The holiday is over. The weather may be glorious and sunny, but not glorious and sunny enough that it can withstand me laying out on a sun lounger on Saturday - within 20 minutes we had thunder and lightning. Bob and Bonio shouldn’t bother with concerts. Send me out to Ethiopia or Sudan and I’ll turn the Sahara into a very wet sandpit.
Turned on BBC Breakfast news, where we had some odious fascist bint preening herself about how wonderful she and her fellow councillors were to enforce a ban on alcohol being drunk outdoors in Brighton. Coming from a town that employed the gestapo to enforce the most un-driver friendly parking restrictions known to man, I’m sure the Hitler wannabes are well and truly proud. The gurning idiot Richard Westcott suggested that the police had been enforcing the rules over-zealously, you know, by probably stopping a law-abiding citizen coming out of Tescos with a four pack of Stella in a carrier bag, but the preening Eva Braun was having none of it, saying she knew nothing of these “isolated incidents”. Missing the point entirely, she said that the council and the police had a great relationship. Which is nice. Maybe if the police had rounded up the drunken idiots in the first place as the law allows, then maybe, just maybe, someone who’d like a cold beer while lounging on the beach – and who is totally law abiding – could do so without the Waffen Brighton Council SS descending on them. As many have said, they’ve pretty much done all they can with smoking, so now it is the alcohol consumers they are coming after.
Anyone not in East London know where the “Eastway” is. Well, I know now. But I didn’t on Friday night at the end of a 12 hour drive down from Newtonmore in Scotland. According to the board on the North Circular, the Eastway was closed. I found out that it was the underpass between Old Ford and Leytonstone that takes M11/A12 drivers down to the Blackwall Tunnel. At 10:30 on Friday night it was shut. Now I know what Homerton and Hackney look like. I also know that the authorities who decided to close the thing at this time are fucking inconsiderate morons who assume that everyone who uses the major north-south London cross route will know what the fucking Eastway is, and for shutting the thing at a pretty busy time judging by the considerable queue. If I had five minutes with these pricks.
When we got home, our beloved gestapo Met Police were on helicopter duty, buzzing over area nice and low, nice and noisily, and nice and considerately at 12:30 in the early hours of Saturday morning. After a week of relative peace and quiet, this intrusion was most certainly not appreciated, given my eyes were popping out of my head, and the dog didn’t know whether it was coming and going. I’m sure Chopper Squad were doing invaluable work. Probably trying to find someone who drunk a shandy on Brighton Beach in contravention of the law!
Why are weather people warning us about the effects of heat by referring us to NHS Direct? In extreme cold, like we had in February, they weren’t referring us to the local council for help with our fuel bills, or snow ploughs are us to get us out, so why now? I mean, heat kills a lot more than cold, doesn’t it? Pricks.
Don’t even start me on Michael Jackson. Oh well, you did. I happened to admire a lot of his music, and some of the stuff not from the Thriller / Bad era. I liked the Dangerous album, which had some cracking tracks on by Teddy Riley, and also some of the later stuff too. I maybe glossed over all the lurid personal life stuff, which is a bit hypocritical, but as a musician, I had the utmost respect. He was a freak, no doubt, in all senses of the world. But really, the media went all Diana on us and the zombie populace followed with bells and whistles on. An amusing interlude came as I careered down the A12 on the way to the Eastway blockage. It was on a Radio 5 show hosted by Stephen Nolan. A level-headed gentleman did the decent thing in ringing in by saying the media were stoking up hysteria and that people who came on crying in grief at the loss of a remote, isolated, lunatic were not exactly reacting in proportion.
If you blame the media on these phone ins, watch out. Nolan got all prissy. The chap ringing in said the reaction had amused him. Nolan said what was amusing about the gut-wrenching reactions of people who had never met the bloody recluse (I’m paraphrasing). He then teed up someone from his Ulster show who was blubbing away. Proving the point to me, that these people are a trifle unhinged. As I said to the beloved “these people have evidently not lost someone really close to them…” We then had a breathless need for the mostly garbage line-up at Glastonbury to name check Michael Jackson, as if it actually meant something if they did. Why? Why does it matter if there is any reaction? Some no mark band made a stupid joke, which is a bit like Jimmy Krankie having a pop at Mike Tyson. Huw Cornwell said he wasn’t going to dedicate a song to Michael Jackson, showing how edgy he is at 94 years old. Someone who I never heard of laced a line of a Jackson song in, as if it was some momentous reaction rather than saying about the artist who did it “who?”.
No. Diana syndrome. A freak dies in mysterious circumstances. The freak’s family are going to play this for all its worth. And the actual importance of the bloke, as genius of his age, will be consumed in more freakery than could ever be imagined. I’m not so much amused, as bemused.
Later, for more of the same.