Alan Coleman

Right, I’m going on holiday for three weeks so I probably won’t be updating my blog of insightful and well reasoned comments.

Considering that it’s only myself and FC that read the entries , a few weeks absence really is no big deal. That fat bastard will have to find something else to do whilst pretending to be at work, like annoying all his mates with crap text jokes about Leslie Ash for example.

Mandy: Al, you’ve got a message.

Alan: Who’s it from?

Mandy: Fat Colin, shall I delete it straightaway without reading it like you always do.

Alan: yeah go on… Fat bastard.

By the end of today hunting with dogs will be banned in England and Wales, bringing success to the League Against Cruel Sports 80 year campaign against Fox hunting.

What small resemblance of a democracy we have in this country has finally stood up to the establishment and outlawed a cruel and barbaric pastime, a leisure that has been oblivious to the criticism of the majority for generations.

For me there is an additional agenda at play, I won’t have to see the Royal families’ smug faces on the news every Boxing day, lending their support to an institution that, symbolically at least, epitomises the blatant social divisions within our country. Am I right in saying that Charles Windsor said that if hunting were banned he would go and live in Switzerland? If so, when are you yukking off?

The Countryside alliance is creating a fuss outside Parliament as I write this. Anyone would think that they are the first group of people to be hard done by the government, that they have been singled out for prejudice and change by the unthinking majority.

Where were all these people when Thatcher was destroying Great Britain’s manufacturing base with not a second consideration for their tightly knit communities? Where were they when the same woman tried in vain to enforce a grotesquely unfair tax system that would benefit the wealthy at the expense of the poor? Where were they when hundreds of thousands marched against the obscene destruction of Afghanistan and Iraq in the name of freedom?

Exactly. Now they know how it feels.

Despite my earlier comments about the Countryside Alliance, I was inspired and almost impressed to see people causing havoc outside Parliament today. I may not agree with the reasoning behind their cause, but I must concede some admiration for their ability to let politicians, and the country as a whole, realise the depths of their feelings.

Politicians will queue up to describe these people as yobs, but that is simply not so. As with the Poll Tax riots in the early nineties a sense of powerlessness pushed tempers to the limits, the resulting situation then ends up resembling some kind of Dickensian riot.

This is not just good viewing on the Ten O’clock news, it is important for another reason beyond the cause in hand. A bit of argy bargy with the Old Bill keeps the country on its toes and it reminds the government of the day that the general public are not always the apathetic pushover they would hope.

Consider also that the Bush situation in the United States may have reached the point it has because the institution that is The President is regarded with unwavering respect by default.

There is a lot to be said for cynicism towards politics in this country.

Lastly, in the 21st century it’s warming to see that people in Great Britain still feel strongly enough to fight in the streets, irrespective of their cause, that makes me proud to be British.

Yesterday two completely different audiences watched two aspects of our country highlighting the enormous prevailing gap in our increasingly polarised society.

Last night of the proms provided a group of hopelessly misguided, and without meaning to sound to bitchy, universally ugly white middle England types with the annual opportunity for gratuitous flag waving. The celebrating of a heritage mostly based on a mythology perpetrated by part time nationalists, those whose idea of pride and identity involves waving a plastic flag once a year whilst singing along to what is essentially second rate classical music.

For me the worst part of all this is the real agenda lurking just beneath the surface, that of bare faced racism. Individuals using the opportunity to indulge in a token fist shaking at the so called political correctness that has tainted their warped ideas of England’s green and pleasant land. The whole thing is like some kind of hideous joke, essentially an educated BNP meeting attended by pasty suburbanites.

Rule Britannia my arse.

This stands in contrast to Olympic boxer Amihr Khan watching Bolton play Man U at the Reebok stadium as guest of honour. Okay so football is football and we all know it’s got it’s faults, but you know sometimes it can be poetry to watch and for the fans it’s an honest expression that carries with it no ominous undertones. Every week the backbone of the country turn out to celebrate the real England in the form of foreign players like Henry, Okocha and Reyes. A genuine British experience rooted in yesteryear that is still relevant in today’s modern society.

An article in the New Statesman this week reminded me of why I stopped reading The Guardian a few months back. The rot started about a year ago after I read an astounding piece in the almost unreadable Saturday magazine about a journalist’s delightful teenage son and his bad breath (predictably it was a holiday in Sardinia that cured the problem). This wasn’t one off either, read it yourself and it won’t be long before you get to a witty restaurant reviewer quoting little Barnaby not being overly impressed with the wild mushroom souffle, or 5 year old charlotte using the coat hooks to do hilarious monkey impressions.

Back to the New Statesman, Lauren Booth’s toddlers can speak fluent French and already have the ability to astound others with their deconstruction of 18th century art. Amazing. French schools are of course much better that our own (Oh really!), but she is a little concerned that they will grow up wanting to be Opticians assistants or farmers wives.

Can’t have that can we!

So to prevent them turning into an embarrassment they’re whisked off to an art gallery for what she describes as ‘Cultcha’, for some reason. Basically a snob, I’d cross a busy dual carriageway in the poring rain to avoid people like that.

She attempts to bring a sense of humour to the stargazing by calling herself “A competitive London mum”, but you know that self-deprecating style of writing is all about throwing you off the scent. Taking the piss out of yourself seems less like the blatant showing off that it is, whilst still getting the message across about how clever one must be to produce such a lovely offspring.

Lauren I’m sure your kids are wonderful and maybe my life is missing that element of self satisfaction on which you thrive. But you know I’m not really interested in their precious learning curve and more importantly it’s not really relevant to anyone that doesn’t already know about the joys of parenthood. Maybe you should write to The Guardian or Woman’s Own and keep it out of harms way.