Go Olympics

Typhoons, euphoric crowds chanting "Go Olympics, Go Beijing" and a giant carrying the torch.

It's really hotting up now. Just waiting for the drug cheats and scandals. Oh and not forgetting to mention the Free Tibetan Mob - including a nice bit of posh totty called Lucy. Wait 'til it starts in earnest


Posh Girl

So far we've had a bit of footy as the kids call it but not footy as we know it. This was the girly kind but it was good to see that the gold old USA lost to Norway 2-0 while other results were as follows:

Argentina 1-2 Canada
Germany 0-0 Brazil
Japan 2-2 New Zealand
China PR 2-1 Sweden
Korea DPR 1-0 Nigeria

And whilst we are on the subject of American losers US President George W Bush has expressed "deep concerns" over China's human rights record in a speech on the eve of the Beijing Olympics.

So that's sorted that out then



"Who's the bastard in the yellow?"

The Olympics begin here...

Kornelia Ender

It was 1976 and the Olympics were being held in Montreal. Five hours behind our time meant that you could settle in nicely for an evening watching the swimming and all these Eastern European women.

And from them all shone Kornelia Ender of the German Democratic Republic. She followed up her three silver medals from the Munich Olympics with four golds - all in world record times.

Needless to say she was later shown to be on performance enhancers and I think the photo tells you that but what the heck - I would!!!

Hairy not Hippy - 1971 and all that

Mott the Hoople

It was the period just as skinhead/suedehead was dying out and the lads were beginning to grow their hair out. It wasn’t hippy even if it was hairy and there was a lot of denim about. Jackets, jeans and shirts. All worn tight, with that whiff of greaser chic about it. It was around 1971.

By 1973 it had all gone a bit ridiculous as glam took hold but for a year or so it was the look that took over the terraces, pubs and clubs of Britain. With Rod and The Faces and Maggie May at the top of the charts it was a thrilling time.

For as well as The Faces, the Rolling Stones released Exile on Main Street and played Hyde Park. George Harrison was at number one for – what seemed like half the year – and T Rex took over teenagers’ minds. While bands such as Family, Free and Mott the Hoople pushed the testosterone level up a notch. That was testosterone with love beads and bangles by the way…

We won it one time, actually

After election to the Football League in 1978 it was four seasons before we had our first success with promotion to Division Three. It was however three seasons later that we picked up our first trophy when we lifted the inaugural Freight Rover Trophy on 1st June 1985. The team made it by beating Mansfield at the Field Mill on penalties as the young cocky Warren Aspinall put the final penalty away after Roy Tunks had saved three penalties to win the shoot out. Make no doubt about it the side back then was superb. Paul Jewell was often left on the bench.

In the build-up to the game the ever-reliant John Butler was injured with his place being taken by local lad Barry Knowles. In goal and with over 600 League appearances Tunks was stepping out at Wembley for the first time. Alongside him were experienced players such as Colin Methven and Alex Cribley with young scallies like David Lowe and Gary Bennett. At the age of 20 Paul Jewell had been to Wembley six times previously with Liverpool without getting a game. As Jewell said before the game "When I left Anfield I thought 'that's it. There goes what chance I had of playing at Wembley' but I couldn't be more wrong." Needless to say arch-scally Tony Kelly had more than sixty of the Kelly clan following him to Wembley. As Kelly said "Aunties and uncles I never knew I had have all asked for tickets and there's no question about it, when my family have a day out, they certainly go in force."

When the glorious day arrived the Kelly clan was joined by 15,000 Wiganers that made the journey south to the old stadium of Wembley and saw us beat a fine Brentford side 3-1. With the world's media focused on the game due to the dreadful scenes at Heysel three days earlier the final was billed as "a day out for the family" and the teams and fans certainly obliged (many had been two weeks earlier watching the rugby). Before the match there was an all-star charity kick-about. Naturally I was in the pub and didn't see it but I believe George Best and Rod Stewart played for the Showbiz XI against a London Broadcasting XI. Other players on the pitch included Bobby Charlton, Bobby Moore, Stan Bowles and Geoff Hurst.

Unsurprisingly the minute's silence for the victims at Heysel and the Bradford fire was interrupted by some visiting Chelsea fans and then the teams were introduced to ELTON JOHN. Well he is the Queen Mum of pop, I suppose.

Brentford went into the game as the favourites on the back of a thirteen-match unbeaten run but once Latics went ahead after twenty-seven minutes through Mike Newell they were never in it. The main battle on the pitch was in midfield between Graham Barrow and Brentford's hardman Terry Hurlock. Barrow was supreme and there with it went the match. With seven minutes to half time Barrow laid the ball off to Tony Kelly and his low shot skidded below the Brentford keeper Phillips body. Brentford were given a bit of hope when Robbie Cooke volleyed home for them on 52 minutes but within three minutes David Lowe produced a brilliant overhead kick to make it 3-1 and seal the match.

It was a tremendous game and if you can pick up a video/DVD of the game then do so and appreciate the skill of that Wigan team of 1985.

TEAMS
Brentford, - Phillips: Salman, Murray, Millen, Wignall, Hurlock, Kamara (yes the moustachioed one from SKY), Cooke, Booker (Bullivant 60), Cassells, Roberts

Wigan, - Tunks: Cribley, Knowles, Kelly, Walsh, Methven, Lowe, Barrow, Bennett (Aspinall 65), Newell (Jewell 85), Langley

This article originally appeared in '92nd and we don't care' available to download FOC @ http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.9

SWINE IS THREE - HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Swine July 2008 - Happy Birthday to ya...

Every month for the past three years, the motley crew of contributors with their unique brand of cynicism, humour, sarcasm, polemic and downright nastiness have brought about one of the best websites this side of Bootle.

With no sponsors, money or media interest whatsoever and a punishing monthly schedule dictated by the narcotic whims of the editors, Swine has continued to pump out its scallycentric blend of music, fashion, comment and recipes simply by pleasing itself - some of it may offend, some of it may baffle but in an internet age when every perverse whim is catered for, our audience of ageing but culturally atuned ne'erdowells and egg scuttlers continue to tell it like it is (or at least how they see it from their mentally scarred imaginations).

With the empire now expanded into tv (cobbled together youtube clips set to music) with the launch of Swine TV (www.swinetv.blogspot.com), the puddled porcine world of the Swine crew is evolving into theatre, opera, fine arts and self-delusion of every stamp.

With over 600 articles, 590 about Zappa, sex, drugs and Zappa cover bands, join us as we celebrate - here's to 3 years of consistent self opinionated claptrap that only our ma's probably read...hurrah!

Check it all out @ http://www.swinemagazine.co.uk/

GEORGIE FAME - LOCAL HEROES NUMBER 1

Georgie Fame was in fact a Leyther called Clive Powell who was born in that old mining/mill town on 26th June 1943. He came from a musical family with his father playing in an amateur dance band and Clive himself began piano lessons at the age of seven. It was the usual stuff until rock and roll hit our shores and he became more and more interested in the piano styles of Little Richard and Fats Domino and was soon to play in a local band called 'The Dominoes'.

Whilst on holiday in 1959 Clive's talents were spotted by the camp's resident band leader Rory Blackwell who offered him a job in London after the season had finished. Clive left his job in the mill and moved to London. Although the job didn't bring wealth and fortune he elected to remain in London to give it a go. By October with things looking grim Blackwell suggested that he auditioned for the role of pianist for the impresario Larry Parne's stable of singers. He walked the audition and as is Parnes' want he re-christened Powell "Georgie Fame" a name that has stuck to this day.

By the age of 16, Georgie had toured Britain extensively, playing alongside Marty Wilde, Billy Fury, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Tony Sheridan, Freddie Canon, Jerry Keller, Dickie Pride, Joe Brown and many more. During this time, Billy Fury selected four musicians, including Fame, for his personal backing group and the “Blue Flames” were born. By 1962 Fame had fallen out with Fury
and now working as "Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames" and found work at the Flamingo. A gig that was to last 3 years where according to Fame: they played “rhythm and blues all-nighters to black American GIs, West Indians, pimps, prostitutes and gangsters.”

They were soon to establish themselves as THE band in London and recorded their first album live at the club. The hit singles followed - he had a dozen UK hits including three number 1s, one of which was the 'Ballad of Bonnie & Clyde' a record that also sold well in the USA. Fame was held in such high esteem that he was the only UK act invited to perform with the first Motown Review when it hit London in the mid-1960s.

Between 1970 and 1973 Fame joined forces with the ex-Animals keyboard player and singer Alan Price and they had great success including the hit single 'Rosetta' and a television series that made them both household names in Britain. By 1974 Fame and reformed the Blue Flames and worked solidly on both the road and on vinyl.

Whilst Fame was renowned as an R&B performer he never lost his love of jazz music and in 1981 he co-produced and performed with jazz vocalist Annie Ross, on the album 'In Hoagland', which featured the music of the Hoagy Carmichael.

In 1989 Fame joined forces with grumpy old Van the man Morrison playing organ on Van's Avalon Sunse. He continued to play and record with him throughout the nineties co-producing and performing on the Verve albums, 'How Long Has This Been Going On', released in 1995 and 'Tell Me Something: The Songs of Mose Allison', released in 1996.

In 1997, bassist Bill Wyman began forming his new band The Rhythm Kings and Georgie Fame became a founding member. Since that time, there have been five CDs and several tours, and The Rhythm Kings "reform" periodically to tour and record to the present day. During 1999, Fame presented several radio programs on BBC Radio, including his own six-week series featuring The Blue Flames plus special guests, including Madeline Bell, Bill Wyman, Zoot Money, Peter King, Steve Gray and Claire Martin.

In the year 2000, Georgie’s critically-acclaimed CD, 'Poet in New York', was voted Best Jazz Vocal Album by the Academie du Jazz in France. In 2001, the latest Three Line Whip CD (featuring Georgie’s sons, Tristan and James), 'Relationships', was released, which included some of Georgie Fame’s finest songwriting to date. In the same year, a compilation CD, 'Funny How Time Slips Away: The Pye Anthology', was released.

His career is now approaching its fiftieth year and it shows no signs of slowing down. A career that has seen him playing with hundreds of outstanding artistes: from Gene Vincent to Van Morrison via Eric Clapton and Bill Wyman. Not bad for a lad from Leigh!

Most information taken from the excellent Georgie Fame website:
http://georgiefame.absoluteelsewhere.net/

The Football Season is here.... Yes

Manager John Neafcy

Forget your Decos, Klasnichs, Ronaldos and all the other funny sounding names we watched in the monsoon that was Euro 2008 and get ready for the Wigan Monsson and the first game of the season.

The Venue: Robin Park
The Teams: Robin Park v Marine

and the first pre-season friendly for Wigan Robin Park as a North West Counties side.

The team formed as recently as 2005 walked away with the Manchester Premier League title (alright won it on last game of the season), grabbed the Gilgryst Cup a couple of days later (on penalties) and were duly elected to the Vodkat NWCFL.

With the Robin Park pitch under the groundsmanship (is that a word?) of Cliff Aspey the arena will be like the Wembley of the north for teams at this level and it should be an interesting and challenging season for all those involved with Robin Park FC. For those amongst us that want a change from the Premiership Prima Donnas then it will prove a welcome respite and - if they get the bar sorted out - a nice little Saturday afternoon's entertainment.

The game on Saturday will provide a huge task for the players as Marine are currently residing in the Unibond Premier League but once the season begins with Bootle FC on 9 August the team should be able to begin to gauge how they will do.

Not to mention the needs of this league like hot food, admission fees, programmes etc

With famous non-league names such as Darwen and Holker Old Boys in the NWCL 1st division along with derby games at Daisy Hill and Ashton Town and the arrival of new team AFC Liverpool it looks to be an exciting time and will offer a contrast with the corporate bollocks - sorry top class football - taking place 50 metres away

It should be fun...

Pre Season Friendlies announced so far

Saturday 12th July Marine Home 2.30pm K.O
Tuesday 22nd July Prescot Cables Home 8.00pm K.O
Saturday 26th July Radcliffe Borough Home 2.30pm K.O
Tuesday 29th July Euxton Villa Away 6.45pm K.O

REASONS TO BE PISSED OFF PART THREE

You know that bit on facebook where some middle-class kid puts: "Atticus is currently chilled out" well here in grotty old Wigan "Joe Hawkins is seriously pissed-off"

And here are 21 reasons why

1. No money
2. No woman
3. No cry
4. The continual raincloud that hangs over Wigan 364 days of the year
5. Wigan - get me out of this place!
6. This place of scrotes in shorts and black socks and
7. 15-year-olds pushing prams
8. Bad pies. even dependables such as Greenhalghs are off-form at the moment
9. Writer's block
10. Big Brother 9 - not watched it, mind... But it's bound to be shite
11. Jeremy Kyle
12. Rugby League fans - and how many fatties were in the crowd at the JJB on Friday?
13. 22,000 according to Sky!!! Keep the propaganda going folks
14. Football rumours - not arsed as we'll spend nowt so who cares?
15. People that spend all day on mesageboards talking about said rumours
16. Federer losing the tennis in a great match. Shame about Nike v Nike - oh for Fila v Sergio or Ellesse v Cerutti
17. The Williams sisters
18. Midsomer Murders - how bad was it last night? As bad as everything else on British TV at the moment
19. Ronaldo - will he go or stay? Does anybody really give a toss?
20. Credit Crunch hits WN5 - ASDA smart price milk chocolate digestives up 11p to 37p. Scandalous. It's Bourbons from now on
21. Mid-life crisis number 23

The only thing keeping my head abov water are The Grants The most beautiful sounding-band to come out of Fazackerley ever...

Mudhuts FM Volume 3 - One Foot in the Past

…..one eye on the future.

What a wanky cliché that is ( & half inched blatantly from the Andy Lewis sleeve notes ) but you get the jist. Starting off with some tremendous modern reworkings of the Northern sound which show all this Duffy nonsense up for the sham it really is, we then take in some funky ass retro shit before this week’s bunch of 5’s – a tribute to one of the most innovative & best UK record labels ever – those sadly lamented Mancunians Grand Central Records. After that, we’re straight into some superb modern soul ( including the genius that is Joey Negro ) before cooling things off with an unusual bit of Weller, a slab of prime time Quincy & ending up right back to where we started with a bone fide Northern floor filler.

Download Mudhuts FM Volume 3 Here

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.34

Melody's the tune of this song

And they call it puppy love

The movie came out around 1970 and it was called Melody aka SWALK. The SWALK bit was Sealed With a Loving Kiss and I was smitten. In love with the young actress that was around my age 11 or 12 or whatever.
Her name was Tracy Hyde and she was Melody Perkins – the Melody in the title. She was the schoolgirl love interest of Mark Lester who had been Oliver in the hit musical film and this film was basically a vehicle for him and the other Oliver star Jack Wild who also starred in Melody.
But it was Tracy Hide that I loved. This cute –nay beautiful – brunette with great pert breasts. Breasts – bloody hell. She was simply stunning and for months I dreamt of Melody Perkins. There was something definitely stirring down there and when I hit senior school it was doing more that stirring but by then I’d forgotten all about Melody. But for that summer – and I’m sure it was summer – she was the most beautiful girl in the world.

Where is she now? I don’t know. I could “google” her, for sure, and the image I have found – that accompanies this piece suggests the film is now available on video - but for now I’ll just remember that ‘first love’.

Oh and almost 40 years later I still love cute brunettes with great tits!

Clare Grogan, Tommy Cooper & Peter Sellers

The streets of London may not be paved with gold but the floor of my bedsit most definitely is. I put eight empties in the bin, swap the pint of milk for a can from the fridge and bite into the pie.

It steams and scolds the roof of my mouth. The dryness is nice.

Really nice. The beer is so cold it hurts and then I am at ease. My hands stop shaking. I relax. Even think of Ranvir. And then think of Jenny and then Claudette. I am at one with, if not the world, then myself.

I must have dozed off as it is now gone twelve. Joe knocks the door. The phone is for me. It's Gal and we are now going around Islington this evening. Seeing Az after the Arsenal. Few beers, chew the fat, talk about football and training shoes. Girls and grog.

Politics and pettiness. Clare Grogan and The Raincoats. Post-punk princesses. Radical haircuts and Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher.

Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher. We hate that woman. She is the devil incarnate, the Highgate Vampire arisen, the evil woman!

I shower, slip on a Lacoste polo, a pair of jumbo cords, my Borg Elite and a leather and lock the door. Joe is still vacuuming the stairs. He is so fucking cheerful - the old queen. I walk to the bus stop and jump the 134 into town.

Past the woods and by The Woodman pub. I saw Tommy Cooper in there during the week. He was wasted. Absolutely fucking wasted.

Couldn't stand up. Couldn't speak. His missus was just the same.

Irishmen saying "Just Like That" and laughing. I kept my head in my Guinness and Guardian.

Down Archway Road under Suicide Bridge. I think about suicide. I think about suicide a lot. Then again I think about football and fucking a lot. But I always think about suicide when I go under the bridge. Peter Sellers once saved somebody's life on Suicide Bridge. And when I've stopped thinking about Peter Sellers and Tommy Cooper we are at the Archway Tavern and I'm thinking about Ray Davies and all the other Muswell Hillbillies. Me, and all the other Muswell Hillbillies deep in thought on the 134 bus.

I get off at Camden and look at Japanese tourists in the market. Tat and tourists. Student girls and art school arrivistes. Punk rockers and geezers. I walk to and through Regent's Park. It's fucking beautiful. My head is clear. Black boys in gold belchers and Gabicci check my shoes. I swagger that northern swagger that these cockney boys don't understand. I reckon I'll be on my toes in a minute but thankfully they are more interested in putting their hands up their girls' sweaters.

The Mudhutter 16 online now

"We want all you skinheads to get up on your feet
Put your braces together and your boots on your feet
And give me some of that old moonstomping"

And welcome to the 44-page July issue of The Mudhutter
Inside we have an exclusive interview with Paul McDonald - the author of the hilarious Northern Soul book Do I Love you?, we revisit The Doors, chew the fat with Fern Britton and are blown away by Ben Johnson's Liverpool Cityscape. There's political comment, a set of Orrible Ives, dewy-eyed and not so dewy-eyed reminiscences, great websites, arty jazz mags er sorry coffee table books, sport, girls and of course the obligatory mention of rubber-soled footwear.

Enjoy it all, let your mates know and we'll be back in a month's time

Download below

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.33

Fleet Foxes - Cunningly magnificent

NME is telling me that Glasvegas are "the best new band in Britain". That may or not be the case but one thing is for sure and that is that British music is on it's arse!

Unfortunately it cannot light a match to the stuff coming out of America at the moment and the first item of evidence for the prosecution is the stunningly beautiful eponymous album from Fleet Foxes.

The five piece from Seattle don't reference that city's grunge scene more the incredible melodies of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young versus Fairport Comvention.

Melody is the key. Well that plus great lyrics, perfect instrumentation and gorgeus vocal harmonies. In all honesty it is just a perfect pop record in the old sense of the phrase. Just magic and it will be on the headphones for the next month until The Hold Steady's next release.

Proving without doubt that it is beards, booze and scruffy clothes that wins the day over the tedious white pumps, skinny jeans and crappy pop that the appalling NME keeps telling all the kids in their tedious white pumps and skinny jeans... Oh you get the picture.

Fleet Foxes - just beautiful

HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY – There’s a darkness on the edge of the town

Between the Springsteen albums Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town there was punk rock, which was very handy. Bruce’s dispute with his record company led to a three-year hiatus that meant us punks didn’t need to fret about adoring an American rock star. Not that he was mega by then – that was to come later – but he wasn’t punk was he?

Well in fact he probably was but… He was back with an album that not only matched the previously album but pushed his music further along as he got right into the heart of blue-collar America. Darkness on the Edge of Town is as it says on the tin. A dark album that explores the Badlands of factory lives and loves of normal Americans just as Reaganomics begin to kick in.

The album that was released on June 1 1978 is indeed dark but it is also absolutely heart achingly beautiful. It gets so deep into the soul that the joyous tune of Candy’s Room is a welcome relief after the harsh, powerful opening three tracks but that is only temporary as Racing in the Street – a song that only Springsteen could pen – is anything but fast and dangerous. It is a mournful lament that almost has you believing that he has almost give up on the open road that was so much part of the allure of Born to Run. You fear for this troubadour of the streets. This guitar hero that lets Roy Bittan’s piano close the song and side.

Of course ‘sides’ are relevant to vinyl and although the album has been issued as a CD and there may even be a 30th anniversary issue due – I don’t know – but it needs to be played on vinyl. For as you flip the record over – just when you thought Bruce was doubting his vision the opening track has him telling you in no doubt that he believes in the Promised Land.

And with that song the glorious second of side of this record takes to life. Factory is the greatest song about the drudgery of work that has ever been written. Again beautiful is not too strong a word to describe the lyrics: “End of the day factory whistle cries, men walk through those gates with death in their eyes.” But of course it is not just about work; it is about his father and his family and the things that really matter.

Back on the Streets of Fire and with him going out to Prove it all Night this cinematic album is brought to a close with the epic title track.
It is a truly stunning album. Musically it is pretty near perfect and you can hear the three years of dispute and frustration being captured in the studio with all the rage it deserved. The E Street band and Springsteen are on top of their game and while they are still furrowing the same territory – still on the streets, still political - with varying degrees of success – thirty years ago, this June, this album was essential. And you know what it still is!

This article originally appeared in The Mudhutter 15 for more details see:

www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk
www.themudhutter.blogspot.com

The Lovely Eggs

From Lancaster are just great.

Thin line between genius and crap but hey, lighten up and fall in love with I like birds but I like other animals too

All-sported-out

From the cricket to the Moto GP, through the French Open tennis,
Aussie rugby league, two games of football whilst switching channels
to watch Lewis Hamilton fuck it up in Canada. Meanwhile outside the
sun shines…

There’s three weeks of this. Three weeks watching football – minus the
home nations. Three weeks of trying to spot the person without a
replica shirt in the crowd while wishing the camera would scan on to
some Eastern European beauty. It’s summer so it’s summer in front of
the box.

Add into this the television coverage of the rock festivals, more cricket,
more tennis and you really don’t have to leave the house. Well the
sun’s no good for you – if it shines and why walk in the rain?

But for now it’s the European championships and football – our
beloved football. England didn’t qualify which of course was the best
news of all. That comment is not born out of a lack of patriotism but
more a total grasp on reality. McLaren – the ex-England manager –
had to go and failure to qualify meant he was away – with the fairies
and the football-unemployed.

Over to Fabio to sort it out or fuck it up. However now is not the time
to ponder such matters. Now is the time to watch other countries
hooligans throwing plastic chairs and time to look at players your team
may buy. Time to be a bloody cyber-know-it-all. Also it’s the moment
to wonder whether Hansen, Sharer and O’Neill ring each other up to
ask: "What you wearing today?" – as they sit in almost identical
striped shirts.

The BBC does it well, though. Even if Motson may be err… slightly the
worse for wear he isn’t the ubertwat that Tyldesley will always be.

So I shall sit back, check out the different teams’ kits and chicks.
Dodgy haircuts and even dodgier backpasses. Nationalism and
patriotism. Corruption and colloquialisms. Just the normal stuff: all-
sported-out.

And then there are the rugby union tests in the southern hemisphere.
The second-strings playing in the Churchill Cup in the gloriously
beautiful Ottawa in Canada, more Eastern European beauties – this
time in SW19. Throw in your team’s new kit and new fixture list.
Friendly matches in foreign and local shores and of course debate in
pub beer gardens (minus the St George flags) up and down the
country. It just doesn’t end and even though I might be all-sported-
out I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Oh and as for predictions in the Euros: I’m really not bothered… as
long as it isn’t that diving, cheating, crying, whinging Ronaldo!

First Five Euro 2008 things

Gordon Strachan's Leather
Bastian Schweinsteiger - could a name be any more GERMAN
Really old mad-looking managers
Danny Baker back on Radio 5 Live's 606
Andy Townsend - getting fatter with every Apple Strudel

Saturday's Kids

Seven fifteen. Saturday morning and Saturday's kids that live in council houses, v-neck jumpers and faded trousers.

I'm drinking a coffee clearing the hangover. The hangover of all hangovers. Standing on the concourse, Euston station waiting for the seven thirty train. All dressed-up and football to go to.

Pockets of match-going lads buying papers, having a fag, buying a paper, chewing fat and chewing the fat.

Travellers journeying north, students studiously studying timetables, railway workers discussing the politics of Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher as she tightens the screw on their wage demands. A living wage for the living hell that London can be. And this morning it is grey in hell. Grey and damp - a kagoul to keep the cold away.

A kagoul that says I'm "Norvern". I'm on my own with my kagoul and coffee and paper and hangover. Alone with my thoughts.
Waiting to go 400 miles in a day for ninety minutes football. But we're going well. Going for three points. Going for promotion. Pull the ticket and young persons from my pocket and make my way to the platform.

Then out of nowhere a roar goes up.

"ICF, ICF"

Then out of nowhere two gangs clash. Clash city rockers. Cockneys at each other and I'm in the middle of the melee. I hear "United bastards" and realise it's Cockney Reds versus Cockney Rejects. And all I can think of is keeping hold of my coffee as it cost more than a pint did last night. But I'm in it. In the middle of it and I feel the cold harsh blow to my ear. Hit me anywhere but not on the ear and not from behind. "You bassssterrrd" - tells them I'm "Norvern" but by now it's over. Old Bill has scattered the mobs as quickly as the mobs scattered the students and the travellers. The railway workers just stand and grin. They've seen it before. They'll see it again. They've Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher and Superman on their minds. Not petty, violent squabbles.

Seven twenty in the morning and the Saturday's kids - the real creatures that time has forgot - have had their first kicks of the day.
I get the train and read the paper, fall in and out of sleep. The throb of my ear rivals the throb of my hangover and my hearts still jumping. I dream and daydream of three points and the faceless bastard that hit me from behind. Madness. All this madness for football. Hangovers and headaches.

The only cure is the "only cure" and that is a can from the buffet. A can of ice-cold lager at 8.03am. It is truly beautiful. As beautiful as Loretta, Lorraine and Louise. And Val and Jenny and Claudette and Lena and all the other fucking beautiful women that pass by my intoxicated way.

The cold liquid hits the spot sharply. A rush to the head and to the heart. Same rush as the poppers last night. Same rush as the kiss on the lips from Jenny yesterday morning. Same rush as the violence that engulfed me less than an hour ago. Same rush as the football will undoubtedly deliver this afternoon. Us Saturday's kids. From Woking to Wigan. V-neck Pringle jumpers and faded Lois trousers.

As featured in the latest edition of The Mudhutter http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.27

Erica and me 2nd January 1982

Tariq has re-named the pot plant in the office Erica.

I'm confused; nobody at work knows about her. Yet before I ponder the situation I realise it is all to do with a certain Erica Roe. The girl that streaked at Twickenham at the weekend. England versus Australia, a dull game and a buxom posh girl displayed her assets and warmed the cockles and cocks of middle England.

It amuses everybody. Lifts the gloom of the nation. It's Barbara Windsor in 'Carry on Camping', Miss Brahms in 'Are you being Served?'. Samantha Fox and Linda Lusardi.

Why the plant should be called Erica I've no idea but Tariq seems pleased. Nice guy, my boss. Turkish-Cypriot, loving family man even though he's as confused as fuck about his sexuality.

It's a complicated life as Raymond Douglas Davies says. Even more so now that Tariq's brother has become his sister after his operation.

I look at Erica - the pot plant - in a different light before averting my gaze to Lena from accounts. Better tits than Erica has Lena. Clever girl and all. Clever with a nice pair of tits. What more could a girl ask for? In fact what more could a boy ask for?

In fact maybe that's why Tariq's brother wanted to be his sister...

Strange days indeed.

PUNK: FOOTBALL BY ANDREW VAUGHAN AN EXTRACT

On the Thursday I reach the grand old age of 19 or if you believe my birth certificate 21. I along with many others doctored my certificate - and even if I say so myself I made a very neat job of it - a few years back to enable myself to gain entrance to the Wigan Casino and the notoriously meticulous Hilda Woods. A woman who could spot a young bum-fluffed 16year old 200 yards down the queue. Amazingly she accepted my falsified birth certificate as legitimate and at the age of "18" I was a member of Wigan Casino and would go there every so often.

Initially, I was never a huge Northern Soul fan; from the moment I passed my 11-plus examination it was decided for me that I would enter the worlds of Rugby Union, Heavy and Progressive Rock. I was to embrace rugby but would fight back against the world of Led Zeppelin, Genesis and Tangerine Dream by losing myself in the world of Glam Rock. David Bowie, Cockney Rebel, Sparks, Mott The Hoople and Roxy Music were my idols. When the third year was headbanging to "Paranoid" and "Smoke on The Water" I was dreaming of characters such as Judy Teen and Ziggy Stardust while doing the Honaloochie Boogie with another ten or so like-minded citizens. Hair was sculpted into a "Ziggy" haircut with various degrees of success and even the odd bit of eye shadow appeared before the school disco. From David Bowie I discovered the world of Lou Reed, Iggy Pop et al.

Yet somewhere into the conscious came this great stomping, driving music. A music that shook the walls, that smelt of talcum powder and glamorous drugs, sweat and adrenaline, rhythm and soul. And some more. It was still on the periphery of our musical lives but slowly and surely all the Casino classics became embodied in our genes.

And on the day of my 19 th birthday it is reported that a Granada TV crew has filmed a Casino All-nighter for the 'This England' programme. The hoi polloi of Wigan are up in arms due to the programme - as well as showing shots of inside the Casino - have also focused on images of what remains of derelict property around Wigan. A report in the Observer has these people up in arms about this and point out that Casino regulars were pleased that they didn't focus on the drugs. Which is all well and good but the Observer itself ends its report by mentioning that a Welsh girl was fined £100 on charges relating to possessing amphetamines outside the Casino on 23/9/77. What's the difference? Granada doing a piece about Wigan and showing slums and the Observer always linking drugs with the Casino.

Since Punk Rock exploded all other music has took not the back seat more the boot. It has blown everything away. Whilst Kraftwerk and Deaf School are hanging on in there the rest can go and do one! With this in mind a gang of us spend the Friday celebrating my birthday at Bluto's rather than the Casino or anywhere else. The music policy in Bluto's is in no way punk. It was a punk-friendly club in the fact that it would actually let us in! Both the bar downstairs and the two floors that represented the club upstairs. So after the usual "freebies" in the Delph, the "quick short" in the Station and the train journey to town, the games of pool in the Vic and the "stand-off" with the hairies in the John Bull we hit Bluto's. Just in time to hear the bell go for last orders. What? Well it turns out that they have had their late-license revoked as they haven't been selling enough food to justify the late bars. I'm not sure how they can say that as I know for sure we once had burger and chips in there. And I had seen others munching chicken and chips in the basket. Admittedly this was on the odd occasion and was probably a guilty afterthought from somebody on their way to the allnighter realising that their only chance for food after this was one of the Casino's notoriously rancid pies. There may have been many drugs casualties at the Casino but I'd hazard a guess that more hours were lost and lives ruined by the affects of copious amounts of Coca Cola and pies.

Of course this was the period before Gastro Pubs and Wetherspoons' "Curry Nights". Food in pubs consisted of the odd crusty cheese roll and a visit from the prawn and cockle man from Kershaws. It is surprising how popular bags of cockles and prawns in vinegar were back then. It certainly added to the taste of a pint of mild. It was also reassuring to know that at least one person in the pub would always shout "Have you any crabs on you cock?" In one of our locals, The Queen's Arms in Tontine, the local delicacy was a pastie. Despite the fact that everybody called them Agnes' Nasties (after the landlady) they filled a hole after playing football. Back in the day Egg and Chips in The Clarence was as haute cuisine as it got in Wigan. And in my book there's nothing wrong with that.

All this didn't help the fact that there was no late bar at Bluto's and we filed out with the rest of the gobsmacked punters. This is the best bar in Wigan. It's got a great jukebox, Thwaites Bitter, a Space Invaders machine and loads of gorgeous girls with Purdey Haircuts. The DJ even played The Ramones and Talking Heads for us. What more could a young man (a day over 19 years of age) want? Well at least another two hours drinking would be nice. The three beautiful girls we are with - Susan, Angie and Stephanie - tell us they can get into Pemps and we are willing to join them. The walk from Bluto's to Pemps is a treacherous 100 yards at the best of time but at "chucking out" time it is akin to walking down the Falls Road in Belfast. Dressed as I am in drainpipe jeans, brothel creepers, an old suit jacket festooned with badges and a jauntily positioned Trilby Hat it is suicidal. Oh and Paul's plastic sandals aren't helping matters. The reason for the downright fear is that as you come out of Bluto's and turn left you are faced with the Crofters' Arms. This is the pub in which Wigan Athletic was formed in the aftermath of the collapse of Wigan Borough football club and since that date has been home to every hooligan, vagabond, thief and complete fruitcake that has lived in Wigan. We were in one Christmas when full bottles of brown ale were being hauled across the bar between two gangs of lads. With claret everywhere one fella at the bar simply caught a flying bottle, took the top off with his teeth and poured it into his pint making in his words "a cracking brown and bitter". It was not a place for the faint-hearted. If you got passed the Crofters you then had to get passed the notorious Bricklayers' Arms. This was where those that were banned from the Crofters' drank! On this occasion we made it in one piece. As the girls promised they got into Pemps. Needless to say we didn't and had to settle for a flipped burger, tomato sauce and half an hour wait for a taxi. Happy Birthday!

'PUNK: FOOTBALL' IS PUBLISHED BY MUDHUTS MEDIA www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk

MATCH DAY ACCESSORIES THROUGH THE YEARS

Going to the match isn't just about er ... going to the match. There's much more involved. In the 1 st of a series looking at the art of football-watching and as every girl knows accessories make the outfit here follows a quick potted history of the match day accessories:

Umbrellas

70's full length with point sharpened
80's automatic
90's and 00's nowt get a taxi

Gloves

70's Driving - especially black and white checked "grand Prix Gloves 80's Sheepskin Mitts and Ski Gloves
90's Thinsulate
00's Leather

Hats
70's Bobble, Tam O'Shanter, Skull Cap
80's Deerstalker Ski Hat, Half and Half, Beanie,
90's Baseball Cap, Beanie (again), Cossack Hat
00's Baseball Cap (still - give it a break), woolie hat

Trouser Width

70's Parallel, wide, flared, narrow - Boss Brand Wrangler
80's Narrow, pegged, semi-flared, flared, narrow - Boss Brand - Ball Jeans
90's Baggy, narrow, boot cut - Boss Brand - Armani
00's Semi-flared, boot cut - Boss Brand - M&S Blue Harbour

Coats

70's Parka's, crombies, macs, denim jackets
80's Parka's, Tracky tops, Suedies, Golfing Jackets
90's Anoraks, Berghaus, Sprayway and more anoraks
00's Waxed, Duffels and even more anoraks

Shoes

70's Docs. brogues, platforms, Adidas
80's Tennis Shoes, Kickers, Suede boots, Adidas
90's Kickers (again), Wallabees, Timberland, Hiking boots, Rockport, Adidas
00's Timberland (still), Clarks ... oh and even more Adidas

Haircuts

70's Skinhead, Suedehead, Feather Cut, Wedge
80's Mushroom, Back perm, that Happy Mondays crop
90's Pony Tail, skinhead
00's Skinhead oh and baldness!

Little Extras

70's Watneys Pale Ale, Black Bombers, and Dexy's
80's "Designer Beers", Poppers, Speed,
90's Lager, Doves and K
00's Lager and bags and bags of beak

A little Reading Matter

70's Football League Review, Football Pink
80's The Face, The End and Politically Correct Fanzines
90's Boy's Own, Football Italia, Loaded
00's Politically Incorrect Fanzines, Swine Magazine, and Mudhutsmedia

Music (and a very broad church here)
70's Reggae, Glam, Northern, Heavy, Prog and Punk
80's Jazz Funk, Funk, Electronic, Post Punk, New Romantic, House 90's House, Rave, Dance, Acid House and Acid Jazz, Madchester, The Smiths and the mighty Verve
00's Indie and basically a mix of all the above

THIS ARTICLE WAS TAKEN FROM GOAL.NET

THE NEXT ISSUE WILL BE OUT IN AUGUST 2008

21 POMPEY THINGS

1. It rained - all day, all night and in fact "it was raining all over the world"

2. The trip down was smooth and quick and we were in the pub before midday

3. Gazing at beautiful barmaids

4. In fact every single Portsmouth girl was beautiful. It must be all those sailors from all over the world impregnating the local female population.

5. The Wigan girls we saw were not beautiful.

6. In fact the two in front of us moved as they were "not going to sit here listening to this"

7. We didn't see any sailors but we did see the sea and there were loads of blokes and girls jogging and - worse than that - power walking.

8. They decided to carry out roadorks on the one road into the ground with a match on!

9. The beer was good

10. The crusty BLT roll was even better

11. They have put a roof on the away end at Fratton Park for this season

12. And charged us £34 for the privilege

13. The coppers and stewards were okay - two seasons ago they were all for locking us up and throing away the key - it must be cup fever

14. Not that you would know they were going to Wembley next week - no grafters knocking about or anything

15. Then again it was raining - have I mentioned the rain

16. We lost - as usual

17. But we missed a penalty and ended up with five men up front.

18. Only one of whom (Sibierski) looked like he had any chance of scoring

19. David James is still the best keeper in this country and nothing else really happened

20. Apart from Defoe got two, Harry twitched (most probably) and Marcus Bent dreamt of getting home to his Bury Bint Gemma

21. On the way home it was dark, it rained, we shouted at idiots calling up 606 on 5Live and laughed at one of our lot that is probably still hobbling around Pompey as we speak due to wearng inappropriate and brand new footwear

ps Pompey's a really good place - might even go next season. Then again...

IT'S A LOCAL PUB FOR LOCAL PEOPLE

Recently a mob of us got talking about how we used to go to the pub when we were young and just embarking on our drinking life. We were also noticing how you see few young people in your local nowadays. We used to go the local and then go up town. Now these young 'uns just go out at 10pm and hit the £3.95 bottles down Luminar Leisuredome. At this rate in 30 years time there'll be no local pubs.
Every man and woman should have his or her own "local". Pubs where you feel at home in. Pubs where you can go in after an absence of 3 weeks and the landlord will still get you your "usual".

These pubs should be proper pubs. There should be characters of all ages and there must be a dartboard, pool table, a jukebox (to annoy the one's watching the racing), a fruit machine and at least six sets of dominoes behind the bar. There should be distinct areas and you should always have "your own seat or area". Politics is discussed loudly at the bar and it should all consist of "complete bollocks" and everybody should agree. Rival football fans should argue continually, take the piss mercilessly but never come to blows. There should however be a scuffle every couple of months just to remind you that you are in a pub and not a library. It will last for 30 seconds and will undoubtedly be over dominoes!

The food menu should consist of pie and nothing else. Oh except Pork Scratchings for those that insist on a bit of variety. Half the pub must drink mild and there must be bottles of Mann's Brown Ale behind the counter - even if you never see anyone drinking it. Smoking will not be frowned on and kids will not be welcome. There will be a fridge full of Breezers etc for the girls but any man seen drinking one will be rounded on with cries off "puff" and nobody will go to the bog while he's in for the next five weeks. Conversations in the bog will all start with "Alright lad" and will generally finish there.

Any stranger will be eyed suspiciously while any young attractive girl entering the pub for the 1st time will be eyed with great excitement, beer bellies pulled in, and swearing will stop for a good 30 seconds. Sport must be on the television from the moment the pub opens until the moment it closes. This usually results in you watching "Fly Fishing at early knocks and finishing off with WWF wrestling at closing time (which will NOT be 11.10pm). Of course everyone is an expert at everything on the box. Horse racing being the specialised subject. And of course a proper pub should either have a bookie in there, one across the road or a telephone account.

There should always be that changeover period when people coming out for the night bump into those that have been in all day. There should also be people in there that were married to each other but are now divorced and there should be somebody having an affair with somebody else. Everyone in the pub knows this is going on except the husband. There must also be family rows and everybody must complain about the prices even though it's half the price of those at the fleshpots up town.

There must also be the next generation of drinkers coming along. These lads might play football now and be slim and fit but in 6 years they'll be stood at the bar with all the other fat fucks. The pub, meanwhile, must have pool teams, darts teams, football teams, golf societies etc if only so the locals can get loads of free scran when the opposing team fucks off because they've lost and they think cheating was going on. You should also be able to buy or get hold of anything you want.

These pubs are about and hopefully everybody reading this has their own.
It's the rest of the buggers that think 'Chicago Rock' is the place to be that worries me.

LONG LIVE THE LOCAL AND MINE'S A PINT OF BITTER

Never any good at thieving

You've either got it or you haven't. A good mate of mine is the best sneak thief I've ever met. Anupbringing in North Manchester obviously helped the lad and when we were in our twenties hecould "nick for England". He still has his moments but back then he'd nick to order. From hot pasties from the pie shop to basically anything that wasn't nailed down. Saved us a few pence, I can tell you.

It also stopped me nicking which was a great thing as frankly I was shite at it.
I put it down to getting caught nicking a box of Pontefract Cakes when I was about 9. The problem wasn't exactly that I got caught at our paper shop but more the fact that I thought I was nicking a box of Liquorice Allsorts. Have you ever tasted Pontefract Cakes? Ever since that day I lost my nerve.

Whilst my mates could secrete a nuddy mag inside their Crombie overcoat with ease I'd always be there coppering up for my quarter of Pear Drops. Other lads would eat like a king for exactly nothing as they emptied the whole of the sweet counter out as the dithering old dear was looking for the Paraffin they ordered.

As we got older and started going the match it was always me that got caught on the train without a ticket. The one time I scaled the walls I was lifted due to me wearing a long beige raincoat and blue cravat (don't ask) - clod out and told not to return before I paid, went back in and was immediately ejected again due to my natty attire. Away trips would see me as the only one buying a Ginsters’ pasty as the motorway shop was relieved of it's contents by all the other lads. At one game I was busy paying while one lad was throwing hot chicken legs over my shoulder to the lads waiting outside. On another occasion I overheard one of the lads say to the checkout girl: "Hurry up love this choc-ice is melting in my pocket" as he casually paid for a 10p chewy bar.

And the times I've been in record shops when it would have been easier to go behind the counter, find the right record put it in it's sleeve and walk out rather than pay are too legion to mention. I've stood and waited five minutes for people to appear to pay for something when I could have lifted the entire shop. I was once stood at a checkout counter in Potter's Bar as two checkout girls were so engrossed in their conversation (about being shagged the night before) that I could have walked out with the four bottles of wine in the basket. Yet I chose to stay and listen to their sordid tales. I've been caught running away from restaurants, and caught double clicking at the turnstiles.

And it's not just me nicking stuff that I'm no good at. The fact the bastards always get me makes it worse. I've been short-changed hundreds of times. I've stood at bars and argued so much that I've been clod out. Once - as well as being short-changed - I was subsequently charged an extra £50 plus £30 costs for kicking the said establishment's door in. I've been pick-pocketed twice (to my knowledge) and had my house burgled three times. Had football gear stolen and even had a Fila BJ trackie top nicked as it masqueraded as a goal post.

So as I am firmly entrenched in middle age I feel it is time to change my ways. Fuck it I'm going to be a bank robber or a fraudster or a conman that steals old ladies' fortunes.

Maybe I could go for some elaborate internet scam or even become a counterfeiter. Whatever, I'm sick of being ripped off.

And to start this life (late in life) of crime I can inform you that the notes I made for the piece have been written on an ASDA "smart price" memo pad. Nicked from ASDA Wigan - cost 9 pence!

I'm on my way!

Cornish Through and Through

I broke one of life's cardinal sins the other Sunday.

Like eating a kebab when you're sober I actually bought and ate a Ginster Cornish pasty when I wasn't going to/coming from an away game!

I sort of condoned the action in that I was coming back from the Arsenal home game, being starving at all that and steadfastly refusing to give Father Jack and Auntie Doris any money in the ground the Co-Op at Marsh Green awaited.

Now I went in with the full intention of buying something to go with the bags of pasta I have at home but there they were. The black, red and brown packaging emblazoned with "Traditionally Cornish" and that photo of that beautiful beast of a pasty.

What's more they were two for the price of one! Two for £1.39 - a complete and utter bargain! Deal done!

Any match-going football fan will know the pride and place that the humble Ginster holds in their affection. A stop at a motorway service station or British Rail station buffet would not be complete without picking up one of the said pastries. Blimey some people actually pay for them. And those that do pay actually buy them do so as they are the only item that appear to offer value for money (sort of). The choice of an Egg Mayo butty or a Ginster? No contest. They may be £2 but sod it. Team up with a bottle of Lucozade and you have a meal of Michelin star standard - and 20 minutes off the beer.

But are they any good? For anybody that has the good fortune to tackle a proper Cornish Pasty then the answer would probably be okay. The pastry is a little stodgy and of course you are eating them cold which doesn't help but the carrots, spuds and meat is pretty damn fine. Nice and peppery - not as peppery as their peppered steak slices but not bad - and a nicely annoying outer pastry that means you spend the rest of the journey home taking bits out your jumper. All in all they are a 7/10 on the Football Food stakes.

After the Arsenal game I gave my two the half chips/half rice treatment by having the first one cold and then whacking the second in the microwave. I should have elected on the oven but couldn't be arsed with the wait. The hot one was superior and as I checked the league tables on teletext life was sweet.

Ps for pudding I had custard creams dunked in coffee - lovely

This article is from The Mudhutter EZINE 14 see below for details

HAPPY EASTER

ANN MILLER - THE OTHER (AND FAR MORE SEXY) GIRL IN EASTER PARADE

HAPPY EASTER TO EVERYBODY READING THIS

THE MUDHUTTER EZINE MARCH 2008

Welcome to the latest issue of The Mudhutter Ezine Usual stuff: Music, clobber, sport, women, features and the DAVE FROM SKEM interview. Conducted by DAVE FROM SKEM, himself. DON’T ASK!!! As the football season is coming to a heady climax we will be issuing an ezine each month. The Mudhutter is now available in the downloads section

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.22

Forever Summer 1974

And I’m sat in my bedroom dreaming of Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And Doreen who is a hunk of a man,and she can wipe every boy from the land.

And that is what London is about when you’re 14. Victorian vases and girls that are trying to stick their cosmic philosopher’s words into rhymes.

And it all smells of incense and patchouli oil and there are violins and glam make-up and wicker chairs and wicker men and Britt Ekland.

And it’s Jesus wellies and cut-off Wranglers and it’s Orrell ressies. But it could be Hyde Park and girls that could sweep, skip, jump and leap into a room full of clowns.

And the sun shines and in my mind I watch Loretta taste the wine and kick the actor from behind.

And I am now home sprawled across the sofa and Marlene enters my mind and as her make up starts to fade away I spy Ramona by the door calling me the perfect whore.

And I never lost control.

And for a while it was a very strange show.

And it got stranger as five years later I am in Hyde Park and there is no Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And there is no hideaway. No lady from a background of pearls. Just me spaced out in this human menagerie – fooling with bravado.

And you know what I’m still there.

The North will rise again

Photo courtesy Dave Broome

THE MUDHUTTER MARCH 2008

COMING SOON to http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/: THE LATEST MUDHUTTER – BEEN A BIT BUT HEY, REAL LIFE AND THINGS GOT IN THE WAY. SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO WE GIVE YOU MUSIC, FOOTBALL, DANNY DYER, CASINO REVIVAL, KATE MOSS, RAY HARRYHAUSEN, KERRY KATONA, THEATRE AND ALL SORTS OF NONSENSE INCLUDING THAT INTERVIEW WITH DAVE FROM SKEM AND BY DAVE FROM SKEM. ENJOY - AND OF COURSE ALL FEEDBACK AND ARTICLES ARE WELCOME AT
info@mudhutsmedia.co.uk and on the forums at http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/

I Haven't Stopped Dancing Yet

It's an old article but I'm feeling lazy so, what the heck

I haven't but it's probably about time that I did! A night in a club now means 2 days in bed - alone I hasten to add. It's one or the other now on a Friday night and needless to say I'm doing more dancing than shagging. But hey, I've been at it longer.

In (a rough) order I've done:The Skinhead Moonstomp. All in a row with Max Romeo and Judge Dread on the sound system.

I've back-flipped at the Casino and I've even taken talc to the school disco to polish the floor. I've flipped and twirled and back-dropped with the best of the 3rd year.

At the same places I've banged my head to Paranoid by Sabbath and flounced all over the floor to LA Woman and played air guitar to Freebird.

Quo has come and gone and I've pogoed over dancefloors and concert halls with the best that 1976 could offer.

I've shimmied and sashayed across the floor at Crackers in Wardour Street on a Friday afternoon with the best jazz funk dancers you've ever seen and then shirked off out of the way knowing that I'd never be that good.

I've skanked to Madness and The Specials and I've done "the bogle" with beautiful black girls.

And I've swayed in sync with thousands of others at the court of the king Bob Marley and I've been blown away by Tapper Zukie and Burning Spear.

I've worn a long raincoat and stared at my shoes while Ian Curtis made the whole fucking earth move with his presence.

I've dove from the stage at the Marquee on a Saturday and been in the groove with Soul II Soul on the Sunday at the African Centre.

I've been out in fields with thousands of others and I'm somewhere in the middle of 100,000 when the Fun Lovin' Crims did that version of "Scooby Snacks".

I've pogoed to The Mondays and The Roses.

I've sat down for James and I've banged my head to Primal Scream.

I've danced the ceilidh at Irish weddings and been drenched in beer in the front row of The Pogues.

And gazed at the sky while the Floyd played away and dodged the flowers when Mozza spoke.

I've toned down the flips and backdrops to the Northern grooves (but still I'm out there) and I've waved my hands in the air at dodgy techno clubs.

I've been dragged onto the floor of office parties, done the okey cokey and the twist with Tessa the temp.

I've gazed in awe at the girls on stage. From Debbie to Courtney and all stops in between.

I've danced to acid jazz and been transformed back into an 18-year old punk by The Libertines.

Been on the floor to sweaty funk and smooched to dirty old soul.

But whatever I've done I'm still there. So, you youngsters, when you see us 40somethings trying to "strut our stuff" don't mock because you'll be there one day. If you're not then it's your fault. Dancing (to whatever) is fucking great. Some think it's not cool to dance but those that think that are wrong. Dancing is one of the great things in life and if you give up dancing then you give up on life itself.

Now, where's my Zimmer Frame?

“Up and down the City Road

In and out The Eagle”

Then it’s across the road to the bookies and around the corner to watch the Jack the Rippers in pub around the back. Well that’s how yesterday started. We’d took the day off. Me, Az, Elton, Si and a few others. To put some spunk in our balls, have a bet and a night-out around N1.

But now is Saturday in N10 and I awake to find a girl on the edge of my bed.

“Hi, I’m Claudia”

“Oh, Hi I’m Richard”

“Yeah I know and don’t worry nothing happened. You couldn’t!”

“Ah cheers, story of my life”

“You shouldn’t drink so much, you shouldn’t fight so much and you shouldn’t rely on young innocent girls to get you home safely.”

“Well give me a clue.”

“You were on the 43 bus insulting some New Romantic kids - and then you started on some fella and his boyfriend.”

“Shouting about how the younger lad would never get out of his house alive.”

“Yeah, the twat with the glasses.

“I don’t remember but that man is bad. Did the kid go home with him?”

“I think so, but anyhow I found you sweet, somehow.

“Plus I didn’t want to go home to my boyfriend and thought maybe there was life in a young drunken man.

“I was wrong there wasn’t I?”

“There’s life now.”

“Nah sorry, you missed out.

“Anyhow I sorted myself out. Those pictures of Buffalo Boys in The Face are useful for some things.

“I’ll see you around – gotta go to work now.

“My work number is on the magazine, give me a call on Monday.

“Just one thing, Claudia.

“Did the vampire come during the night?

“Nah, just me, honey.

“See ya”

Who the fuck is she? Cute, bit of a big arse but haven’t all Aussies. This is going to take some time to piece together. It can wait until Monday, I’ll bell her and see what happened. Az will fill me in with what he can remember about the rest of yesterday.

The kettle’s hot and she’s done the washing up. I’ll definitely call her Monday. I pour a Nescafe and butter two slices of toast. It’s 8.11am. I feel decidedly fine. Meeting Az in The Castle at one as Arsenal are playing Leeds but first I’m up west with the rest of the lads.

It’s the same route every other Saturday. We meet at the Dominion. Guzzling is late, Tone is later and Ade is even later. We laugh and joke and nip into Woodhouse on Oxford Street, down Wardour Street into Nick Nack and through the backs of Soho to Austin Reid on Regent Street. Up the stairs to gaze in awe at Fila and Cerruti 1881 and then check the check in Burberrys and Aquascutum and then brush past Eros into Lilywhites.

Always searching, us lot always searching. Looking for Sergio, Rene and Adi. Jeans by Ball and shirts from Woodhouse. Picking up garments, trying things on.

“Has Greavsie got this, Tone?”

“Does Felice wear Nike?”

Forest Hills or Wimbledon? Skiing or sailing? Pringle jumpers for goalposts. Golfing for hooligans. Tennis for thugs.

What a strange world we inhabit. What would Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher think of us? If only she knew we existed. Just young men from Carlisle to Canterbury that she knows fuck all about. All dressed up with lots of places to go. If there’s a war I’m sure she’ll come a calling.

There aren’t many dressed up in the Castle but it’s swarming with Leeds. Moustachioed men looking for a fight. And looking at my puffy pumps and faded jeans. My bubble coat and my Lancashire demeanour. Az is looking sheepish under his Guinness and hangover as my Northern accent cures their curiosity and they go on about their business not clever enough to know their white from red roses.

GOOD AWAY/BAD AWAY

As our third season in this super-duper league (sic) comes to a close we have a look at the places we visit(ed) this time out. None are magnificent and some are quite simply horrible but "live the dream" and all that, hey.

GOOD ARSENAL/BAD SPURS
We've done better at Spurs than Arsenal but the day out can't compete. Sure our little gang has found a corking place to drink for Spurs - you can ask but we're not telling you - but you just can't compare it with Upper Street/Islington High Street.
Oh and for a "Big Four" Arsenal's fans aren't too bad. Spurs fans, meanwhile, still think they are a "Big Four" club - whatever that means.

GOOD NEWCASTLE/BAD SUNDERLAND
Say whatever you want about Geordies and how we are laughing at the moment you cannot deny Newcastle is a great day out. There's just something about the place that means that every pub you go in you know you'll be welcome. On their travels their fans are tedious but up there it's great. I have also never seen so many Gregg's bakeries in one place. Sunderland meanwhile is two and half hour's of your day wasted. Arrogance knows no bounds with these men. Roy Keane and them were made for each other and as for finding a decent boozer around the ground - forget it.

GOOD CITY BAN/UNITED
Okay so City's in the middle of the Chatsworth estate and you are surrounded by polyester-clad imbeciles from Stockport but as the venerable Les Bagg says: "You never fail to have a good day out against them. There's nowt around the ground but at least in the city centre it isn't full of Irish day trippers. I know United have lots of decent fans but the impression you get when you go the game is that 2/3 of their fans don't know who they are playing that day. Never have I had so many one-way conversations as with United fans. Plus we always get stuffed there and you can't move your legs in the cramped seating.

GOOD FULHAM/BAD CHELSEA
It looks like Fulham may be going this season but we'll meet again soon. Couldn't give two hoots about the team and their fans only seem to be there as there is nothing on at Twickenham that day but as for days out - you simply cannot go wrong. Across the river and there are pubs aplenty. The weather always seems to be okay and the catering in the ground is the best in the premiership. Chelsea meanwhile - where do you begin? Earl's Court is okay but everything else about the day including the ticket prices is shite. You just yearn for the 80s, Gate 13 and hoolies from Guildford.

GOOD EVERTON/BAD LIVERPOOL
Ditto the City/United bit exactly but replace Stockport with North Wales!

GOOD PORTSMOUTH/BAD READING
Both are miles away but when you get to Portsmouth it's great. Yeah they've a bit of a reputation but they have no gripe with us and the pubs are fine. The ground is glorious. Reading meanwhile is the biggest shitehole ever with more fake Stone Island on display than in Platt Bridge. The ground is miles from the town and their JCLs make some of our own look like die-in-the-wool home and away since 1932 fans! And when you walk out the ground you really do not know where you are. Is it Derby Leicester, Bolton…

GOOD VILLA/BAD BIRMINGHAM
I'm pushing it a bit here as both days are pretty much the same. Train to Brum then trek to ground either on train, foot or taxi. The grog is the city centre is fine if you know where you are going but Villa just about shades it as somewhere at the back of your mind that Zulu stuff still lingers and the view (along with tellys on the concourse) is superior at Villa

GOOD BLACKBURN/BAD BOLTON
Again pushing it but this time because both are shite! Blackburn is just a dump of a place however they try and dress it up and as for the little mob of plazzy lads they brought to the JJB this year - deary deary me. Bolton, meanwhile, is over. A great-looking stadium (in my opinion) but where's the edge? It's a local derby and everybody's trudging miles to their cars to get away. Their fans are also total utter twats. Amir Khan, Ronnie Irani and Vernon Kay, anybody?

GOOD WIGAN/BAD WEST HAM
Hypothetical here obviously but how can an away fan not have a good day at Wigan? Cheapest ground in the country - we even provide a plush bar just for away fans and an away fans-only pub. The town is chocker with pubs and pie shops, there's a good rail network and Wigan fans tend to drink away from the town leaving it to you. West Ham meanwhile is hard work. The tube seems to take forever and pubs are not exactly friendly. That said we found a cracker this season and of course we nearly always win there so when I say bad, up against anybody but Wigan it would edge a Good.

BOOK OF DAYS - A REVIEW

An Ashton-in-Makerfield man has produced the first great album of 2008.
Book of Days by Nigel Clothier is a slice of Americana from the north west.

The north west of England.

Over the course of 11 songs Clothier takes you deep into both his heart and the heart of some exquisite music.

Long considered an expert songwriter for his work with his classic rock band Sharp Practise, Clothier shows off his beautiful voice and incredible musicianship on his solo outing.

With Clothier playing all the instruments (including a wonderful steel guitar) and immaculately produced by Fran Ashcroft - who has worked with a whole host of artistes including Gorillaz it really is a charming album.

Clothier's diction, the tunes and the downright love on songs such as the title track, Whisper in my mouth and Little English will melt the hardest of hearts.

Yet this is no one-paced album as the jaunty celebration of Manchester (and Ian Brown) in Exceptin' a beach hits the honky tonk path via rockabilly to happiness whilst the upcoming single Come North introduces the casual listener into both Clothier's and our world.

That world is one of perfectly crafted songs, simple lyrics (that are the hardest kind to write) and all wrapped up in a beautiful warm musical glow.

Switch off the lights, pour yourself a nice glass of bourbon and just imagine that you are in Austen, Texas rather than Ashton, Wigan and enjoy your own book of days.

Check out www.myspace.com/nigelclothier for details of the album and www.myspace.com/sharppractise for his excellent rock band.

Alison Goldfrapp evokes the spirit of Britt Ekland in ‘The Wickerman’ in her band’s fourth album, Seventh Tree.
After the glam trappings of the last outing, ‘Supernature’, Goldfrapp and her musical partner Will Gregory hark back to the mood on their debut album ‘Felt Mountain’.
The record awash with strings and choirs takes on a psychedelic folk feel as Goldfrapp’s West Country burr sets the tone beautifully.
With images of owls and glamorous maidens the artwork continues the theme of an old pagan England.
The lyrics, however, are timeless as Goldfrapp looks for, is obsessed by and finally betrayed by love.
So much so that she ends up in A&E – in the song of the same name – after taking some pills.
A suicide attempt has never sounded so romantic.
That is the joy of Goldfrapp as they and their music inhabit a complex world.
Sad songs are followed by joyous romps such as ‘Caravan Girl’ and ‘Happiness’ as the band refuses to rest on its laurels.
Two years ago Alison Goldfrapp was dressed as a horse and whipping her audience into a disco frenzy while now she’s dancing around a maypole. .
Seventh Tree is the ideal album to fill the cold nights until May Day arrives.Seventh Tree is available on Mute Recordings £9.99.

Joe Hawkins goes to City - shameless

Now my two fellow travellers decide that they’ll meet at noon in Manchester for this one. Well there is no way that I’m making two shandies last five hours so I jump a later train – the 12.10 or summat!

There is a fair smattering of Latics’ lads on there including (amazingly) some young lads in decent trainers. You’re almost there lads – just ditch the parrothead haircuts. Trainers look alright with lads with long hair, crops and bald heads. The world’s your oyster – just ditch the Robbie Williams boyfriend look and you’ll be fine, eh.

So it’s off the train at Salford, up to Kendals, across the road to Waterstones, through to Ran, up to Size? then up the escalators in M&S and that’s the first bit of the window shopping (and ten minutes) done!
Up Market Street, avoiding freaks, geeks, lefties, bible bashers and check out East European minxes in the lingerie section of TK Maxx. It’s then around the back into Tib Street and the holy grail that is Oi Polloi with Nige and the lads telling me that the yellow K Way kagoul will look good in Wigan!
Could have bought the shop if a) I was loaded and b) it fitted me.

And then thankfully another mate bells me and is in the Waldorf. Time to knock this shopping lark on the head and have a glass of pop.
How do Colleen and Alex do it?

The Waldorf is full of City, we keep ourselves to ourselves before meeting others in The Castle. Well I do – they won’t let my mate in as he has his lad and his lad’s mate with him. Licensing rules or summat. Which is fair enough if The Castle didn’t contravene every other Health & Safety rule there is! There’s water dripping in, the bogs are flooded and the place is genuinely filthy. Ah, home from home.
Anyhow there is a nice little chips and rice girl serving that cannot speak a word of English. She also cannot add up. Dare not think how much the till is down when she finishes her shift. I did her twice but, hey c’est le vie and all that Italian nonsense.
A swifty in that Kettle place and then the walk up to the Chatsworth estate for the game.

Personally I don’t get City. There is no atmosphere at all about the place. Now if you stand on the bridge at Latics ten minutes before kick off there is a buzz about the place. They get twice as many as us but they all seem to be just going out of duty. People are getting out of cabs and pottering from pubs but it just doesn’t seem to mean anything. I may be wrong. They may raise themselves for certain games but against us I’ve never been impressed at their place. At ours they were fine and came out with my favourite chant of the year – when our East Stand massive gave them the “Where were you when you were shit?” stuff – they to a man, woman, boy and girl gave it the “Feed the Goat and he will score”. To which 75% of our lot hadn’t a clue! At their gaff there is a sort of singing section to our right that don’t sing and for once I even join in a couple of ours. I leave the “Luis Antonio” Culture Club one alone as firstly it doesn’t scan and secondly I’m not singing a Boy George tune. Last time I saw that twat was in the Electric Ballroom when a mate of mine hit that bastard mate of his Marilyn. That’s another story for another day! But hey let the kids do what they want – and if it isn’t nicked off some other club then good luck to ‘em.
The other thing about the City fans is their banners. Not as many as last time out and thankfully I couldn’t see the Wigan City one about but there was one that said “Manchester Massive this is our Home” which is ironic on so many levels. Then there was the “Prawn-free Zone” one that every time you looked at it your eyes were diverted to the hundreds of executive lounges behind them. But hey, bless ‘em.

As for the game – pretty dull. They passed it about a bit with no end result. Stephen Ireland’s wig is even more “wiggy” in the flesh and that keeper Joe Hart is a cunt. It was good to play on grass. Valencia was excellent and Kirkland is a different keeper since Nigel Spink arrived. We keep it tight then have a go in the last ten. Should and could have won it. The excellent Sgt Wilson Palacios squandered the best chance but in football-cliché speak: “We’d have settled for a point before the game, for sure.”
On leaving the Chatsworth it’s bucketing down. Oh how I laugh as those divvies that have come without coats have to brave the monsoon. A wise man once said: “There is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing.” He was right. I pull the zip up on my Peter Storm and tread through puddles in my Walsh runners and arrive in The Wheatsheaf, off Oldham Street, relatively dry. At this point it would be unkind to mention the Mudhutter that chose to wear a very nice pair of cream suede trainers to the match. Four words: Read The Weather Forecast

Well we settle on a quiet couple before two city fans bowl in. they’re okay – well the one that isn’t beaked up to the gills is! They are fair enough but I have to chuckle when I ask them where they are from and they reply: “Stockport.”
Some things never change. Like us never losing to City in the Premier league

It is now P6 W4 D2 L0 F11 A4 (cheers YOTAC for info)
Bring on the Arsenal on the JJB meadow

"By Jesus said Paddy"

"By Jesus said Paddy I sing it so well
I think I'll get up and I'll sing it again
Over and over and over again."

I hear voices as I lay. Kentucky Fried Chicken brain, throat like sandpaper. I turn to my right as the sun pushes through the thin curtains highlighting the portrait - from The Face - of the beautiful black girl on my wall.

For a second I place my hand to the left of the bed to see if anybody is there. There isn't. I am home alone. Alone with the voices of Jesus and Paddy. But thanfully no apparition, no ghostly apparition, no Highgate vampire.

Not today, not last night and hopefully not today.

I shower and I'm fine. Lazy Sunday afternoon in my stately bedsit. Or maybe a stroll across the heath. Or down to Camden to see how the punks, freaks, rockabillies and soul boys are doing. Or maybe I should just walk.

Why not? I set off: Through Highgate Woods, up through the village, by the cemetery, down Swain's Lane and onto the heath. Not glancing back. Not looking. Not stopping at those gothic gates.

On the heath I am lost in my own world. This is not my place. I look different to the people on here. There is no reek of money off me. These are the folks with children called Jemima and Piers. Their dogs are pedigree and their friends are chums. They dogs not bum like where I am from. Nannies. Mary Poppins "80s stylee". Swedish au pairs. So cold and so concise. Like the heath itself.

I wander rapidly from the crowd. Bubble jacket to keep ot the cold. Ducks on the pond and duck down in my coat. Keeping me warm. Keeping me fine.

Sony Walkman screams: "Geno Geno".

I am that young soul rebel as I walk faster until I reach Hampstead village. I put my head in Meenys and check their preppie attire as the girls from the JFS take their coffees and shake their tousled hair. Flirting with the boys from Highgate School. Across religions but not across the classes.

I drop in the Flask for a pint and a peruse of the Sunday broadsheets. It is not my place but they do not bother me. In their grandfather's clothes with their arranged brides. And their sons in their hand-me-downs down - or is it up - from Cambridge. But they go their way and I go mine.

From Hampstead to Belsize to Primrose to Camden. A quick walk around the market and some Mexican food. From pudding and chips to Pollo Picado. From punk to post-punk in a couple of years. And now there are people in make-up and dresses thinking they are original.

Have they never heard of The Sweet?

And then I'm heading north. Through Kentish Town and Tufnell Park. Archway, Highgate and home.

Walking for England. Walking to clear the head and clear the nightmares of vampires and how these streets are not paved with gold.

The cowboys in America call it hotwalking; as they walk the bucking broncos around the ring to calm those pesky mavericks down. I walk to cool myself down. I am a hotwalker....

SHIT FASHION LABEL OF THE MONTH - FEBRUARY

AND STEP FORWARD HENLEY’S – ON A WANKER’S BODY VERY NEAR YOU NOW!!!

A DIFFERENT KIND OF SHOE

The small Finnish company is taking advantage of its sportswear legacy by reintroducing classic designs under the Karhu Originals banner.
As we try and get away from the endless adidas reissues we like the these stripped down Karhu Originals Olympic trainers. These low trainers are available in leather or suede and in a range of colours. They're so named because they were part of the Olympic uniform for the Finnish team in 1972 - but as they looked so good, the company decided to mass produce them.

They retail for around £70 - the Karhu site has a list of places where you can buy them.

http://www.karhuoriginals.com/

21 REASONS WHY PREMIERSHIP FOOTBALL IS DEAD

and that is before this 39th Step or whatever it is...

1. MOTD - It was always Match of the Day and Sam Leitch was the presenter

2. The chase for 4th spot

3. Cheerleaders - If want to see half-naked 13-year-olds I'll give Gary Glitter a bell for his contacts book

4. MOTD 2 and the despicable Adrian Chiles

5. £48 a ticket at Chelsea

6. No edge in the air around the ground/streets

7. SKY Sports and all who sail in that abomination of a TV station

8. Games at dinner and tea times

9. New kits (normally 3) each season

10. People going to the game dressed up and thinking they are in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

11. Programmes resembling magazines, costing a fiver and having nothng but shite in them

12. Irish and Scandanavians asking if you've "any spares"

13. Sixteen teams trying to finish in 17th place

14. SKY Super Sundays

15. Facist Stewards and Police. Don't stand up, don't shout, don't have a beer before you go the game

16. Football as product

17. Bling culture amongst the players. Let me run this by you: Putting a diamond stud in your ear does not make you a great footballer

18. And big black cars that cost more than a 3-bedroom house impress nobody other than that scouse slut Sheringham was rattling

19. Opta Stats, Pro zone, etc etc - You're trying to kick a ball into a net at one end and stop it going in the net at the other...

20. Starting elevens wth not one Englishman in them

21. Because we lose every week

I'm a Muswell Hillbilly Boy

“Well I said goodbye to Rosie Rooke this morning,
I'm gonna miss her bloodshot alcoholic eyes,
She wore her Sunday hat so she'd impress me,
I'm gonna carry her memory 'til the day I die.

Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

I’m in the pavement looking up at the stars. Except there aren’t any stars as it’s still sunny. My shoes are sticking to the tarmac and I’m smiling and I’m singing.

Soho never looks better than when you’re wasted on the pavement. And I’m singing and I’m laughing and out of the corner of my eye I see Guzzling spark out. The Salford national anthem is playing and the pigs will be here in a minute.

Out my right eye I see the trashed ice cream van and remember that Guzzling has only gone and tipped it over. He kept asking for a flake for his Guinness and then there was a crash and a bang and a wallop and I fell over. Marty ran. I tried to run but just kept singing and sticking to the tarmac and Guzzling collapsed.

The filth is here – never when you want one, eh?

The landlord of the French House - who is actually French - has identified Guzzling as the culprit and they are currently trying to pick him up in all senses of the word.

Shocked into action I check my pocket and roll the bottle of poppers under the ice cream van. Whizzed up and popped Guzzling is for it.

I somehow raise my feet from the ground and haul myself up. I walk in a circle and stumble into a table and chair but I manage to compose myself somehow. Guzzling appears comatose and I walk past him and start to make my way to the Cambridge singing quietly:

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

“Oh move along you fucking pissed-up wanker else you’ll be joining this waster here”, says PC Cunt

“Sure sir.”

And then I hear it.

Guzzling, quietly at first and then louder and then full blast.

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

Oh no!

“Oh yes”, says PC Cunt as I feel the steel on my wrists and they tighten the cuffs just that bit too tight and then comes the dig in the ribs. Always the ribs, and always the same response from me:

“Is that the best you can do?” and it is, as the second never hurts as much.

“I’ve got your number hit me in the face.”

But they never do.

It seems an age before Guzzling joins me in the back of the van.

“Vine Street it is then, Guzzling.”

Vine Street it is then, Rich.”

And we laugh and then we start singing softly:

"They'll move me up to Muswell Hill tomorrow,
Photographs and souvenirs are all I've got,
They're gonna try and make me change my way of living,
But they'll never make me something that I'm not.
Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

From a work in progress; SKIN AND BONE

Lyrics: R.D.Davies