Alan Coleman

Today, a proud black man called Toyin Agbetu had the decency and self belief to stand up and confront the establishment. He walked forward and interrupted a service at Westminster Abbey by denouncing the Queen and Tony Blair a disgrace, and yelling that they should be ashamed of themselves. I couldn’t believe my eyes, it honestly doesn’t get any better than that, apart from when Buckingham Palace caught fire just before the Golden Jubilee!

Piety was in his element. A big church with religious leaders in flowing white robes, him at the front with the aristocracy and a sun tan. Only a roof separating him from the almightily judgment of history, or the fiction onto which he places so much of our faith. The old dear sits opposite mumbling to herself on autopilot in the same outfit she always wears, just a different colour. Her buffoon hangs around looking as old as he’s always done, half stunned, half dead. Those two will never die.

As Africa wallows in an unbreakable cycle of poverty and debt, Piety and his white middle class friends mark the abolition of slavery with tokenism. The fact that they choose to do so in a church is indicative of the outrageously deluded nature of religion, worship and belief. It’s proper church stuff, the idea that a preened service full of dignitaries will somehow provide some solace to history before all the worshippers get driven back to their obscene wealth. The whole scenario is about as Blair as it gets, and about as far removed from Africa as Comic Relief or Lenny Henry.

It reminds of Piety’s self important piece about Africa being a stain on the conscience of the world. More words, more tokenism. He must have been dreaming of that little number to the Arch Bishops soothing words, that was before Toyin Agbetu dared to spoil the party.

And as the man of the moment was lead from the church, Piety winced and did that telltale sideways head movement that people do when things get fucked up. The rest of the congregation, seemingly selected on the basis of being ugly, looked on disgust, which is slightly ironic given the occasion. The plan was spoilt, it was Agbetu’s day. And when he pointed to the sun tanned suit behind the high alter of smug, and told Piety that he should be ashamed of himself, Toyin Agbetu was spot on.

Respect.

I hate Comic Relief

There was a time when Comic Relief was constrained to a single Friday, with the evenings TV event being easily avoided by staying down the pub, which is where you would have been anyway. You’d probably get some arse head in a bunny outfit begging from people he thinks are his friends, ‘I’ve walked all the way from Walton on the Naze like this! All for Comic Relief! I know, crazy aren’t I?’

That was it, you chuck a quid in his bucket and he takes his wacky little attention stunt to the next person. By the end of the night the country has raised a few million, most of which Oxfam will spend on employing a load more graduates to harass people in the street. The rest gets sent to Africa so we can happily forget about the hundreds of years of rape, pillage and exploitation. Until next year anyway.

Now of course it’s all changed for the worst, and the whole debacle starts after Christmas and lasts until well after the FA Cup Final. And more than ever, Comic Relief is about airtime for inane TV presenters and 80s comedians. I nearly choked on my Spag Bol the other night when, would you believe it, Billy fucking Connelly appears at a school in Africa wearing a white suit with stars on it! You could see all the kids thinking, ‘Who the hell is this cock? Just how the hell did this bunch of Muppets fuck us over for so long?’

The next time I switch the box on, Dame bloody Judy will be hanging out the top of a Land Rover in The Gambia with a white muslin scarf flowing in the wind. You can see her now, waving as hundreds of barefooted kids fight each other to get closer to some old bag that as far as they’re concerned could run the local Post Office. Surrounded by BBC types with clip boards, cargo pants and sandals, the whole little excursion is the stuff of Volvo wet dreams.

You couldn’t write it any better.

‘You can get involved!’

Yes by handing over your cash, that’s if you’re luckily enough to have any left after being mugged by greedy Gordon had his sweaty little mitts. Meanwhile Lenny and the team of wealthy graduates can get involved by taking a comfortable little working holiday in one of the safer parts of Mauritius. ‘I wish you at home, the general public, could be here and experience the joy and hope of these little children’. Comic Relief is of course Lenny Henry’s full time job, he must spend the rest of the year on a retainer waiting for his jolly to Mozambique like Christmas. ‘Cheers Lenny, same time next year?’

Back at the studio, Wossy and Davina will be piling on the laughs as the BBC newsreaders do a tap routine in the car park, again. Ricky Gervais will be giggling stupidly in the corner like a ten your old whose found a wank mag up the allotments, and as a special treat Dermott O’Leary will be taking us behind the scenes at Broadcasting House. So patronising.

After that McFly, the mums favourite, will be surprising a spotty teenage girl in Rotheram by turning up at her school, unannounced. Then back to Bill sodding Nighy cracking everyone up by mumbling and trying to dance at a Young Offenders Institution in Soweto.

Aren’t we the lucky ones.

Again, just like award ceremonies, it’s the same old TV faces turning out for a bit of self promotion in the name of charity. People without proper jobs thinking that their self important hobby is somehow an example to viewing public. And this year there’s another way for us mortals to get involved. With the joys of reality TV. Please, don’t get me started on that one.

What I object to most, is the trivialisation of charity. The idea that the benevolence and decency has to be piggybacked onto an inane TV event for the general public to realise how important it is. When in reality this whole situation should have been sorted out decades ago by men in suits in shiny buildings. Not by the BBC and its self appointed saviours of culture as an exercise in entertainment.

That’s all for now.

I’ve always said that Austria is one of my favourite countries in the world, I love the place. My mum says it’s all a bit toy town, but I’m not buying it. Just because it’s clean, safe and unervingly honest doesn’t necessarily make it a bad place to live. These maybe uncool qualities in modern Britain, but who cares? The beast of modern that lives round my way is about as cool as a soapy shower with Prince Edward.

As creatures of habit we ski for a week in Austria at about this time every year, it’s a point to aim for when one reels through January after the hell of Christmas. It sorts the head out, that single week of excessive booze and red meat fuelled winter sport. I love it so much, that on our return I sulk at the airport and swear continuously the full length of the A20.

This year we went to Obergurgl, a small village that sits high at the end of a stunning alpine valley. Due to the height the snow is guaranteed from November to May, and there’s also Hochgurgl to explore a little further down the valley on a cable car. The food and drink everywhere in Obergurgl is absolutely first rate, the best we’ve experienced in Austria. Same also applies to the levels of service which was very friendly and unsurprisingly efficient.

A slight downside is that it’s on the pricey side. You know? Holding the wallet open with both hands whilst peering in from side to side. It was so expensive that by Wednesday I’d convinced myself that Mandy was stealing it all from me in my sleep. Ridiculous, quite glad that I didn’t go through with the Eastenders style public confrontation that I had planned.

Like flies round shit, the expense of the place attracts merchant banker types to the ABM Ambro adverts on the chair lifts. They eat with their mouths open gazing into the middle distance while their ugly wives talk incessantly to anybody who will listen (Ouch! Uncalled for? Fuck it, it’s 3am and I can’t sleep).

Who cares anyway when there’s loads of great Germans to drink with, these are the people that made our holiday so special and for me, are what alpine skiing is all about. Herbert and Bergita, a couple from Dusseldorf. The insanely boisterous group of blokes in the bar referring to themselves as the Arschlocher on Tour and spending like it’s going out of fashion. And a great group whose names I’m afraid fail me, but included Yens, a drummer from Frankfurt. Check out their links at the bottom of the page. All of these people went out of their way to extend generosity, friendship and humour.

Europe, come on in, the water’s lovely.