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