On the Sixth Day

When I were a lad, a certain Leo B Stanley, sometime DJ at Manchester Indie-Valhalla, The Venue, and proprietor of Identity Clothing in Affleck’s Palace, made a tidy little packet with his range of Manchester T-Shirts. These bore such legends as Manchester: North of England and Born in the North, Exist in the North, Return to the North, Die in the North, as well as This is not Manchester, this a trip. But the one which was taken up with most enthusiasm was ‘And on the sixth day, God created Manchester’. 

Some may think this latter statement is, at best, a clever pun, or at worst, a heinous blasphemy requiring correctional behavior involving hot spikes, rusty screwy things and a masked dwarf. I, however, think there is more than the smidgeon of truth in this. Only a Mancunian could have lived through the rain that Noah faced and built a boat on which to carry the band which made The House of the Rising Sun an international hit.

Being a Mancunian, I have a strained relationship with the rain. It is, simultaneously, an integral component of my cultural identity, and a wet pain in the arse. Or, more often, face.

The last few months have been kind enough to make sure I’ve never felt far from home wherever I’ve been in England. A summer of camping was accompanied by the grey symphony of celestial tears. The return to school has seen the persistent drizzle of a British Autumn. The last two days have witnessed an all-out assault on The North by the splashy elements. There have been days when it has seemed like the world is made of rain and that days of sunshine and clear skies have been the stuff that dreams are made of.

The slate sky deluge is lovely under certain circumstances.  All of these circumstances involve indoors, central heating and looking through a window. Sometimes there’s cocoa, sometimes there’s Stella. This week’s morning rain is ruined for me the moment I have to leave the house.  Sober. Another example of work metaphorically, and literally, pissing on me*.

Rain pervades British culture. Travis famously sang, questioningly, Why does it Always Rain on me?. ‘Because you’re shit’ was the obvious answer. Shirley Manson, of Garbage fame, fiercely claimed to be Only Happy When it Rains. This didn’t explain why she moved to L.A. though. Unless she meant it metaphorically and literally, and L.A.’s absence of real rain would be like emotional rain to her, thus making her happy. I may be over-thinking this. Or under-thinking it. Or not thinking it all. The point is, we’ve written a lot of songs about rain.

 James Dean was iconic in the rain. Macarthur Park’s cake got well and truly trashed in the downpour. The Cult loved it. Dustin Hoffman was a superhero who could harness its power**.

But I digress.  Rain. It’s wet, it’s outside, and it’s coming for you. Embrace the grey. Learn to love the dampness of being. It won’t be beaten ,and maybe, just maybe, you too can be a Mancunian, if even just for a day.

   *          I know this is only metaphorically. I’m not Alanis fucking Morissette. It just works better stylistically like this. Never let it be said I choose substance over form.

**     I’ve never seen Rainman. I assume this is what it’s about.

Musical Chairs

There was a rumour that during the sackings of ministers recently, Dave 'David' Cameron was drinking red wine while on the job.  Now, I'm all in favour of a casual attitude to booze, but if I tried to do my job while drinking booze, I'd be sacked. And probably on the front page of The Sun with the headline 'Drunken Disgrace of Trashed Teacher', or somesuch. All I ask for is equality of opportunity. If he can booze at work, I'd like to be allowed to sip from a can of Stella while the kids are peer-assessing their work. That's all. It's hardly the moon on a stick.

The recent Tory reshuffle (Officially the coalition's reshuffle, but let's not kid ourselves) has confirmed my belief that Dave 'Kill Me With Disease' Cameron actually has neither shame nor sense.  His appointments, movements and, equally telling, non-movements,  are reminiscent of the worst excesses of historical power, such as the time Caligula made his horse a consul, or that incident when Philip Green made his unqualified daughter a shoe designer for Top Shop. Now I only buy Ladies' shoes from ebay. Preferably pre-worn.*

Speaking of horses, there is no question that Caligula's  horse would be a much, much safer pair of hands (You know what I mean. Pipe down, pedants.) with the economy than that dead donkey Gideon is presently doing. Even now, two thousand years after its death. Dave, drop the dead donkey.

Among other appointees by Dave 'Shoot Me in the Face with a Rusty Nail Gun' Cameron is Maria Miller as Minister for Equality. This is an MP whose voting records on issue such as abortion, IVF and hate crimes makes this placement as sensible as making John Wayne Gacy Minister for Children. Or Minister for Clowns. Or Minister for Child Clowns.  The point is, it's a piss-take. Or a radical re-invention of the word 'equaility', depending on your point of view. And degree of sanity.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Toryland, Owen Patterson has found himself the Minister for the Environment. I wouldn't describe Patterson as a stereotypical Tory. That's mostly because I'm a pathological liar, but also because I wouldn't describe Hilter as a naughty boy. It'd be a tad understated. With Patterson, the giveaway is that Norman Tebbit was waxing lyrical about him on Any Questions last night, which is an endorsement as telling as the EDL's endorsement of Dave 'Feed me to Wild Dingoes' Cameron's speech on multiculturalsim last year.

Patterson likes shooting shit, killing shit, refuting scientific evidence and being the most ill-fitting ministerial appointment since Maria Miller.

More disturbing is that well-known Cockney Rhyming slang Jeremy Hunt was made Minister for Health. This weasel of a creature has spent his political career lying through his serpentine teeth while  furiously cleaning Rupert Murdoch's haemorrhroids with his mendacious tongue.  It's not just that the NHS will be doomed to ruination, but that Rupey will now have the unfettered access to the steady supply of fresh human blood in which he must bathe daily.

In essence, CallMeDave's Titanic Deckchair Shuffle** is big 'Fuck You. Fuck You. And Fuck You' to the British Public, to Human Evolution and to the Universe. Dave is King, and if he wants to sack the servants and make the peasants hand over their first-born to their feudal overlords, then that is what will be done.

Until the next election, when this shower of shite will be wiped from the face of British Politics, and become just a pub trivia question - what was the most inept British Government ever?

And why were their bodies never found?

* Not really, but there is apparently a massive market for this.

**Over-used phrase of the week