Down on the Farm

The Hospital

The man quietly put his key in the door and slowly turned the handle, making sure that he did not wake the inhabitants above. As he tiptoed upstairs he could hear a strange moaning coming from the smallest room, and now he drew nearer he could see that it was coming from the cot on the right. The small blue night-light was on, and in its glow he could make out the writhing look of anguish upon the boy’s face.

Acting quickly, and picking him up to comfort him, he rushed into the main bedroom where the mother was sleeping. There wasn’t any point in staying quiet anymore, so he woke her up and asked her what she thought was the matter with him.

By this stage Dylan was shaking, and his lips had turned a very dark purple colour. The look in his eyes could be compared to the look that a small wildebeest gives his mother as a lion approaches, and doesn’t know the word, “Help!”

After a few minutes pondering on the next course of action, they decide to take him to the local hospital where experts are waiting for the next purple-lipped case.

This journey involved picking up his sleeping sister and throwing the two of them in their car seats, and then racing off to the hospital as if they were being chased. It looked very similar to the Ant Hill Mob from Wacky Races pretending to be chased by Burt Reynolds from the Cannonball Run.

After a few hours, with a plastic bag strapped around his meat and two veg, his urine sample convinced the panel of experts that he had a water infection. To the untrained eye it looked like a glass of traditional lemonade, which still raised a few alarms that something wasn’t right.

The family were taken upstairs so that they could be kept away from the public. This suited them, as an alcoholic tramp was sitting just outside their cubicle shaking and randomly shouting.
After a quick ten hours the consultant finally popped his head around the door to check on the patient. A course of anti-biotics were administered and confirmation that the parents had behaved in the right way. Apparently the water infection can spread into the blood stream in babies, and this is serious stuff.

The poor, little man has now all but recovered, but ever since that day he has never been able to look at Burt Reynolds the same.

So that wraps up another adventure in the world of medicine and fear, tune in next week where I’m sure there will be another one.

The Wedding

It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Shropshire countryside as the Holley family rolled along with the scenery. Passing through hamlets of Tudor houses with old phone boxes. There were farm shops selling freshly dug potatoes, and it was possibly these that were to be served a little later at the wedding of a close friend of mine from University.

The venue was a disused stud farm set in the middle of about 100 acres of the greenest countryside I have ever seen. To express it in the manner of the poet James Blunt, “It was Beautiful.”

The house cost £2.5million a few years ago, and if I ever go to a more idyllic setting for a wedding then I will consider myself a very fortunate young man from Itchen.

The wedding itself was actually a blessing (the ceremony part happened a few hours before in a registry office). Picture the classic Hollywood interpretation of a wedding in the garden and you would be close. It looked very similar to Forrest Gump’s wedding to Jenny in Alabama. Anyway, a classical guitarist was playing in the background and the sun played along by behaving itself and staying put for the whole day.

The meal and evening soiree were adjourned to the Marquee that was situated in another one of the fields, and the whole day went swimmingly. Considering, the house was owned by his mum and step dad, the actual day was low key and relaxed. There were none of those waste of time frills that you get at so many weddings these days. Bottles of bubbles with hearts on, gold love hearts on the table, and a stringed quartet playing insipid music in the background. None of this occurred. This wasn’t about keeping up with the Jones’; this wedding was real and about two people making a commitment in front of people. The speeches, although brief, were honest and heart felt. Everyone there was relaxed and you didn’t see the usual scene of a representative of the wedding party running around because Uncle Fred has just eaten the posy.

The only problem with the day was my chair lifting technique let me down. I, along with most of the male contingent, carried through a pile of chairs from the first field to the Marquee. When I set these down I bent with my knees in the correct ergonomic fashion, but the trousers gave way. All up the seat, at least 20 inches. Claire had to perform an emergency operation that required several stitches; otherwise I would have been walking around for most of the day with my backside hanging out from its hidey-hole.

This wasn’t a case of a stitch in time saves nine, but a stitch in time saves the wedding.


Health Check

It is worth a mention that Sophie has just had her biggest weight gain so far, and put 8ozs on in a week. We are now going to be putting her on a diet before she gets too big.

A Day at Lords

A wise man once said that there was nothing better than to watch an enjoyable game of cricket on a warm summers day. I had neither of these this weekend, but we still sought to make the best of a bad situation. For this weekend saw the author travelling to the big smoke to attend the one-day final at Lords, the home of cricket.

The sun was still on its journey from the other hemisphere, and the streets were void of life, as we drove through the deserted markets and cobbled streets on our way to the station. Making the same voyage as millions of others through the ages, aiming to realise their dreams and achieve the riches that the gold streets of London offered, we felt in good company. My travelling partner, on this pilgrimage to the mecca of cricket, was an elderly gentleman that had never made the journey before. He desired to see the vista of Old Father Time looking down from the left tower of the pavillion just once, before the long, black cloud came down over his eyes. I also need to add that he gets quite irate at the smallest of obstacles, as is the trend for men of his age, depicted so neatly in the programme, “Grumpy Old Men”.

We arrived at the station, which was packed with excited people waiting to make the same journey, and as we eventually sat down on the train three fuses had already blown. There were not enough people serving coffee, the newsagents was not open and the Saturday kid waiting outside the door would not sell a paper for cash, and finally the seats that were supposedly reserved (if we were in the last century) were not. Not a bad start. But, by the time we had arrived in London things had calmed down and we were looking forward to the adventure of getting to Lords.

I had been to Lords once before, but that occasion was not so memorable, the third day of a four day game between Surrey and Middlesex. The place, however, has an aura of respectability and Englishness, and when you walk in through the gates you feel honoured to be there. Instead of the bars serving popular beers, they should be selling Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches. The surrounding area of St. John’s Wood also feels the same. The district in which Abbey Road is located, the cornerstone of English music, is now filled with posh café’s and Australians everywhere. The buildings seem to be holding their breath, acting like an old war hero, who is tolerating some children running around him at a picnic on the Thames. Eventually their patience will be exhausted, and people will hear a large explosion from this small area of London, and nobody will talk about it but understand that it’s best left alone.

The talk on everyone’s lips was why did Hampshire win the toss but choose to field first. Half the crowd thought it was crazy whilst the other half had faith in our legendary Australian skipper. Through out the day that faith seemed more and more misplaced, as the game slipped further away from the Hawks.

We kept our bodies lubricated through the day, knowing that dehydration was a big killer in this part of the ground. As we became less capable of controlling our faculties, so did the Hampshire batsmen. One after another they were sent back to the pavillion, like naughty children that had received a punishment and asked to send the next one in. Apart from a stubborn resistance from Crawley, no Hampshire player deserved a lift home.

But then, thankfully, the rain came and put us out of our gradual slide into depression. The game wasn’t won or lost at this stage, but the writing was already on the wall and the anti-climax of the end to the day was at least some satisfaction. It meant that the Durham supporters who had travelled twice as far didn’t get to celebrate either.

The old boy and I then tried to weave our way back through London to get to our awaiting carriage. At the halfway point, we stopped off to fill up our water bottles and met some delightful Brazilians. We built up some what of a friendship with them and learnt how Queen were still massive in Sao Paulo. I didn’t have the heart to explain that Mercury was dead, and May had been discovered as the missing link between human and poodle. (A Pooman, for anyone taking notes)

After an inevitable delay at the watering hole we had realised that we had missed our train, and needed to rush back to Waterloo to catch the next one. This resulted in a slight mix up at Bond Street Underground where the elder of the duet was unfortunately left behind, as yours truly leapt down an escalator and on to the awaiting tube. Not often found in less athletic company these days I was quite surprised by this, but I still found the funny side as I disappeared off through the tunnel.

One way or another we ended up on the train home to Southampton, and finally made it back to our base in one piece. A good adventure had by all, but unfortunately the result of the game had gone. Cricket tends to be like that though. It is more the taking part and the being there that go to having a good day, rather than the outcome.

Sad News that Shook the World

Although I strongly disagree with bands re-releasing previously released material in a vain attempt to become commercially more successful, I have had to re-assess my opinions. Due to constant requests for this piece of literature to be added to the journal “Tales from the Revolution”, I have succumbed and re-issued it. However, commercially speaking, your hero is extremely unsuccessful with this blog, and no matter how many re-releases, I do not think I could be classed as “selling out”. This was written during my Swedish period, imagine Bjorn Borg, herring and sun reflecting off the water.

So, anyway, here it is. Sit back, think of simpler days without children, and enjoy.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

We have had some more very sad news from the killing fields of Heaton Chapel.

Shortly after the loss and subsequent mourning of our cat Nobby, the shadow of death has once more darkened the doorstep of our humble abode. This time Clyde, the better half of the once notorious duo Bonnie and Clyde (Clyde having deceased 4 years ago), has sadly fallen to the greater spirits.

He began his life in Stockport's Pet Smart, which has now changed it's name, another sign of the long life of this inspirational fish. I remember bringing him home in a polythene carriage, as big as my thumbnail was the only space that he took up in the world. I had purchased a small, simple dwelling for him and his much lighter sister, it had a light house which even from an early age became the consistent sanctuary of home.

Whilst living in the fair village of Didsbury, Manchester he had many admirers commenting on what big eyes he had, and such a lovely fan tail. But disaster struck his world when, only about a year old, he contracted the fatal disease of white spot. For this he had to be taken to the infirmary and spent a good long while in solitary confinement with only his thoughts, and some medication bought from the pet shop, keeping him of this earth.

This episode is probably the biggest reason why Clyde always demonstrated such courage throughout his life, very similar to a child that has been rescued from a fire and then in later years joins the fire service as a means of repaying their debt. Another drama occurred in Clyde's fourth year, when unknown to him he moved from the cold water utopia of Didsbury into the uncharted manor of Heaton Chapel. This took place in a white van with Sir Andrew Wood esq. holding him delicately on his lap, like a bomb disposal expert would hold a sinister bag. However, due to his hardy nature, Clyde breezed through this adventure and once again grew strength from his tribulations.

One more anecdote that displays the super standing of this fish, that by any other words would be a legend, happened in the autumn of his life. Middlesbrough were playing the fine team of Southampton in a crucial game to remain in the Premiership and, as is the custom for these events, there were some guests enjoying the hospitality of the Holley's. The lady of the house was cleaning Clyde's house and at an untimely juncture she was transporting the said fish to a temporary rest lodge and Southampton scored. The guests, in jovial spirit, roared simultaneously and this had come as a surprise to the Lady delicately holding the prize fish. She dropped him, and in a couple of seconds, that seemed to be an eternity, Clyde hit the ground with an impact that could be compared to a sledge hammer gently tapping the knee cap of a poor orphan with rickets. After a worrying few hours waiting to see if he would start swimming, Clyde did not disappoint and glided a couple of laps with a somersault at the end.

Clyde, affectionately known as Clydey, had out lived all of the playmates that had been paired with him through the years, a trait that could be likened to Hugh Heffner. One that would leave him with a content look on his gills in his wizened years. Even in the injury time of his life an accolade was bestowed upon him that has happened to no other fish in recent memory. The leading artists Simon Raine and Deb Jones honoured his life with, not one, but two portraits of this Neptune of the tank. These portraits are now on display in the Gallery of Modern Dining.

Clyde meant a lot to a lot of people, and was at the very forefront of fish becoming men.

Float in Peace.

Clyde 1999-2006

The Beautiful Game

I had been waiting for this weekend with three months worth of anticipation. It was the beginning of a new season, where the mess that you had created for yourself last term can be forgotten about, and a new slate in which your dreams can be etched. If only life had a similar timeline to a football season. You could really get things wrong and make terrible decisions, but it would only last nine months and then you could start a fresh.

However rationally I had been expecting the worst this season, my little optimistic devil on my shoulder was whispering to me that it was a new start and anything could happen. If only we could get a good start against Palace on Saturday. Maybe we could kick on from there and get some momentum. Then who knows what might happen.

Southampton 1 – 4 Palace!!!!!

That’s what you get for wishful thinking. Although I knew it was inevitable, I still felt a little depressed thinking about it on Saturday night. But that was the least of my worries. On Monday evening the situation became dramatically worse when, in front of my very eyes, we were knocked out of the League Cup by Peterborough. Who??!!?? Exactly.

Although we are clearly in free fall I think this is a symptom of a much larger issue. As a club, we do not have any money. Burley, the manager, has announced today that he had to sell our defence in order to keep the club from going into administration. The problem is without a defence we cannot carry on playing at the standard we are at. So it is a vicioius circle.

Leeds has been the high profile victims of this type of scenario, but we are close to doing the same. We have not made as bad a job of our finances as Leeds, but through the structure of the game currently, it is very hard to fight on an even playing field with other clubs in your league.

A brief synopsis of the problem is that if you get relegated you are paid a vast sum of money (approx. $20m) a year to manage your overheads that you still have in place from being in the Premiership. You get this payment for two years and then it runs out. This payment enables, clubs who get it, to buy better players and be able to attract them to your club in the first place.

Apart from Birmingham and Sunderland who went straight back up, there are currently four clubs that have this benefit. The clubs that do not have it are forced to be creative with their resources and mount an attack anyway. I’m not complaining about this per say. Football has always had its giants and minnows, and arguably this is what makes the game so special. But it is more the speed in which you can go from hero to zero that is affecting so many.

It can also work the other way though, and the poor unfortunates down the road can testify to this. Portsmouth were sunk from a collaboration of poor management, poor football, and poor investment for the best part of 20 years. But then a corrupt Croatian came in and pushed them up so far, and then the big pockets of a corrupt Russian did the rest. Now after spending millions of pounds Portsmouth are easily a top half Premiership side.

What this does is take away the sense of building something year on year, and with the same team, achieving success. The norm now in the premiership is to sell five players and buy five players, and hope that the short-term fix will buy you success. Young English players from Academys are under utilised or loaned out to lesser divisions, and this then has a knock on effect with regards to the sustainability of the sport at a grass roots level.

If Southampton has a gifted youngster that is groomed for a career in Professional Football, then he will no doubt be sold at the next possible window to a Premiership club. A la Theo Walcott, or Gareth Bale.

Southampton are a victim of poor leadership and a lack of investment, and the latter is needed more importantly in the modern game than a 20 goal a year striker. The majority of the tabloid talk in the summer is not about the latest Argentine wonder kid, or the topical contract negotiations, but the speculation that a club is being looked at by an investor that is the nth richest man in the world, and also owns an ice-cream company.

The game has been so widely corrupted by money, that it has removed any trace of player loyalty, and with wages of £100k plus a week, which business can ever hope to sustain any growth pattern.

All of the teams in the premiership have been taken over in the last 5 years or so, and if you don’t join this list then you have no chance of any progression. Southampton will continually slump until more money is invested.

My theory to improve things is to remove the top five or six biggest clubs and put them in to a European Full Time League. Then have a promotion and relegation system of one club a year. Then the equivalent of the Premiership will be closer fought with the possibility of anyone winning it, not just the same three clubs. The gap will then be closer to the Championship, which will have raised status because this will be the lowest professional league. Remove League One and Two due to financial pressures. Although traditionalists will initially object they will be quietened after the first season. These will be the same people that claim that International Football is still the highest level, even though nobody sees much Andorran representation in the Champions League.

I wonder where Southampton will be when Dylan and Sophie read this in 30 years time. Playing in the Hampshire League, or the Champions League. Hmmm…

Poofs, Parks and Pianos

This weekend was a quiet one, where the Holley family stayed mostly at home. But to prevent catching a vitamin B deficiency from not seeing enough daylight, we did manage to venture out on at least two memorable occasions.

To contradict the hypothesis that your life changes when you have children, all four of us went to a party on Saturday night. But those of you that have your finger reaching for the phone to alert the NSPCC of our irresponsible parenting, please refrain. This was not the type of party that I would have gone to a few years ago, where climbing over bodies on the floor was not a game of Twister but just the way that you had to get around. Neither was there a Police look out stationed in the front room in case an invite had reached the local constabulary.

No. This was a remarkably tame 30th birthday that had amongst its guests another baby, and an old lady in the front room that didn’t move out of her armchair. We were right at home with the kids with us, although as we are used to at the moment, we did feel like the unofficial entertainment. Where ever we go a crowd congregates to see the show, and I often hear people as they walk away expressing disappointment that they’ve seen better circuses.

It was a fancy dress party with the theme of the letter P, and after at least 2 mins of racking our brains Claire came up with the idea of going as 4 Poofs and a Piano. If any of you are aware of the barbershop quartet that feature on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross, then you will know that they wear t-shirts with the picture of one of the guests that is being interviewed on the show that night. As the birthday girl was going as a Pink Pixie, we thought it would be clever to have a picture of a pink pixie on our t-shirts.

Not until I printed the pictures of a pink pixie off the computer did I realise exactly how gay I was going to look. Effectively a pink pixie looks, from a distance, like a pink fairy, although a closer inspection would show that a pixie has slightly more pointed ears and cannot fly as high. However, I could not assume that any pixie specialist would be at the party to defend my case.

This party was in the sunny village of Marple, and regular readers will be aware that this is the very same province that we are thinking of moving to. All of the people at the party were strangers to us, but not to each other. They all lived in and around the village, and knew each other like Jessica Fletcher knows corpses in Cabot Cove. So, anyway, we turned up to the party wearing our white t-shirts with a picture of a pink pixie attached in the middle of them.

It would have helped if half of the party had actually watched Friday Night with Jonathan Ross and had a slight inclination as to what we were dressed as, because explaining to someone that didn’t know the show that we were 4 Poofs and a Piano, welcomed the comment, “Oh… right!” and a raised eyebrow. Also, the 4 Poofs and a Piano thing only works if you all stay together, so once separated and asked the question, “So, what are you?” and you reply, “A Poof, from 4 Poofs and a Piano” this encourages even stranger reactions.

Adding also the fact that it is certainly the campest that I have ever looked, and Dylan can proudly say that the first party that he ever went to was as a poof, the whole costume choice was a disaster. It went down like the proverbial Lead Balloon. But at least we can now say when we move there…

“But, we are the only gays in this village!!!”


Blur’s popular song from the mid-90’s seems to have been written about us recently. We spend any time when the weather is dry walking around parks, in fact we have probably spent more time in a park than a tramp recently, and this is what we did on Sunday. It must be the thing to do as a new parent because the park is full of pushchairs and parents walking around like zombies. This weekend we went to a big park that had it’s own coffee shop in the middle, this was exciting to a regular park dweller.

The weather was sunny and the lake in the grounds was reflecting small flecks of sunlight on to the surrounding fauna. In simpler days it would have been paradise to find a spot on the grass, read a book and have a lovely chilled bottle of white wine. However, these days that we live in are not simple, and we managed to sit down for an ice cream next to the lake for approximately 5 minutes. Then we were on the move, walking around the grounds, pushing the cherubs to prevent them from crying. But, still, better than sitting at home.

Parks hold an enchanting, magical power on a sunny day. They have the ability to recharge you, and fill you with energy. You result in feeling lighter and refreshed, after you have had an opportunity to daydream for an hour. The age of most parks gives you a rare feeling of connection with the past. You can stare at a lake, or a landscape, from a bench and really feel that you are not the first person to have ever cast their eyes over the undulating scenery. You can get lost in your thoughts, and resolve any inner conflicts that you may have, because on a day like this the world seems to be in harmony with itself and you are meandering along on the stream of life. A stream doesn’t try to go through obstacles, but it gently moves around them and happily goes on its way. When you are sat in a park, on a sunny day, you feel like you can see the obstacles and you gently just move around them. Instead of wasting energy in trying to pass through them.

Dirty Pretty Things

The anticipation of this blog entry has the same intensity as that experienced by the fellows stood at the bottom of Mount Sinai when Moses was on his 9th commandment. I do apologise for this but I was on holiday and as my life now does not follow normal guidelines, I actually have more time to write at work.

The holiday itself was a game of two halves. The first week saw us visit 3 separate hospitals over 5 days, whilst the 2nd took us down to Southampton.

Dylan has had his Hernia operation and the patient is now fine with all bits put back in the right place. He is now sporting a small scratch on his waist, that I may pretend is the mark that the aliens left when they were inserting something alieny.

Also, Sophie, can now only count to ten, a high five rather than a high six. Now when the angry mob come round our way looking for witches we won’t have to hide her in Claire’s handbag. The finger has been removed. The digit has been amputated. Unfortunately, it does mean that she has probably lost a couple of ounces because of it but we couldn’t really have kept it on just for the weight statistics.

The weather has obviously been appalling all over the country, and so the rain in Southampton now echoes my constant moan about the rain in Manchester. In fact, Manchester has been one of the driest places in the country in the last month. The week in Southampton was tarnished by the fact that we could not really enjoy any decent day trips because it was so cold and wet. But like the one legged man that painted himself pink to gain work as a flamingo said, “you have to make the best out of a situation”, still, I am glad that we are back home

I ended my vacation by attending the Arctic Monkeys gig at Old Trafford. We had been forewarned of the incredibly long beer queues so did not rush there to see any of the support acts. The Coral and Supergrass are disappointing warm up bands on the best of days and so there was no chance I was going to spend 6 hours in the place.

However, when we did turn up it was as if we had been transported into a war torn country where the vista more resembled a scene from Mad Max. We had to queue for over an hour to get to the bar, and they didn’t have any pork scratchings even then. And if that is not inhumane enough, I was then faced with one of the most harrowing images that my eyes have ever suffered. Now, I have been to many festivals and consider myself to be quite experienced in gig behaviour, but the toilet situation was out of control.

As is often the case in this type of event there was an area solely dedicated to the extraction of waste. As is also the case normally this area tends not to be big enough for the number of people there. But instead of an orderly waiting system, there was nothing of the sort enforced. Let me describe the situation. Picture a square of ten Portaloos per side, then also imagine a set of urinals in the middle of the square, possibly 16, all facing each other in two rows. All of the space around the urinals was filled up with people, both men and women (even though this was the Gents) all drunk and desperate to offload the last pint of watered down lager.

I managed to squeeze my way through the crowds and get to one of the urinal spaces. These came up to your waist so you were effectively standing in the middle of a crowd, for all the obstruction they were giving. So with boys and girls stood all around me I proceeded to alleviate the pressure that had built up inside. It was not an enjoyable moment but then things were to get a country mile worse. I looked up, being careful not to look anyone in the eyes opposite me who were also going through this living hell, I spotted a female stood up at the urinals with a slight recline. To describe the disgust that was etched on to the faces of those that witnessed it would be impossible to do, but I am sure as you are reading this you will have the same look on your own.

I walked out of the dirty courtyard, shaking my head, to see more girls just squatting in the middle of the concourse type area with friends holding blankets up to hide their shame. There were men acting in a similar way but that is not so shocking, we have come to expect that. As I returned to my group I had the unenviable task of reliving it through anecdotal form to their horrified faces. I do not like to be the purveyor of nasty images but I felt that it was my role as a social commentator to enlighten these friends of mine with the exact details, as to ensure that they would not make the same mistake as me.

Where is England?

Once a proud nation that stood behind its history and traditions, has now hidden them so far beneath a superficial cover of commercial nonsense that it is in real danger of losing the character that made it what it was.

In a time before the Internet, the mobile phone and even before you could fly, England stood proudly at the centre of the developing world. We developed Australia and America, and built an Empire. London was the richest city in the world, Manchester was the centre of the world textiles industry. The centre of the industrial revolution was here in blighty. For centuries we concentrated on making vast amounts of wealth, and selling our brand all across the world.

In a way, the English brand is still sold around the world. 90% of influential popular music from the last 50 years has originated in England. The Royal Family is still as popular today as they have always been, on foreign shores.

But, England is not a country, it is a State Sovereignship. The country is called The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Out of all of those other countries included, England are the only country not to have their own Parliament. It is the only country that doesn’t have a proud National Day. If you asked people what an Englishman stereotype was, most would reply “a football hooligan”.

Most English people abroad are an embarrassment to themselves, and are usually the most noticeable, the most disrespectful and the most ignorant. But this isn’t a surprise considering the state of our country at the moment. If you go out anywhere on a weekend night then you would be witness to binge drinking, fighting, drug taking and general chaos. This isn’t far removed from the Medieval days.

The brand that we now have to sell, is a one that we should be trying to hide.

The character of traditional Englishness is so hard to find. The eccentric chap who harmlessly bumbles through life, the old lady in the Tea Shop, the Village Fete, and the “never say die” attitude. All of this is still there, somewhere, and often turns up in the next Hugh Grant film. But instead of this being a fair portrayal of English life, it is no more than a look through our “The Way it used to be Glasses” and a re-enactment of simpler days.

Society has now replaced this with a short term, high impact, and convenient way of life. Nothing is real anymore. Everything is there to fulfil a temporary desire and when that has been spent we move on to the next want. The American cultural influence has changed the view of England beyond all recognition. Convenience has replaced Character, and with that change in the behaviour of the population we are now faced with a catalogue of issues.

Respect for others has now been lost because it is easier to look after yourself and achieve your personal goals regardless of other people. Obesity is now an issue because it is easier to warm up food that is not nutritional rather than cook fresh food that takes slightly more effort. Children are becoming more and more violent and lawless than ever before, because they have been getting away with it for so long. People aren’t going to cross the road to prevent something happening when it is easier to put your head down and ignore it, “it isn’t part of my world!”

Well the fact is that it is part of our world. By avoiding the reality of everyday life, and being swept along by the people that are making money from us, we are losing all of the attributes that made England proud.

The topical issue in the press at the moment is the out-of-control immigration policy, and how the country is over run by different cultures. Why is this bad? It doesn’t affect my day-to-day life or anyone I know. I have more issues with 50th generation Englishman that can’t be bothered to work, and sponge off the Government, waiting to trade excuses for handouts.

England used to be about self-respect, and respect for the community. This has now declined into a self-centred, apathetic society that will continue to get progressively worse while times are financially better than ever before, and also safer than ever before. No one cares because no one is affected. Ignorance acts as a large rock that you can hide behind, and as long as nothing gets over the top then you can carry on regardless.

So, again I ask, “Where is England?” The answer is that it is floating off over the Atlantic to become the next American State, where all of the issues that I have just described are rife. It won’t be long before we are shooting each other, or getting winched out of windows because we are 80 stone, making excuses that it wasn’t our fault but someone else’s.