Alan Coleman

This is a fantastic picture, and one of my favourite images of the last few years. Even if you’ve been living in Mongolia since the turn of the century and don’t recognise them, they look like the sort of people you’d like know, right?

Look at Joe Calzaghe, with his humble stance and cool as thumbs up. When he answered his critics by teaching Jeff Lacy how to box in Mach 2006 I honestly thought that it was a defining point in my life. Still unbeaten after 45 fights, he is quite literally, a great bloke. Victoria Pendleton’s shy smile hides a personality that ignored her coach when he insisted that she was too small for track cycling. She went on to dominate her sport as the undisputed champion of the world with far too many titles and gold medals to list here. Lewis Hamilton’s friendly hands in pockets confidence is the epitome of cool. He ignored the racist slurs and backstabbing that accompany his chosen sport to rise as a true champion in unbelievable style.

I have no doubt whatever that any one of the above would stop and help you in the street if need be.

As a simple picture, it’s the embodiment of personal achievement, good nature and everything that is great about our country. Stuff The Daily Mail, the Royal family, the BNP and waving plastic flags at Last night of the proms. These people are what Great Britain is all about.

When I was younger I used to read small colorful comic books about war called, Commando. You can buy them concatenated as huge volumes in bigger bookshops. Gripping and predictable stories from all wars about fighting and destruction. I couldn’t get enough of it, the struggle between good and evil laid bare by Tommies with stubble pitted against skinny and monocled Jerry officers with leather gloves. Great stuff, honestly. Like with most things in life though I eventually grew out of it, I can’t remember when or why in particular but for some reason one day I was into reading Dick Francis.

I grew up, but as I look around me the real stories of our current wars still seem to take on the same Commando comic theme. Huge tabloid lettering laid onto pictures of ‘OUR BOYS’ in action. Enemy kill counts and detailed tales of bravery and valour, all complimented with big regimental cap badges and motto’s.

The very same simplicity that attracted me to stories of war in the first place is being used in the next generation to flog copy of tabloid rubbish to the masses. It’s an effective and fairly cynical tactic, although not new if one remembers the shameful coverage of the Falklands Conflict.

What bothers me most about this kind of sanitisation is the effect it’s had on how we’ve have come to view warfare. Not as a horrific and destructive waste of life and culture, but as a kind of triumphalist entertainment that leaves the reading itching for more excitement. Pictures of soldiers firing from the hip are great for paper sales, recruitment figures and flag waving, but behind the comic book stubble lies a terrifying pit of betrayal and damage for everyone involved.

We are simply kidding ourselves as adults in very much the same way that Commando Comic writers did as children. The idea that ‘OUR BOYS’ and ‘Harry the Homecoming Hero’ are somehow made of steel and will overcome evil with British grit and determination is ludicrous. Don’t get me wrong, I love the armed forces as much as the next bloke. But turning them into comic book heroes to hide the inconvenient reality of war will only exacerbate the disappointment of our eventual defeat. Worse still, it’ll make it easier for small religious men in suits to wage war with other peoples children.

Okay, we’ve been skiing twice this year. Excessive and unnecessary? Maybe, but it’s also one of our few extravagances, a plus point to the continuous juggling act of credit, wages and debt.

In January we spent a week in the fantastic Austrian Skicircus resort of Saalbach. Record snowfalls made for some exhilarating skiing, on the Tuesday myself and Mandy managed to ski around the entire valley, which at the time seemed like a marathon effort, or even a mini adventure.

The mountain food in Saalbach is first rate, Tiroler Grostel with black pudding on a boozy Wednesday springs to mind. Also the nightlife in the quintessential Alpine village is pretty good, if a little rowdy. One point though, it’s not cheap.

I was glad that Becky and Roger had their first ski holiday here, and both coped admirably with what is essentially a steep resort. Many of the blue runs are easily red, and there is a general lack of long wide gentle slopes for beginners to tackle.

Last week we returned to the SkiWelt village of Soll with Mark and Sarah, where we spent a week in January last year. This time we stayed in a family run hotel down the road and two of Mark’s friends, Ian and Richie, came along for some board action, so to speak!

The superb snow we had in January continued and we spent most of the week messing about in knee deep powder, essentially, playing like children. Mand got hold of a pair of original Big Foot skis and proceeded to fall heavily give herself a black eye, which was thankfully the only injury this year. I was paranoid that people would think that I’d been knocking her about! Which I have, in self defence.

I can’t often forget about my general inability to cope with daily life and be genuinely happy with the task in hand. For me a winter holiday offers escapism, an opportunity to be surrounded by the beauty of a clean and inspiring environment. Okay so it’s a bit smug and middle class, but if it offers a bit of respite from the madness, I honestly don’t care.

Bring on 2007.

Election night, anything in (brackets) describes what’s happening on the shit pump.

FC was on the phone first thing this morning (“It’s true Jeremy!..I’ve got the bloody thing in my handbag!” – Shirley Williams) complaining that there was no UKIP candidate to vote for, so he had to vote for the fascist Tories instead. (“Two candidates in Romford have had a fight and one of them has been hospitalised” – That’s bloody great!!).

Saffron Walden has always been a safe Tory seat, when I was little Mum used to canvas for the Labour party and I recall (Houghton and Washington – Labour) Dad spending all afternoon one Sunday driving us around the countryside so she could leaflet the more remote areas. As I looked out into the pouring rain watching her hurry down a path towards a farm dad looked out and said to himself, “She’s wasting her time here, these sort of people will always vote Tory”.

Maybe it’s because I was younger but party politics seemed much more honourable back then, none of this partisan de-alignment and switching parties because there’s an extra 0.25p off NI on offer. If you cared about our society and a future for your kids without nuclear weapons then you voted Labour, if you wore corduroys and never went down the pub then you voted SDP, otherwise it was Maggie all the way.

Now that all of the parties have morphed into some sort of conservative hybrid there seems little point in me voting. When I look at those people asking me to support them I don’t see decency, social justice or any form of wealth distribution (Barnsley central – Labour) on offer, just bickering and self centred one-upmanship.
It’s the grass roots Labour supporters I feel sorry for, those that stood behind the party during the Thatcher years only to watch it transform into their worst nightmare before their very eyes. I look at them in 2005 as I did in 2001 and feel genuinely upset about their predicament.

Stuff all those going back to the Tories via the holy Lib Dems, voters that were wooed by (Hull West & Hessle – Labour) Piety’s smug brand of conservatism (Vauxhall – Labour) and don’t even have the decency to admit that their eyes are bigger than their stomachs.

I know apathy is negative and unhelpful, but the whole thing is just a fucking bollock circus.