A little bit closer to home.

At this moment in time, as I am over 11000km away from my home, I often wonder about what's going on in my own four walls, and the person renting my property.

Two months ago, when I checked my bank, I noticed that I had received a half payment from my new tenant. "Odd..." I thought, but assumed the money was for something else (Long story, sold a Chesterfeild sofa), and I assumed that the first month was merely deposit (I couldn't remember because the previous tenant had moved in quite some time earlier).

Then the next month came, and it fell short of the target again, by roughly a fifth. Deciding that my landlord had taken care of the garden duties, I put it out of my mind.

So, upon checking the bank last week, I see that there is nothing. I decide to call up ol' blighty, and ask the landlord what the bleedin' 'ell is going on.

"It's the new tenant," she tells me. "First she said her son was stabbed in London (plausable), then her mother had a heart-bypass operation, then the daughter was supposed to pay, but went on holiday!"

Blood pounds in the ear drums. Who the fuck is in my house?

Really, I have no clue. Rest assured legal proceedings have began against the sponge.

Memories ...

Not so long ago, some believe the year ought double 06 (it was actually '07), I arranged to meet a friend of mine to visit the cinema. The cinema was a bust, as the movie we wanted to see had ended, and my friend was contacted by one of her friends who was in town for the weekend. Suggestions were made that the three of us could enjoy an evening of drink and conversation.

I was introduced to the young man, and together, jabbering away in rapid Spanish, we spoken of various cultural aspects of our respective countries. The night began well, as we picked through the meats of our cultural stew.

Later on, in what can only be described as 'ignoring common sense, in hindsight,' we began to walk through a part of town which I knew to avoid. It was close to summer, so at 4:30am, the sun was beginning to rise. In front of us was a huge black guy and his blonde arm accessory. My old friend and I walked past with no problem. The new addition, in some bizarre sense of drunkeness, laughed at something the blonde girl said, as he walked alongside her. His reward? A punch to the jaw, equal to the force of a heavyweight boxer.

I turned around, and noticing the young man lying on the floor, I tried to diffuse the situation with reasonable argument and common sense. Did it work? Sadly, no. The thing which angered me most of all, was the reaction of his girlfriend. When he hit the young man (I heard the sound of it, and I doubt I will ever be able to forget that particular sound), the girl who he was with, laughed like a jackass. During my attempt to calm the gawp, he tried to punch me, too (a blind man could have seen it coming), and doing my best to pick up the guy off the floor (and calm my other friend down), I felt ashamed that this happened in Liverpool.

The young man was days away to returning home, to the country where I am now. He had two teeth loose, his jaw swelled and he couldn't chew for a month. I wonder if his missus is even more worse off?

Juanita, ¿dondé está mi arma?

Latin America, "dangerous."

According to the BBC, a Brazilian research group says that Latin America has the highest murder rate between 15-24 year olds.

An unfair representation, I think. I have visited several countries in Latin America, living in one for over 13 months. There is no marauding gangs, here. There is no turf-war. Believe it or not, there is no drugs, and the police? There is no corruption.

Ten-year-old kids are not shot in the street as they walk back from football, and goths are not kicked and stamped to death as they walk through the park.

I have found the people to be friendly, and never I have been called something maliciously in the street.

There is no happy-slapping, EVERYBODY votes when the elections draw near, and I don't think I ever saw anyone drink in the street (Except in Rio, where everyone does it, including myself).

Yes, I live in one of the countries mentioned in the article, and yes, it is one of the "safer" countries. What am I nuts? But to say Latin America is dangerous, is equal to saying any city in the UK is not.

For the record, I live in the North of one of these counties. I will backtrack, and say there is not a great deal of drugs IN THIS COUNTRY. I know they are transported by a neighbouring country, but they are ALWAYS caught, (This particular country is the exception to the rule:drugs, corrupt police and political unstableness). But THIS country is great!

Rhys Jones "tragic victim of gangs."

No shit.

My feelings are that this could have been avoided, plain and simple. Had the police took notice of earlier incidents, they should have known that the events would lead to something more sinister, like the people of Norris Green and Croxteth knew.

After the death of Liam Smith(spawning at least 17 different shootings), should more attention have been put in these places?

17 shootings. 17, in these two areas.

Rhys Jones and I attended the same school, albeit with a difference of 17 years between us. I grew up, completed my education, worked and travelled, yet these opportunities were denied this young boy, because of a ridiculous grudge.

Gangs have always been a part of that area. I remember being accosted by one, when I was a teenager, and it's effect is emotionally scarring for many years. If the police will not stand up these people, will anyone?

Oh, the Police try. There is a decicated task force called Operation Matrix, but there seems to be more and more guns than ever.

Saying that, when you have to deal with this:



What can you do?

Los Jaivas Vs. N-Dubz.

I have a friend from Manchester who added The Artist Known As N-Dubz to his FaceBook, and, being interested in other cultures, I decided to take a look:



I literally wanted (and still do) to slap him around the chops and ask "what the shit are you playing at?" Skip to later on that day and from the corner of my eye, I peeped my own brother on MSN playing, yep, you guessed it: the very same cack.

But ignore me, I am a musical snob (and proud of it). I listen (and notice) to everything from Bach to Beck, except I can't enjoy much music nowadays. It's all electronic shite (Not the good electronic, either).

Tonight I went to a gig with several thousand other people, on the beach outside my apartment. Finally, I managed to see this band, and all a mere 5 minutes walk away.



Maybe it's not to your taste, but there is an honesty to it. (Sorry about the quality of the video, I couldn't get closer.) I'd favour this over fuckin' N-Dubz any day of the week.

PS: whilst walking along the beach to the gig, some teenagers were playing shit music (the latin equivalent of N-Dubz,) on their phone, mere yards away from where the concert was to take place. It's not just UK teenagers who are spastics.

Tazer fun!

I'm all for Police tasering chavs, in fact, I can't wait to watch weekly episodes on Road Wars.

Holiday fortnight.

This weekend I was horrified to discover that for a mere two days, George W. Bush and myself occupied the same country.

Now I have jumped over the border, taken a refreshing bath, and returned systems back to normal (For another 90 days, at least).

Chav hunt.

Jail the pricks.

Rhys accused refuses to testify



A boy who gave an alibi for the teenager accused of murdering schoolboy Rhys Jones has refused to give evidence at Liverpool Crown Court.

Blah, blah, blah ...

Find him in contempt and sent the cunt to jail, with the other four who did the same thing.
They think that if enough refuse people to give evidence, they will throw the trial.

Throw 'em to the fuckin' dogs.

Karry Katona "show," on hold. (An actual show, not her life.)

Professional car-crash Kerry Katona's new MTV show has apparently been shelved because producers are worried she will explode on screen, and a million chavs will imitate her.

The former Atomic Kitten "star," was set to star in a fly-on-the-wall documentary about her music comeback. The Lord saw fit to smite that project, according to The Sun.

Kerry, who recently admitted she is an alcoholic-cokehead after a shambolic appearance on This Morning, is holding fire on flying to Nashville in America for the show.

A source apparently said: "Kerry is in no fit state to make a show.
"We have to wait and see how she fares in the immediate future. We want to see if she can start taking care of herself." What the frig about her kids?

Mum-of-four Kerry, 28, was last filmed by MTV when she had £15,000 of plastic surgery at Lidl.

A friend told The Sun: "Kerry is still in a bad way. She's very weepy. Everyone is worried about her."

Mum's gone to Iceland! *sniffff* (For brown turkey.)

A Song For The Rhys.

In the four days since I first arrived at blogspot, I have not touched upon a subject which constantly irks me, each afternoon when I read the news on bbc.com, and that is the ongoing trial of Rhys Jones.


To clarify a matter, as previously stated, I am not living in Liverpool at this moment, but I do own property there, in Norris Green, where most of these skells come from. My parents live in Norris Green, with my younger brother. My sister also lives in Norris green with my nephew and the area where she lives is in the thick of it.

My sister has told me many stories of people with guns outside the house. Not normal hand-guns, she tells me, but huge, shit-your-pants-scary shotguns. One Christmas past, a woman two doors away had her front door shot at.

When my sister informed me where she was moving some years ago, I begged her not to go there (Always I loathed that part of Norris Green after suffering a violent attack there some years ago), but to no avail, now she can't get out. Cobalt, who owns the houses, has more empty houses than residents.

But the Rhys Jones trial is intriguing to me in a way. Because everytime I see what they are saying in court, I think 'Knobs.'

Phrases such as 'turf-war,' are used. These people aren't the bloods and crips, fighting on South Central. They are scallies stood outside a set of god-awful shops.

'No comment,' = 'I'm fuckin' 'ard me, like.' Then sent to prison for contempt of court. Let's see how hard you are against Britain's finest on Her Majesty's Pleasure.

'I was watching a 50 Cent DVD, honest Guv'nor!'
'50 Cent? You can go to prison for crimes against culture, you priggish lad!'

But the thing which really gets my goat is the length of it all. Of course, everyone has the right to due trial and fair process, but these twats never worked in their life, and the trail is running for weeks and weeks at the cost of the tax-payer (Upon reading some of their statements, I sincerely hope that the laws of perjury are in full effect).

I hope the friggin' lot of them are taken off the streets and soon.

Roctopus.

PS: I still bear some emotional scars from the violent attack suffered some years ago, but it was with great pleasure that in January this year, whilst in Buenos Aires, I read that the scrote had been nicked for dealing cocaine/heroine - with his father no less. Classy.

I've turned into my dad.

Many years ago, when I would travel across the plains to go to work with my father, I would play music (old school cassettes, in those days) in the car, only to have my dad moan about the quality of the material.
"It's just noise," he would say of Nirvana.
"Screaming cow," he blasted about Laura Nyro.
"What year was this? 1973?" he enquired of Dark Side of the Moon, by Pink Floyd.
"Yep," I replied, amazed.
"They smoke too many drugs," was his retort.
"Listen, gawp," I would reply. "One of us actually knows something about music, and it ain't you."
My dad would cough and try to splutter a reply before I would cut in:
"I liked that song that you wrote ..."

But now, I look at the current music which is being released and I despair, I really do. It's all Disney and X-Factor. Disney is creating a planet full of paedophiles, peddling all this Hannah Montana/High School Musical crap. X-Factor releases shite which they promote the shite out of, and people don't give a shit, two weeks after release.

As a teen, I would pop the ol' headphones on and enjoy music past and present, ranging from Buddy Holly to The Cure, Neu! to Blur, and Nick Drake to Elliott Smith (via PJ Harvey.)

But now,the youth of the UK cares nothing for any of that. They dig N-dubz, DJ Whatsisname and other pointless untertainment.

The quality of this decades music (for me), has been on par with the eighties. I liked some bands, then (The Cure, The Pixies, Lush, The Smiths, The La's, Kate Bush, Danielle Dax), and now (PJ Harvey (!), Beck, Radiohead, Sígur Rós, Holy Fuck).

It's a shame is all. PJ Harvey's Whte Chalk is one of the best albums I've ever heard, and no-one of today's youth will ever hear it.

Social services mind control.

I have a friend who used to work for the Social Services in Greater Manchester. He no longer works there, but still retains his old views. He once told me that, rather than deal with chavs/scum in the appropriate way, they should be sat down and given a stern talking-down to (a la David Cameron's Hug A Hoodie ridiculousness).

This week, a mutual friend informed me that the afforementioned friend said: "Harringey (?) Social Services did what they were supposed to do."

As long as I can remember, Social Services never do what they are supposed to do. Even in my own youth, we had several visits from the SS (haha) due to an unruly sibling. They wasted money on rewarding said sibling with days out to the cinema, theme parks, etc. While those of us (who never stolen or took drugs), were told we needed to change to help ****.

The reward for their hard work? Sibling is now entering prison for the thirteenth time.

Jerry and Terry were right.

The Specials - Too Much, Too Young.

You've done too much much too young
Now you're married with a kid when you could be having fun with me
oh no, no gimme no more pickni
You've done too much much too young
Now you're married with a son when you should be having fun with me
we don't want, we don't want we don't want no more pickni

Ain't he cute? No he ain't
He's just another burden on the welfare state
You've done too much much too young
Now you're married with a kid when you could be having fun with me
no gimme,no gimme,no gimme no more pickni

Call me immature
Call me a poser
I'd love to spread manure in your bed of roses
Don't want to be rich
Don't want to be famous
But I'd really hate to have the same name as you (you silly moo)

You've done too much much too young
Now you're married with a kid when you could be having fun with me
gi we de birth control, we no want no pickni
You've done too much much too young
Now you're chained to the cooker making currant buns for tea
oh no, no gimme no more pickni

Ain't you heard of the starving millions Ain't you heard of contraception
Do you really a program of sterilization
State control of the population boom
It's in your living room Keep a generation gap Try wearing a cap

Who knew? I think that these young 1979 families are now entering their 3rd generation.

Home.

You know the place: the leafy, green surburbian road, lined with lush trees, and no-one locks their door. Children play happily in the street, and the sun shines as you take a bus-ride into town. Maybe you'll enjoy a drink with friends in the evening, before tucking youself in at night.

Sadly, now it is a thing of the past. No-one leaves their door open, anymore, because quite simply, you can ensure that simple valuable possessions will disappear with even a quick trip to the bathroom.

Children in the street no longer ride tricycles or push prams. Their most valued possessions are the things they are adorned in: Burberry, Elizabeth Duke gold, and Nike Shox.

Taking the bus is no walk in the park, either. There's a man at the back of the bus, spitting on the floor, making a horrible noise with his throat. Kkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrggggggggh. Someone is arguing with the driver, because he needs to pay an extra 25p. And there is a chav, listing to shite (Dance?) music without the aid of headphones. But nobody says anything, because everyone knows,the power structure has changed.

A night out has changed over the last ten years. I used to enjoy a nice bar with my friends, drinking for pleasure, and we'd take the bus home. Not anymore. Maybe my tastes have changed? I still drink for pleasure (never to excess), but never until 6 in the morning. I never staggered home and punched some random person on the way, and I make sure I haven't left my keys in the front door.

How did this happen? In the words of V, it was you.