. And the one about the nuclear bomb.

His rain-forest posturing and general liberal wet arty farty ways are a bit annoying as well.

But he's absolutely dead right in his criticism of The X-Factor.

It is a Karaoke competition and nothing else. It is about generating cash for Cowell Corporation. It is factory pop of the worst kind since....oh.....a few years back when Stock, Aitken and Waterman ruled the airwaves. It has fuck all to do with proper real music. I don't deny that Leona Lewis, Alexandra Burke, JLS et al.... have technically near perfect voices. That's all they do have though. Music and song is much much more than just showing off your vocal power and range everytime a microphone is shoved in your face. It's more than dance routines and sparkly outfits. It's more than being a performing seal.

It's about soul, passion, spirit, individuality and creativity and that little something that sets you aside. Good music and good 'pop' music have something intangible that works. Talented artists really do have an X factor. That special ingredient that emanates from them and what they perform that gets into the soul of the those , like me, who love music. It's the same for painters, sculptors and writers.

Look carefully at the X Factor and ask yourself how many of the following artists would have survived to win the alleged competition. Rod Stewart? Sinead O' Connor? Randy Crawford? Kate Bush? Would the current George Michael or Elton John versions get past Cowells critical eye? What about Engelbert Humperdinck with his crooning ballads? If Sting turned up with his guitar, would he make it? Come to think of it would Michael Jackson have got very far? Kirsty Maccoll perhaps? Nah, not pretty enough. John Lennon.....Freddie Mercury......John Lydon........the list goes on. None of them would meet the pre-packed, pre-moulded, sanitized production line pop criteria needed to be a 'star' through the X Factor route.

If it's all the same to you, I'll stick to Jools Holland's Later and the Beeb's Glasto coverage for my TV music.

A plague on the X-Factor house and all it's occupants!

Later, GJ

Why I love the 80's.........and the 60's and 70's...and bits of the 90's

This is weird. What started off as a retrospective 'weren't the 80's actually rather good' spiel turns into 'aren't I lucky to have lived through music's most golden ages' piece.

It started a few weeks back during the enforced absence when I was wading through weeks of recorded programmes catching up on all the 'must see' stuff I'd recorded in a delusionally desperate attempt to prove the value of the new TV . The truth is most of this 'must see' stuff ends up being deleted through boredom/lack of time/better things to do. But when you're immobile there is very little that's better than lying flat, propped into a comfy position with fluffy pillows, surrounded by remote controls, medicines, an iPod, mobile phones and bags of Minstrels and Midget Gems. Not the most active or healthy of lifestyles I grant that, but something everyone should do occasionally just for the good of the soul. A break from the strife of normality one might say.

One of the recorded programmes was called Synth Britannia, yet another excellent piece of contemporary cultural history from the rather good BBC4 stable. I started to watch this thinking it might be worthy but dull, but instead revelled in a nostalgia-fest of the birth, flourishing, maturation and eventual record industry homogenisation of electronic music.

Setting aside that bands like Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream etc had dallied with electronic sounds for some years, the programme gave a wonderful overview of the emergence into the charts from the late 70's in the shape of Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark (OMD), through the fringe elements of bands such as Cabaret Voltaire and the transition of The Human League from failing electronic/synth geeks into pop-tastic leaders of synth dance music so synonymous with the 80's. Of course the nostalgia was where it worked the most, and it set me reflecting on my own almost covert love of this stuff, the fashions and the post punk evolution of music through arguably its last truly avant-garde era of mixing the independent with mainstream appeal. Until Stock, Aitken and Waterman came along and strangled it with their ruthlessly efficent factory model producing electro-pap instead of electro-pop.

For 2 glorious hours I lay on the sofa revelling in clips from Gary Numan, Depeche Mode, Yazoo, Pet shop Boys, Human League, Heaven 17, OMD and even some Kraftwerk lobbed in for good measure. From some BBC treasure vault they included video clips from clubs and concerts showing the transition from punk fashions including the goth eye make-up and quasi-bondage outfits into the refined versions so prevalent at the time and which in turn heavily influenced the whole New Romantic fashions seen at the time. Men wearing make-up then was outrageous, but who really bats an eyelid these days? For me it was covert because of the image I'd woven for myself at the time, the jean-jacketed long haired pseudo Motorhead look was my way. But although a dyed in the wool rocker, underneath it all beat the heart of a wedge haircut, make-up wearing, be-suited Spandau Ballet fan. I envied the guys in my local pub off to the clubs wearing this immaculate outrageous gear, spangly, sparkling women adorning their arms. It was circa 1983 when the hair finally got cut and the wedge appeared. I had two ear piercings but was never brave enough to don the make-up despite being just about the only one in that group. We all fancied the Human league girls, and some even fancied Alison Moyet (I've never been a weight fascist). Watching the programme reminded me of the prime of youth I guess, those years between about 17 and 25, prior to any really serious relationships or marriages, when a fuck or a fight at the end of an evening was a result (the fight obviously being the lesser prize), an age when school was done and you had very little in the way of responsibility. And as usual a time of our lives that we were too young to appreciate fully.

As I sat down to write this I realised that being born in 1961 has meant that I am so fortunate because I have lived through the best decades humanity has known. I got a taste of the 60's, like a young boy's first taste of Dad's beer. You pretend to like it but can't be sure because you're too young. But you know you'll love it when you grow up. The 1970's, a much maligned decade politically, culturally, artistically and musically, were in retrospect like the first few seconds of the Big Bang, where the Big Bang was the 60's (the decade that spat on post-war austerity, where the teenager was finally acknowledged by society). The 1970's gave us colour TV, FM radio, vcr's, glam rock, Queen, disco, new wave, punk, David Bowie, Dame Elton John. Rod Stewart, The Clash, T Rex, Sweet, Slade....the list is just too big, but suffice to say the 80's needed the 70's fashions and influence and they succeeded just as spectacularly. As the 90's came along the inevitable ageing process removes you from the cult of youth and you lose that touch with what's 'in' and what's relevant to the incoming generations.

And so it should be. What my generation, with all it's inherent grumpiness' has managed to do a million times better than our parents and grandparents generations is to accept what our kids like whilst reserving the right to dismissing it as rubbish either in jest or for real. We do not seem to embrace outrage or resistance to cultural change as they did in the 50's and 60's. And with any luck the next set of 40-something parents will be even better this, accepting the gap and encouraging the kids to do their own thing, to dress their own way, to listen to and like their own music. But I'll say this, boy have they got their work cut out in doing better than us. Something tells me that kids of today might not be looking back quite as nostalgically at Jedward, Rhydian, Mika, Acon and the stuff around today. Although Lady Gaga might make the cut!

Sound like a parent don't I?

Later, GJ

Heartbreaking inspiration

I'm heading into the last few days of sick leave after the operation, now confident of a return to work next week. A month off, just the sort of break required for a bit of thinking as well as switching off. Wednesday was Tarantino day with back to back showings of Quentin Tarantino's finest movies. Then yesterday I treated myself to a day of Shakespeare Retold, the marvellous series shown 3 years ago by the BBC. I followed this up with yet another minor masterpiece in the form of the directors cut of Blade Runner, the first time I've seen this format. On the big TV in full cinema sound it really was quite spectacular.

I decided on this because I needed cheering up. I had a few pieces of news yesterday that made me feel a bit down. Not Grumpy Bloke down, but just a little sad. A friend at work has been diagnosed with Breast Cancer. She's 29 for fucks sake. And it's the worst kind apparently.

Some God huh?

Following that came the news that the trial of a friend I worked with who was killed last year had ended. The killer got manslaughter and 9 years. For 30 stab wounds and an attempt at sawing her head off. In front of her kids.

Some justice huh?

After the film finished I flicked through the channels and came to rest on Channel 4 +1 - the electronic guide simply stated a title of Katie: My Beautiful Face. I immediately assumed it was yet another sycophantic celebrity obsessed programme about Katie Price aka Jordan.

I couldn't have been more wrong. This was simply the most heartbreaking, tragic and yet ultimately warm and inspiring thing I've seen on TV. And I probably mean ever. Maybe it's having Kid and Pie, two lovely teenage daughters but this fantastic documentary seems to have had a major effect on me.

Katie Piper was attacked in March 2008 by an accomplice of her boyfriend. Not just an attack, a vicious and unbelievably cruel attack. He threw industrial strength sulphuric acid straight into her face. She was on the phone to her so called boyfriend at the time who was able to tell his friend what she was wearing to ensure he got the right person. It was all captured on CCTV, which was included in the documentary. It made me cry. As did the photo's taken after the event, as did the video of her in her hospital bed after being woken from her induced coma.

Katie Piper was attractive in a typically 21st century way. Blonde hair, petite figure, flashing white teeth. The sort of person I'd normally label as vacuous, self-centred and dull, and I would have based that judgement purely on her look. Look in any lads mag, or celebrity magazine and you'll see so many like her. Walk though any shopping mall and you'll see the same. Behind this attractive face was a bright young chirpy woman trying to make a name in TV presenting and modelling, as yet seemingly unsullied by the sleazier side of both industries. No doubt this was down to a decent upbringing from her wonderfully grounded parents and younger sister.

The film showed how this girl.....no sorry.....young woman has had to learn to live with terrible disfigurement, through 30 operations, being fed through a tube, being scared to answer the door, barely sleeping through the night without nightmares, having to wear a mask at night on top of the perspex mask she wears for 23 hours a day, with various anti-scar treatments being applied 4 times daily by her parents, having to constantly apply drops into her eyes every few hours and to try and walk down the road and ignore the stares and leers from the Great British Public, She lives this life every day and is still very much on the road to recovery. She has lauded the talents of her NHS doctor, Mr Jawad, who has used pioneering techniques on her to try and reconstruct a face that was literally dissolved of her skull. It was so bad it destroyed all 4 skin layers in places and just left the fat layer that sits over the bone. It dissolved some of her throat and part of her chest and shoulder as well as her wrist. It was truly utterly shocking, At one point when she was at a specialist treatment centre only available in France (a trip funded by a charity) when her Dad called to break the news that the scumbag who'd done this had been found guilty. The consequent filmed breakdown as she collapsed into mixed tears of pain and happiness was utterly heartbreaking. I defy anyone to watch the film and not find themselves gaining a sense of real perspective.

Katie Piper. You are a truly remarkable and brave young woman. The film showed me what real beauty is all about, and disfigured or not, yours shone through. I found myself inspired by your personality, attitude and a level of courage that I'm not sure I could ever reach. I hope you find someone good and kind to hold your hand through life, to support you and make sure the rest of your life is both long, rich and fulfilled. I doff my virtual Guild of Grumpy Blokes cap in your direction.

Later, GJ

Things I have liked.....and things I haven't

Sitting around for 2 weeks now has meant loads of time to watch TV and try to learn French through new technologies. I've watched near enough everything on my V+ box plus quite a few DVD's and it's been good to catch up on some of the latest stuff.

Some Good stuff:

Cloverfield. Rather excellent 'monster ravages New York' movie with interesting perspective, being as it is shown from the perspective of someone witnessing events through a video camera. Only downside is it yet again centres around teenagers with virtually nobody over 20 in it. I know the makers have a target demographic, but really, would it have hurt to include a few adults?

The Dark Knight: The best Batman film by some distance. As far from the cartoon-like versions seen before, and yes that does include the Tim Burton ones.

Ironman: Superb super hero film laced with humour and menace. How could anything that plays in with Back in Black by ACDC, with the best US actor ever, Jeff Bridges, and the rejuvenated Robert Downey Junior be anything but good?

Holby City: OK, I'm coming out here. This is my guilty secret. I hate soaps and so for me this can't ber classed as a soap, but it just draws me in with the characters, the plots and arcs and its recent transformation to a filmic quality makes it eminently watchable.

Hancock: Drunken waster superhero film with Will Smith. Surprisingly enjoyable as I find his films a little rubbish. He's similar to Jim Carrey in that he irritates me in most films, but maybe this has started to redeem him in my eyes. Carrey did it with The Truman Show, but since then it's all been the usual crap.

Facebook games: Easy ways to while away the hours.

Quake Live: Yes, Quake, the game, online and free! Great fun for an hour or so.

The Wright Stuff: Yes, thats right, the daily Matthew Wright vehicle. He can be smug and arrogant, but to be fair its his show, but this is always striking the right balance between fun and serious, with interesting guests always willing to contribute.

BBC Breakfast: Well, why woud I be surprised. The BBC doing a great job of keeping me up to date. Plus it has Suzanne Reid and Sian Williams so whats not too like?


Not so good stuff:

Loose women. Great idea. Shite execution. Shite guests. Trivial trite bollocks.

This Morning: Competition TV with the odd human interest slot.

Jeremy Kyle. Seriously, if he's good enough for TV then why am I not doing my own programme.

Gold adverts/Loan shark adverts: Need I say more?

Childrens TV: Dear God, patronizing, simplistic, safe, bland rubbish. Yes, I know its not for me , but my memory is good enough to remember that it was never so bad in my day.

And thats it. 3 weeks condensed into good and bad. What a fucking saddo!

Later, GJ

*PS....coming next, why I love the 80's

Offensive....moi?

I am offended by many things.

Nick Griffin for example. His attempt to put a veneer of respect on a political party based in violence, repression, bigotry and viciousness is an affront to everything I believe in.

Bankers offend me for taking huge bonuses whilst others lose their houses and jobs, if not their lives.

The government offends me for fiddling expenses, allowing the banks and financial institutions to ruin the country and then telling me, the taxpayer that after bailing them out, my taxes must rise to pay for all of this.

Gordon Brown offends me for his bumbling attempts at leadership and his constant need to try and gain credibility by spouting soundbites based on the success of British artists or sportsmen.

Jeremy Kyle offends me for his bear baiting nasty programme exposing the domestic problems of the more vulnerable and ill-educated of society.

The X Factor offends me for being a platform for rich and famous people to mock misguided wannabees. Yes, I know Leona Lewis and Alexandra Burke are very good singers but how many were humiliated in order to get to those two?

Ditto Big Brother, Britain's Got Talent and all the other reality shows designed to emulate the Victorian freak show mentality.

The point is everyone gets offended every day. Some people seem to have taken it to the point whereby any opinion that differs from their own is offensive. We now live in a culture where the slightest criticism of anyone is deemed offensive, where anything funny that's said about anyone is seen as offensive and in extreme cases, bullying.

So, the fuss of the Jimmy Carr story fits in with yet another probable witch hunt headed up by an indignant and angry press on our behalf. The truth of this is of course Carr's humour is well known by those who pay to see him. It is adult humour that steps very close to boundaries of good taste and undoubtedly in some cases oversteps the mark for some people. But you get what you pay for. Even if he did offend me I wouldn't feel the need to complain about it. Why extend the feeling of being offended by making even more of a fuss. Do people who complain feel they are protecting someone? In this case it seems pretty clear that the soldiers feel he might have nicked the joke from them anyway. Plus anyone who has ever met a soldier will know that dark humour is very much part and parcel of soldiering life. It keeps them grounded. Plus, there is a subtext to the joke as well which praises the types of people that soldiers are that the loss of limbs is no obstacle to them achieving great things in their lives.

And the irony of a potential campaign of injured feelings from the Daily Mail after the Jan Moir article on Steven Gately isn't lost on me either.

Similarly those people who tried to stop Nick Griffin last week, and have slated the BBC since then, have no right to be offended on my behalf. I'll make my own mind up thanks very much. In all of this, the one fact remains that you can't extol the virtues of democracy and free speech and then try to block certain views and thoughts no matter how heinous they are, nor can you stop people making bad taste jokes or overstepping boundaries of decency. What is funny is like music or art.....they are too subjective to put boundaries around them.

So, I say this to Griffin, Brown, Cowell, Tatchell, Wenger, Ferguson, Kyle, Cameron, Carr, Ross, Brand, Thatcher, Du Beke, Osborne, Miliband, Benitez and anyone else who says or thinks things that I find offensive, carry on. Carry on with doing those very things that offend me because I'd much rather live in a society that allows you to do that, and implicitly that includes my views as well, than one that bans it and consequently suppresses the people.

And yes, I did read 1984 on holiday, and yes I can see exactly what Orwell was forecasting for the future. With political correctness and suppression of protest and freedom of speech, just how far are we from having a Ministry of Truth dealing in lies, A Ministry of Peace dealing in war, a Ministry of Plenty dealing in hardship and a Ministry of Love dealing in the propaganda of hate?

Later, GJ

How to under-estimate .....Part II

Along came the cheerful nurse. Yep, a nurse who seemed genuinely cheerful and unburdened by the job, pay and conditions they work under.

She was young.

She must have been new.

So she walked me down to the ........hmmmm.......reception area seems strong, but basically the place where you wait before being taken into the theatre. By this time I had a tag attached, presumably telling them who I was and what I was having done. I didn't look at it. By this time I was shaking in my sock-less trainers as it finally dawned on me I was about to have an operation whilst awake.

Then came the walk into the theatre. It seems an odd name really. Why not garage? Or workshop? Then you realise that there is a lead actor (the surgeon) , a supporting actor (the other surgeon) supporting cast (the nurses and anaesthetist) and then the audience (you, the patient). Of course a lot of the time the audience is asleep which presumably guarantees there'll be no calls of 'Encore!'. It also means there'll be no heckling, which must be a plus point for the 'cast'. Mind you it would be a peculiar audience /patient to shout at the surgeon 'Oi, its rubbish mate' or 'Get another job' wouldn't it.

So I was one of those who would be a proper audience, awake, alert, aware but not actually able to see what was going on. Just as well really, the thought of seeing my stomach opened up holds about as much appeal as seeing Anne Widdecombe in a see through negligee wearing stockings and suspenders.

I apologise now for planting that last image in your minds.

Anyway, as I laid down on the bed, I took the deep breaths I was convinced would help me through something I had now upgraded from a doddle to an ordeal. Dr Evil started the 'act' with some barked orders at the nurses. A greeting for me, in much the same way as the villain in a Bond film greets 007.

"Good Morning Mr Bond, we meet again" .........yep just like "Good Morning Mr Jack...we meet again' . And this villain would have knives and cutters and needles and all sorts of weapons of evil with which to maim and injure me with.

Yes...I know he was a doctor there to help me, but at this point I was starting to reel mentally. Why does the mind do this? Even as I stared up at the smiling nurses the image of Laurence Olivier standing over Dustin Hoffman in the Marathon Man famous chilling scene sprang to the forefront of my thoughts.

At first it seemed chaotic, the team not knowing where anything was, the surgeon barking orders at them. It was like the first 5 minutes of any Chelsea match. Trust me, they appeared like strangers.The needles went into the back of the hand after some 'encouragement' , my torso painted with iodine and then the words "You'll feel the needles entering as I administer the local, sorry but this will hurt."

He was so right. But being the macho, bravado ridden type I decided I'd had worse so this was merely greeted by a nod and some tightening of the knuckles as I gripped the side of the bed even harder. It would pale against what was to come. The next words I remember other than the Colour Sergeant Major barkings of Dr Evil. Then I saw the smoke.

Yep, smoke.

Smoke from me.

From my flesh.

And what did Dr Evil say? Only this ...." I'm cutting in now and using something to stop the bleeding as I do it. You'll see some smoke and steam rising and you might smell something like barbecue pork chop. That's you that is"

And that's where the decline started. After this I could feel the tugging, pulling and the odd minor twinge. Nothing bad, but still the psyche works in funny ways and every horror movie involving the slicing open of the captive victim was now in the mind. Then the first of the pain. Something was snipped or cut and the pain reverberated through every nerve ending in my body. I have never felt anything like this before and I hope I never do again. The reaction from me was a sudden rigidity which must have looked to the 'team' like instantaneous rigor mortis. Dr Evil asked if that hurt and through near tears I muttered a muffled "Yes".

"No points for bravery" he said "You have to tell me if it hurts so we can administer more local"

So in went more. 10 minutes later, the same happened again. Within minutes of that I felt the sweat pour, the breathing labour and the pulse treble in speed. I was going to pass out. Weedily, I managed to speak the words " I think I'm going to pass out" and within seconds a kindly nurse put the oxygen mask on. During all of this Dr Evil barked questions at his team.

"What is a hernia?", "What is the cause", "What is the alternative to surgery?" etc , and each of the team stumbled over an answer. Unsurprising really given the nature of his questioning. It seems he does it to keep everybody on their toes and to concentrate on the operation.

After 55 minutes he closed me up. 55 of the longest minutes of my life. Despite the nice nurses talking to me the sense of relief was massive. The tugging, the pulling, the tension and the flashing blades were all over. They took me down to post op, the nice Nurse chatted away to me, laughing at how Dr Evil made her feel, and that even if he asked the names of her kids she'd freeze up. Little Sis greeted me and after Hello, her first words were "You look like you've had a bit of a shock".

She was so, so very right. Some tea, toast and a visit to the loo confirming bladder function and I was off home. Feeling like I'd had my guts removed and replaced with a medicine ball with spikes on the outside.

2 weeks later and I'm able to walk and nothing else. No driving, no lifting, no cycling and no swimming. Dr Finlay and his Casebook, my GP, checked today and said it was looking good despite the continuing pain. Apparently age slows the recovery down and a 100cm cut is similar to what women get on a Cesarean, and its often 6 weeks for full recovery.

And there was me thinking the op would be 15 minutes, I'd be home in an hour and back at work in 2 days.

That's the art of under-estimation, executed with skill of the highest order.

Later, GJ

*PS - in hindsight Dr Evil was more like Dr Efficient. Maybe Dr Blase. Or Dr Routine. I'm sure that he's done a good job and maybe we should expect these people to be like they are. After all, there's nothing wrong with being arrogant if you're right.

How to under estimate ........

I've never been good at guesswork, or estimating. Hence my aversion to gambling, not on morality grounds but merely on grounds of my own utter fuckwittery when it comes to guessing scores, or winners or losers come to that. And ultimately, no matter what others say, gambling is guesswork!

So, about 18 months ago I went to see the doctor about something trivial....so trivial I can't remember what it was.

However he spotted a lump just below my belly button. Immediately worried he sent me to the hospital suspecting a hernia and of course worrying that this could lead to complications if it twisted and got strangulated. He actually referred me to his 'good friend' who for reasons of anonymity we'll dub Dr Evil.

In fact he ticked all of the Holby City stereotypical consultant boxes. Brash, yes. Arrogant, yes. Confident, yes. Blase, yes. Contemptuous of patient, yes. Subject matter expert, of course. Able to feign interest in patient, absolutely. Strangely likeable, weirdly yes. Anyway he said it was umbilical and therefore no threat and besides they don't like doing them in adults because of the reasonable recurrence rate and the chance of infection. Apparently the belly button is an unhygienic area full of germs and bacteria. Think of nthat the next time you engage in a bit of oral foreplay with your partners cute navel. Apparently its a warm hive of filth and disease carrying mega bugs.

As the year went by and I lost some weight it didn't get any better and after cycling or swimming it was arguably worse, and when ot protruded it bloody hurt which can't be right. So I went back. This time he said that as it hadn't settled down it would be a good thing to repair it. He also stated that this was routine and so a local anaesthetic would be sufficient.

So, a couple of Tuesdays ago I went for the op. I'd been MRSA tested in July and all was Ok there and the appointment letter simply stated it would be done under a local and that I was to keep to an ordinary light diet. Fine by me. On the morning of the op I was a tad subdued based on an underlying morbid fear of hospitals and the premature death of 2 friends in 2 years both with 'routine' ailments. So, wearing some 'comfort' clothing of tracksuit bottoms and footie shirt off we trekked. W|e arrived nice and early and so were the second to check in. As we waited I noticed everyone turning up had a bag with them, mostly supermarket carrier bags but the odd sports bag as well. My first thought was that I was in some sort of Chav Central and that these people were off to the local shops right after their treatment. Then this happened.....

Nurse Ratched: Grocerjack?
GJ: Yes, that'd be me.
Nurse Ratched: Oh. Haven't you got a bag?
GJ: Errr...no...why?
NR: So you have no dressing gown?
GJ: Errr....no...why...do I need one?
NR: Well what do you expect to wear to the theatre?
GJ: Theatre? I was expecting a quick procedure in a bed in a clinic.
NR: (Laughing)....you do know what you're having done?
GJ: A hernia op.
NR: Exactly, an operation. You should have read the letter which would have told you to bring a few bits.
GJ: (hands over letter which stated NONE of the stuff she had mentioned)...
NR: So you'll need a sick note then.
GJ: Huh? I'm going back to work on Thursday, so no thanks.
NR: (Laughing harder)...ooh no, its a MINIMUM of 2 weeks recovery and up to 6 weeks depending on age and fitness etc.
GJ: (gulps)...what?
NR: So you'd also better warn your partner you'll be about 2 hours in post op and about an hour in theatre...
GJ (the sound of a large penny dropping)...so this is a proper operation then?
NR: Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.

If she'd cackled at this point it wouldn't have been amiss in the midst of the day surgery ward reminiscent of every mental hospital drama you've ever seen. Spartan beds in a room of spartan walls, with grumpy nurses growling at patients and mad looking and sounding porters chatting away about the most inane bollocks in the world.

To me and you, a completely alien and intimidating environment. To them, just another day in the office.

Anyway, I had to undress...completely and wear a gown and another one backwards to ensure no-one saw my arse. Yep, how very dignified.

NR: When did you last eat?
GJ: Last night
NR:..and drink?
GJ: A glass of orange juice this morning.
NR: Oh dear, You're not supposed to have anything other than water before an operation...
GJ: What? It's only a local anaesthetic!
NR: What? A local? For something like this? Blimey, you're brave
GJ: (gulping) .......am I?

Anyway, convinced at this point that certain death was looming because they'd leave a blade inside me, or my cholesterol laden blood would clot instantly on the arteries and veins exposed, I sat listening to Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here album whilst waiting for Dr Evil to show up. Typically, as I listened to the title track, he arrived. He barked a few things at me about nmy holiday without listening to the answer. Then made me sign the disclaimer form. Then he looked at me and said

DE: Oh, you've opted for a local then?
GJ: Opted? I wasn't given the choice.
DE: Oh well never mind, too,late too change it now. You're first on the list. See you in 15 minutes......

And off he strode. The word 'shit' just kept coming back to me..................

to be continued..........

Later, GJ

Cashsploitation

Unbelievable.

Amongst all the ads from shark dressed men (sic) begging for our old gold was another one for a company doing 'pay day' loans. The idea presumably is that if you need what we used to call a sub until payday they will lend you the dosh and then you pay them back on payday.

Yep, I used to sub off my first employer, maybe a tenner here or a fiver there......I was taking home £25 a week back then. But he never charged me extra for this and it wasn't something I used that often.

Anyway, Quickquid as they're called, are now advertising on TV, during the bleak landscape of daytime TV, presumably aiming at the unemployed, low paid, debt stricken amongst us. Sounds innocent enough until you read the not-so-small print on the advert that shows the equivalent APR. That would be the one that had me and Little Sis pondering if a decimal point was missing from the displayed figure. A good hard stare unveiled the fact that no, we weren't hallucinating. Nor was it a misprint, Nor has the TV pixellated the picture causing distortion. Nope, the figure was there, large as life on the screen.

An APR of .........2356%. Yep, check that, but I can assure you it is no misprint.

2356%.

Unbe-fucking-lievable.

Jesus would weep if he were alive. I recall the halcyon days of Thats Life which used to regularly expose loan sharking like this. It used to be considered a bad thing once upon a time....but now........hey let's advertise on TV! I'm sure its all above board and legal.I'm sure the ads are legal and honest. On that basis I look forward to ads for the BNP, Al-Qaeeda, Opus Dei, or for Dignitas (had enough of life, fancy a trip to the mountains of Switzerland?). Maybe you could sell your gold to pay for the trip to Dignitas, you stupid debt ridden old person....go on......leave all your finance and health problems behind...... Blimey, the convergence of these could be a big business opportunity.

As for Quickquid, I'm sure you'll never have windows broken on non-payment. I'm sure there won't be thugs at the door threatening your various limbs with some sort of impact injury. Nope, but you can bet there'll be tons of phone calls, letters and knocks on the door as they try to get their cash back with interst of course. These days the pressure is psychological rather than physical. Letters contain veiled threats, phone calls come at 7 in the morning or 10 at night. Its much more subtle these days but equally invasive and equally pressurising.

And equally vile.

Of course, just like the gold sharks, these modern day loan sharks are targetting the most vulnerable and gullible in society. These are people at their most desperate and weakest, and yet apparently they are legally targetted without any apparent protection other than the woefully inadequate Consumer Credit Act. Its all within the law of course, but this must be stretching the law spirit or boundaries of the law in some way.

It's a disgrace, and as a society we sit back in our non interfering spineless way and allow all this crap to go on. Is it any wonder the Poles are all going home? Is it any wonder more and more retired people are leaving these shores. Its a bit early for the 'hell in a handcart' speech yet, but with an election looming and the choice being between a 'dying on its arse' Labour Party and the camoflaged New Tory party amounting to nothing more than a blue rinse Daily Mail reader wearing a blonde wig, heavy make up and using Botox, flaunting enhanced tits at the Great British Public. Underneath its still a big fat rich bastard who cares about no-one but himself.

It is damned hard to see a bright future, or a society where the immoral exploitation of the poorest is no longer allowed and encouraged through the medium of TV.

Later GJ

Footnote - I have no problem with what Dignitas do, in fact I support the choice of people to use their services if proven to be terminally ill. But I would oppose them being able to advertise on daytime TV........can you imagine how that would be received in retirement homes?