Red Leader: Enemy activity has been slight

So back from wild Wales, which was ace. I think.

Only downer was getting too much country air during a tea-time visit to the pub, which, to the untrained eye, may have made it seem that I was hog-whimperingly drunk.

Not at all though. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Anyway, the consequence of this unexpected infusion of rural oxygen was that I ended up crawling home and falling asleep on the sofa at about 7.30pm - then not waking up until 7.30am, utterly unable to believe that a whole night had passed me by and this actually was morning.

This air-induced dementia caused me to feel puzzled, confused and rather head-achey for the rest of the day.

So I'm holding it to blame for me forgetting to clear the fridge of tomatoes, cheese and juice before I left.

Which means that, as the cottage may not be occupied for several weeks, I will have to make the 100-mile round trip again this affy to clear the fucking thing before it all rots down into a stinking compost.

DAMN YOU, AIR.

Being on here on a working day has made me feel all nostalgic for the times I used to while away my days (timewasting mercilessly) chatting and posting on BCUK.

And it made me realise what a lot of people have deleted their sites, or just sort of abandoned them, leaving them rusting and growing lichen (if that's biologically possible).

Whatever happened to Fruitbowl, Helly100, drainmybrain, Charlie, Flickflack, Darkside, Wifey, KM82, Nixie, and a cast of thousands?

Ah well. Time rolls on eh?

Even though it's pouring down, I have an almost overwhelming urge to escape to the country for a couple of days.

I've not been to "our" cottage in deepest, darkest North Wales for at least a year, and I really miss it today.

I love being there. I think there is something mystical and enchanting about being entirely on your own in the wilds of Wales.

The cottage is really old and really isolated, set back from a single-track road and about 100 yards away from the River Dee.

Beyond the river is a range of purple and green misty mountains that stretch off into the distance, and about a quarter mile downstream are the ruins of one of Owen Glyndwr's watchtowers.

The whole area is just drenched in history and when you're there, you can really tune in to the ghosts and shades of a long-lost time.

Especially just before sunset, when dusk is casting long shadows down the lane and the silence grows intense as the hedgerow birds and the inevitable flock of sheep settle down for the night.

I have a very active imagination and being alone in the cottage as darkness falls can be a bit spooky. Not really scary though. I've always felt welcome there.

There's an excellent old pub about a half mile down the lane set in a tiny village. So if I DO get spooked out I can always drown my sorrows by the pub hearth.

Anyway, writing about it has only increased by desire to be there.

I'm off to pack!

Every so often, like once in three years, I buy the Sunday Times.

It's always a worthwhile thing to do as it reminds me why I cancelled my subscription ages ago.

And so it was this Sunday. There was Jeremy Clarkson moaning on about how dreadful it is going to a restaurant "in the provinces"!

Ha! The predictable cunt comes from fucking Barnsley or something and worked on the Grimsby Evening News before lucking out with our licence fee money at the BB frigging C.

Tamara and that Guinness heiress, AA Gill and Tara PT - all the usual suspects were still there and still banging on dementedly about their wonderful London lives.

Mostly though this week, they are Fretting Over May's Invitations And That.

As indeed am I - and so should you be if you don't want to be chalked down for social death.

Have you got your V.V.I.P (note the extra fucking V) tickets for:

The Vanity Fair party at Cannes? P Diddy's bash at the Monaco Grand Prix? Naomi Campbell's birthday celebrations on the Aeolian islands?

And what about the difficulty of getting an appointment with Tamara Mellon's personal trainer?

Oh, and the handbag dilemma - which to choose? The new McQueen, the Valentino or the Miu Miu?

Plus, for every discerning reader, advice on what you should be listening to: BritneyFm.com, anybody?

"Britney songs all day long!!" as the fuckwit reviewer puts it.

It's all there and it froths on like this endlessly. As it always does.

How these fuckers get away with producing this breathless drivel week after week is a mystery.

But not one I could be bothered wasting too much time trying to solve.

I've done my bit now. Another three years before I'll have to do it again.

PS: A final thought on the hideous subject: "Secret whispers: Ronaldo's girlfriend was seen recently sporting 'R7' earrings!!! Talk about self-paraody!!!"

No, I didn't get it either.

Something happened today that affected me profoundly.

It's a very long story and will be the focus of a major show next week in the paper I edit.

There are so many aspects to it; most are at least disturbing, some are truly horrific.

The story is about the way some people are expected to live - in real danger and squalor, looked down upon and often mocked, totally powerless, despairing, neglected and ignored.

This of course is bad enough (if "bad" could even be considered to be anywhere near an adequate description). But there is another, nagging concept which I have been unable to shake from my mind since.

It is the concept of betrayal.

The concept that nothing has changed since the darkest days of Thatcher and her "survival of the fittest" acolytes and henchmen.

Nothing has moved forward one jot for those unfortunate (damned?) to a life on the sink estates, stuck in the generation after generation "Jobseekers" nightmare, stuck in a world which you or I would find incomprehensible and utterly terrifying.

They want the same for their kids as anyone else. Security, a safe place to go and play, an opportunity to earn a living, some bloody respect. In short, to be given a chance.

And I find it difficult to understand, let alone forgive, those who DO have the power, the influence and the ability to change things. Yet they do nothing. Well, nothing other that spin deceit and platitudes and then sit back toasting their own smug brilliance.

I'm going to stop going on now, but I'd love you to read some stuff by a Hero of mine, John Pilger, who wrote the following words in response to his disgust at Thatcherism.

Words written more than 20 years ago.

But can you not hear the echo reverberating, louder and louder, today?

And are they not a warning to those complacent with power to learn from recent history?

"Of course educating people 'once more to know their place' may face insurmountable difficulties.

Civil disturbances in those parts of Britain where Government policies of 'de-industrialisation' together with institutional racism have left fewer than 10 per cent of the young with any prospect of a practical purpose in their lives have become commonplace.

Following the riots of Handsworth, Brixton and Tottenham in autumn 1985 the political 'consensus' was briefly reinstated as Labour Party leaders joined with the Government to focus the public's attention on the criminality of what had happened, not on the causes.

A gloating speech by Enoch Powell, calling again for repatriation - sending the victims of Government policies and of racism back to where most of them had not come from - was described by the prime minister as 'very interesting' and 'worth reading very carefully indeed'."

'When the truth is replaced by silence, the silence is a lie.' - Yuri Yevtushenko

*charges onto BCUK like a deranged dervish*

*a dervish with SOMETHING TO SAY, Goddamnit*

Hah!

I've got a HEADACHE.

That is all.

As you were.

Hmm. Pretty lame.

There MUST be something else to report, surely, after all this time?

Er.

Things are tough/boring/impossible at work. But with extra boring.

Things are quiet at home, which is cool.

No one I know has died in the past month, excellent news.

I still have an almost irresistible urge to ride a motorcycle down a lethal mountain track with the throttle full out.

But that would involve the humiliating process of having to learn how to ride a motorcycle.

And I'm just not prepared to allow myself to wear one of those stupid day-glo vests while some boring git teaches me how to de-clutch in traffic. On a 50cc moped? No chance.

I want to be taught by a truly dangerous drunk of a Hell's Angel whose total disregard for my safety is matched only by mine for his. On a 100,000-CC chopped Harley. VeeerrrrrrOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooom.

Aha! I used to rant about Broon, let's go...

Oh, what's the point? It's like shooting fish in a barrel now.

No fun.

How's things for you?

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