More of a man than Philip Larkin (Warning:contains disturbing images)

Today I killed an animal knowingly.

In 1978, I claimed to have shot a sparrow with my uncle's air-rifle;
but on reflection I clipped its wing at best.
I was 11 years old.

I am now 44, and I have never killed, or attempted to kill, another animal knowingly.

Until today.

Today, I bludgeoned a rabbit with a piece of metal scaffolding.

I missed its head and neck with the first blow, and it squealed.
(Rabbits don't make noises in everyday life)
I broke its back, before despatching a blow to the head, and rendering it unconscious.
I continued to batter it repeatedly, in order to ensure the swiftness of deaths, that a man of little skill could best administer.

And tonight, I know I will have nightmares.

Of the thousands of rabbits that burrow and forage the grounds of Geldeston Hall, only a small percentage are blighted with myxomatosis.
But it's in the summer months when these poor, ravaged creatures are at their most apparent.
Grazing the lush verdant pasture at dusk, within the safety of the numbers from their warren, it's hard to distinguish the weak from the plenty.
It's only when they scatter, in flight and in fear, that the diseased are exposed.
Oblivious to sight or sound, blinded and deaf to approaching danger, these half-dead lagomorphs dribble on grass with no sense of impending mortality, or anything other than cruel raison d'etre.
Myxomatosis makes zombies out of rabbits.

Today I had to 'poo-pick' my wife's horses' field.
With a radio blaring out Test Match Special, and a determined stride, I entered the field with purpose and a desire to be done as soon as possible.
Rabbits scarpered and crows flew away.

Except for one.

I knew immediately that Benjamin Bunny was a myxi-case.
Oblivious to my grumblings and the trundling of the wheelbarrow, BB continued to nuzzle the nettles that littered the shallow hollows, that discredit East Anglia's claim to 'flatness'.
On closer inspection, BB had only half a face.
No cheek. No chin.
Tumours covering the remaining flea-bitten fur.

His eye complete in its decay, the lower jaw was exposed and his rotting gums were bleeding and raw.
The rest of BB's afflictions are too painful to describe, let alone endure.

I left the field and sought about procuring a weapon that would bring an end to BB's suffering.
A pile of builders' scaffolding poles provided the implement that would bestow upon me the title of 'God' for the next five minutes.

When I had finished, and was sure that the suffering had ended, I scooped up the carcass and dumped it with the horse-shit on the compost heap.

The right thing had been done.
I was shaking and I was numb.
But I was sure the right thing had been done.

I then went home and cried.

For BB - RIP.

A Little Bit of History Repeating (Part II)

Springtime in Hampshire.

A tiny glimpse of sunshine, and a chance to dry out my karate shoes.
Mum said I couldn't have tukka boots because they were too expensive.
Everyone I knew had tukka boots.
My decision to rebel lay solely at my mother's door.

With the teenage yearning to fuck anything that moved, in a small town where the village-green offered little opportunity, and after the coldest winter 'on record', I was left with the ability to do nothing more than watch the recently created TVS, whilst dreaming of MTV and the girls out of the Human League.
To me it was still the same old shit.
Pipkins, irregular Schools Progammes and Fred Dineage.
All that had changed was the livery, and the 'greed-is-good' mindset of its owners.
Unemployment had hit a post war all-time high, and the Saatchi-Tory claim that 'Labour Isn't Working' appeared to be coming back to haunt them.

A philosopher once said: "Man does not normally wish to fight.
If you want a man to fight, make him feel he is under attack"

And somewhere in the South Atlantic, a scrap metal dealer was bringing out the man in Margaret Thatcher.


Yateley. St.Peter's Churchyard. March. 1982.

I understood Paul's rejection of me as a friend.
With me only home from boarding school during the holidays, our relationship was strained.
He had other friends around him, and I was becoming increasingly more 'strange'.
It was Paul's dad that told him to be wary of me.
With my badly applied make-up, my flasher's coat and girls' school cardigan, I didn't really fit in.
And if I was honest, this was exactly what I wanted.

Bizarrely, the older kids from the village-green didn't have a problem.
They knew I was weird, but they liked nothing more than interrogating me on subjects such as 'life in a dormitory of 20 boys', over an illegal Pernod & black in the Dog & Partridge pub.

Paul didn't come to the pub.
A year younger than me, Paul was yet to get the awkward bum-fluff and forced chin-stubble that I had developed.
With cheap foundation stolen from my sister, and a red greasepaint stick, stolen from backstage-drama, acting as a substitute for blusher, I hoped I would resemble Philip Oakey.
Later in the year Don't You Want Me would become my lament for Paul.

And mum & dad seemed particularly agitated today.

Home from work early, dad depressed the silver cylindrical button at the top of the TV.
The picture rolled and switched from Fred Dineage to Richard Baker;
and as if fulfilling my parents' week-long prophecies out of spite for my holidays, we were informed by the voice of Mary, Mungo & Midge, that we were at war.

Why would Argentina invade a Scottish island?
Who is Lord Carrington?
What the fuck does this have to do with me anyway?
How old is Richard Baker now?
Are you wearing eyeliner?
What are you? A poof?!?

Questions bounced off the artexed ceiling.
A family united in turmoil, embroiled in a battle several thousand miles away.
Mum said 3 Para were already on stand-by.
Dad said 2 Para were better equipped.
I told them that Andy from school's dad was already in Scotland.

"It'll mean more overtime" said mum.
"It'll mean less overtime" said dad.
I didn't care, but I didn't say anything.
"Go and wash your face" said mum.

The churchyard was one person short of the usual habitue'.
Zoe explained that Paul no longer wanted to be mates.
Adam & Jason giggled and said something about pillows.
I lit a crumpled JPS that I found in my overcoat lining, and spat amongst spit, hitting the flagstones littered with butts and Juicy Fruit gum.
I felt nervous, embarassed and flushed.
One by one they walked away.
Zoe stayed, and I asked her what she thought about the Falklands.
"Dunno" she said, grabbing my cardigan and ramming her tongue down my throat.

I walked home alone, hoping the breeze would rid me of the smell of cheap cigarettes and teenage fumbling.
One of the older kids shouted 'homo' and then farted loudly.
His friends, too young to be jobless, but angry, and too pissed to care, grunted in appreciation.

The lights were quickly switched off on my arrival.
I turned on the telly and listened to Fred Dineage bid "a goodnight from all at TVS".
I scrubbed at the greasepaint with Imperial Leather, irritating spots I never knew I had.
I went to bed and dreamt about Zoe.

By the end of 1982, nearly a thousand lives were lost in the Falklands conflict, and many more suffered horrific injuries.
Margaret Thatcher was lauded by the tabloids as the greatest home premier since Churchill.
Ignoring the race-riots of a year earlier, she set about creating a police-state, and systematically destroyed the British mining industry.
Less than 25 miles from Yateley, 30,000 women set up a peace-camp at Greenham Common.
It was to last for nearly 20 years.

I swapped 'homo' for 'pinko', Human League for The Smiths, and make-up for a flat-top haircut.
Mum & dad were both made redundant.
And I never saw Paul or Zoe again.

I was a teenage new romantic
We wore make-up
I had spots
It was shit

IS NATHAN SYKES THE 'NEW' JULIAN ASSANGE?

Has anyone else noticed that Nathan Sykes (The Wanted) and Eric Sykes (Harry Potter) have never been seen on stage, or in a movie, together at the same time?
Although I can't suggest they are one & the same person (there is a slight age difference) it is possible they are closely related, and have been part of a long-standing family feud.
The fact they have the same surname would seem to support this.

The important question is; can we really trust Nathan Sykes?

I'll leave that one up to you.

TOP 3 NON-PREMIERSHIP ADVERTISING HOARDINGS w/e 14-08-11 (New season- New rules)

Let's be honest, it's been a tough start to the season.

The BBC appears to be blurring a lot of the hoardings, with particular interest to the 'local' advertisers, in the higher leagues.

NPower, Coca-Cola, Rainham Steel and Bet365.com appear to be immune to this blurring.

Of course, my failing eyesight may have something to do with this, but even so, this is about how small business advertises on the BBC.
Partially-sighted people need product too.

As a consequence, for the first time in ToNoPrAdHo history, we will be announcing the Top 4 (yes FOUR!) Non-Premiership advertising hoardings on the BBC w/e 14-08-11.

(This may become a weekly thing, depending on vision)

B.LECKEY: ROOFING - Scunthorpe Utd.

GARY FINNEY: GENERAL BUILDER - Aldershot Town.

MIKE LOCK: CONSTRUCTION - Yeovil Town.

GUTTERFIX LtD. - Doncaster Rovers.

TWITTER FEED MENTALITY

I'm an old-fashioned guy.
I like things the way they are;
but so often, they become something else entirely.
So quickly.

And I'm ashamed to say
I don't understand social-media.

I'm an old-fashioned guy.
I like it when things are planned;
but so often, things bombard your very senses
to the point of overload.

You feel ashamed to say
"I fuckin' detest social-media!"

It makes me sound like a psycho
or a schizo at best.
It's what I call my Twitter-feed Mentality.

Egypt.
From Hossam.
RT. @Robert Mackey - New York Times

"the tear gas canisters r being shot @ v dangerous level, like knees or abdomen.. We have to dodge them"

Via Facebook.
From Yanny Mac & Pikey Paddy.

"Homecoming Gig! Great Yarmouth Pier's Pasquale & Depp reunited for one last time. This Saturd"

Norwich.
From TractorGirl
RT. @YannyMac

"Ipswich FC are guilty of commercial suicide"

Beccles.
From YannyMac
RT @Robert Mackey @Hossam

"the tear gas canisters r being shot @ v dangerous level, like knees or abdomen.. We have to dodge them"

I'm an old-fashioned guy.
I like it when things are peaceful;
but so often your laptop window gets fogged up
with reality.

This is what I call my Twitter-feed Mentality.

Cricket's Greatest Ever Test Series (Bob Willis)

BBC Radio 5Live had a phone-in-cum-wankfest yesterday evening, about what should 'top' the all-time best ever cricket Test Series.
Inevitably, 2005 and 1981 demanded the greatest amount of airtime.
1960 and the Bodyline tour were given a scant glance .

And it all coincided with a Botham 'tribute', on the BBC.

If 1981 is voted 'the best' this evening
(and listening to the 40-something pundits' glee at reminiscing over O'Levels and 3 channel TV, I have no reason to doubt it will),
I sincerely hope Mr.Willis is given the credit he is due.

Bob Willis won the 1981 Series for England.
It was Bob that bowled out the Aussies.
Even with the follow-on.
Lest we forget.

The Incredible Story of The Fat Controller & Julian Assange's Penis

*Apologies*
I should've alerted you to the fact that this is a continuing 'Campaign Update'.

Tesco have finally removed the incredibly annoying Noddy Car from outside of their store.
Instead of "Come & play with me in Toyland' repeated over and over again, by a man who sounds suspiciously like Joe Pasquale, we now have the dulcet tones of Ringo Starr as the Fat Controller from Thomas the Tank Engine.

Julian Assange has not been seen in Ellingham or Beccles for over 48hrs now.
Knowing him, he's probably on some escapade in that London, chasing skirt and following his penis!
That lad will get himself in trouble one day. you mark my words.