This year I have set myself a few rules:

1. Write one blog only (not four like previous years)
2. Do not try to remember the entire set list of every band you saw
3. Keep it interesting (I know, difficult for me)
4. Use Categories and Tags correctly (Again, difficult)
5. Keep within 2000 words
6. Remember to mention the Bagpipe Band
7. Er…
8. That’s it.

So… on an overcast but warm Thursday afternoon in August in the year 2011, Darcy and I intrepidly set off for Blackpool on a Number 11 bus. When we arrived, we made for the Winter Gardens and were greeted by a queue about 3 miles long. Fortunately, we were also greeted by some friends from Doncaster, who had already decided that queueing for about 10 hours was not for them and they suggested we go and find a pub. This seemed like a good idea so we all went to the Blue Room.

Which was shut.

Not a good start but fortunately there was another pub nearby. It did not have cask ale (which is a requirement for me) but it had Becks Vier, which I will drink when there is nothing else available. So, drinks in hand, we started catching up with each others’ news.

Catching up on news in Frenchman's Cove

After a while we went to see if the Blue Room had opened but it had not, so we went back in for another drink and then, eventually, we went back to the Winter Gardens to get our weekend wristbands. This year, they are positively psychedelic with the word ”Weekend” writ large upon them. We had a couple more drinks in the bar and then Darcy and I went off to see Geoffrey Oicott. Geoffrey Oicott are, unsurprisingly, from Yorkshire and are in the sub-genres of Oi! and Cricket Punk. The songs are all about cricket and include such classics as “I was Monty’s Double”, “(Cricket) Bat out of Hell” and “Dawn of the Dickie Birds”.

Geoffrey Oicott

As it turned out, Geoffrey Oicott was one of only three bands we saw that day, the rest of our time being taken up with drinking, more drinking, even more drinking and talking to a man with Daleks on his head. We did catch Menace, who did a great set and finished it off with one of my top ten punk songs “Last Year’s Youth” and then the Meteors and that was it. We came home in a taxi (that sounds like a football chant to me) and I went straight to bed.

I woke up bright and early on Friday with a hangover and determined to see more bands and drink less beer. Before we could even go into Blackpool, I had to take Darcy to collect his Dad’s 70th birthday present, a bike. Darcy had to ride it back to his parents’ house ready for Saturday, the big day.

The Birthday Present

We then took the Number 7 into Blackpool (never get into a routine or the Ninjas might get you). This time, we had arranged to meet a friend and so spent five minutes just inside the entrance until he came over and tapped me on the shoulder. We then went to the bar to start the serious business of drinking beer (and whisky). Determined this time not to miss loads of bands through drinking, we made a special effort to go and see 3CR, a superb band from Manchester. I had strongly recommended them to our friend so we dragged him along, forcibly. Fortunately, he was not disappointed.

The wonderful Boggy of 3CR

Now, I had seen a few people wearing a t-shirt that had these words on the back:

I am not homophobic
I am not a racist
I am not religious
I am not fascist
I am just English

and I had been intrigued. Well, we joined up with the Donny (Doncaster) punks after 3CR, who suggested we go and see The Warriors, who would be playing soon. The words are from one of their songs “I Love my England” and, as they were introducing it, they said that if you are from Poland or Spain or Ireland or anywhere, just substitute the name of your country. I found this sentiment very heartening, being quite suspicious when I hear the word England in song lyrics. By the way, I am a bit of a mongrel, having Irish, Scottish, French and English ancestors, which left me feeling a bit spoilt for choice.

After more drinking, some eating (to keep our strength up) and watching Dirty Folkers’ (or Vice Squad, as they are better known) acoustic set, we went to watch Anti Nowhere League. We were a little bit late and as we were walking down the stairs to the Empress Ballroom, I could hear “I Hate People” and I felt myself starting to bounce up and down to the music. Fortunately, I did not end up bouncing down the stairs in an undignified heap and found myself in a packed ballroom with an amazingly sticky floor. That put paid to my bouncing as my feet would not leave the floor. That’s a shame because they also played “So What”, one of my favourites.

Unfortunately, there was a no show when we went to watch Drunken Balordi at midnight and we went back to the bar bitterly disappointed. I was also beginning to feel decidedly rough and made an executive decision to call it a night and miss The Damned and so that was the end to our Friday night of Rebellion.

Saturday started well for me. I didn’t have a hangover and apart from feeling a bit tired, the roughness of the evening before had disappeared. We went over to wish Darcy’s Dad many happy returns of the day and I handed over my own little birthday present for him – some bicycle clips. We then had some cup cakes Darcy’s sister had made for the occasion and did NOT sing Happy Birthday.

We caught the Number 7 bus to Blackpool (the Ninjas would have expected us to get the Number 11 this time) for another day of drinking, socialising and watching bands. We started off in the Arena watching Strawberry Blondes (actually, we started in the bar to have a drink as you have probably already guessed would be the case) and then moved on to the Empress Ballroom to see 999. The floor was as sticky, if not stickier than, the day before. It did not stop me trying to bounce up and down, although, again, my feet were unable to leave the floor, so trying was the operative word. 999 played all their classics: Emergency, Homicide, Feelin’ Alright with the Crew, Nasty Nasty. They did not play my favourite, Titanic (My Over) Reaction or, if they did, we missed it because we turned up part way through the set.

Nick Cash demonstrating the size of the one that got away

A meal and a few drinks later, we went to watch the Poly Styrene tribute. For those who don’t know, Poly Styrene was the lead singer of Xray Spex, passionately anti-consumerist, with a voice that could blast aeroplanes out of the sky but in a good way. The tribute was hosted by John Robb of the Membranes and Goldblade and started with TV Smith singing “Identity”. Friends came on stage to share their memories of Poly Styrene, there were more musical tributes and John Robb invited people from the audience onto the stage to make their own contributions. It was very moving.

After that we saw The Boys (very good), Captain Hotknives (very good), Church of Confidence (so amazingly good that I bought a t-shirt) and The Grit (very good) before calling it a day for another night and getting very wet going to catch the taxi home.

Church of Confidence

I was hangover-free on Sunday as well. Again, we were unable to go straight to Rebellion but this time because we had our weekly shopping to do. I remembered how cold I had got the previous evening and decided to resurrect my old denim jacket to keep me warm. On returning from Morrisons I realised there was an improvement I could make to the jacket and cut the sleeves off.

We then caught the Number 7 into Blackpool (the Ninjas had got it wrong again and were waiting on the Number 11). After (yet another) drink, we went off to the Olympia to watch Eastfield, who describe themselves as Railway Punk. This is the first time I had seen this band – I have intended to see them in previous years but drinking has always got in the way. Anyway, I got around to watching them this year and I was not disappointed.

Eastfield, Railway Punk

After that, we repaired to the bar (do you notice a pattern here?).

Goldblade were playing at 4.25pm but unfortunately, due to a misunderstanding, we missed the first song, my favourite, “Fighting in the Dancehall…” Still, they played a good set, with a version of “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” assisted by a posse of young ladies and finished with a cracking version of “Do you Believe in the Power of Rock and Roll” with a verse each of “Blitzkrieg Bop” and “Anarchy in the UK” thrown in for good measure. Oh and yes I do believe.

Sister, do you believe in the power of Rock and Roll? I believe, Brother John

After Goldblade, Glen Matlock and the Philistines played. The most memorable songs they did were “God Save the Queen” and “Stepping Stone”, which, of course, are the two I know. Something else I noted was Glen’s remarkable resemblance to Harry Redknapp. Note to self – send in a lookalike to Private Eye before anybody else notices.

After that, we had a wander around the stalls. One of the pleasures of Rebellion is looking at what is for sale, trying it on and occasionally buying it. I have mentioned very briefly that I bought a bondage dress and a t-shirt. Well, I also bought some patches to sew on my newly resurrected denim jacket and a badge for my Morris dancing hat and while we were wandering around, we heard the strains of an acoustic version of “Gary Gilmore’s Eyes” and so wandered into the Bizarre Bazaar to catch TV Smith and Leigh Heggarty doing their set. After a couple more songs, we wandered out again.

And so to the end of the evening and the end of Rebellion for another year. We went to watch UK Subs in the Empress Ballroom and then went out for some fresh air. This is when we saw the Bagpipe band. They were there in Victoria Street just down from the venue. I love punk but I’m not particulary picky about music and I was blown away. It was the end of a busy weekend and this was so different to what we had been listening to. We watched for a while and I recorded a short video and then we returned to the Winter Gardens.

We went back to the bar and got chatting to the man with the Daleks on his head (although on Sunday he wore a hat). It had transpired that he is from the same part of the country as us - small world. He was going to watch Jello Biafra (of Dead Kennedys) & the Guantanamo School of Medicine in the Olympia; we were going to see the Adicts. We’ve seen the Adicts before, so we decided to give them a miss and see Jello. Well, he was great. This is not just music but a strong political message. He pulled no punches and harangued the crowd. We noticed a few walking out after one tirade but it’s great to see people challenged and forced out of their comfort zone.

I was tired so we did not stay until the end. Anyway, Darcy was at work today, so I had to think of him. It was yet another great weekend and it’s always brilliant making new friends and consolidating existing friendships. I’m just checking the word count and I’m well over 2000 words but what the hell? Time to finish, methinks, but for your delectation and delight, here is a short film of a Bagpipe band in Blackpool this August.

So, true to my word, when Blackpool made the play-off finals by beating Nottingham Forest 4-3 on 11th May and Darcy asked me if I wanted to go to Wembley with him, I said “Yes please!” Admittedly, I had watched the second half of the match on television (I’d been coming home from work for the first half) and it was great football and really good to watch, so I suppose I can be forgiven for breaking my word.

Darcy booked coach tickets and for some reason (which later became obvious), the coach was to set off at 6am. We had to get up at 5am to make sure we were ready. I had made some butties for the day and we set off with hearts full of hope, the butties, a camera, no sun cream and not a scrap of tangerine about our persons. 

The journey down to London was enjoyable and I spent most of it looking out of the window and counting cars that had Tangerine flags, scarves and/or bunting attached to them. I counted 5394. When we got to the Kirkham turn off on the M55 the driver sounded his horn; there were flag waving Blackpool fans on one of the bridges. He also hooted at fellow supporters’ coaches and we waved at our fellow travellers. There was a memorable stop off at Norton Canes Services on the M6 Toll. The services were full of Blackpool supporters and at one point they started chanting “Seaside! Barmy Army”. It was actually electrifying, as more and more joined in and it started really sinking in that I was on my way to a major sporting event.

Having stocked up on crisps, drinks and digestives, we returned to the coach. As we were walking back, a dickhead asked us “where’s the tangerine?” The obvious answer “in the fruit bowl” did not occur to me until much later. He’d been chanting “BFC, BFC, BFC” seconds before, which Darcy assures me is not, and never has been, a Blackpool chant, so he’s obviously a fair weather supporter. Darcy has been a supporter since he was a little boy and has been a fan through thick and thin. I have never pretended to be a fan but I wanted to be there with Darcy in case he needed a shoulder to cry on at the end of the match. 

We arrived in good time at Wembley and our coach was the third one on the coach park. We got out, leaving our still uneaten butties on the coach (the crisps and digestives had kept hunger pangs at bay en route) and Darcy took me to show me round the New Wembley Stadium. It is an impressive structure and I was much impressed by it.

The New Wembley Stadium

We had a wander around it and stopped to admire the Bobby Moore statue. We did not take any photographs because some Cardiff City fans were being photographed in front of it and we didn’t want to spoil our photo by having any blue in it. While we were wandering around, we saw a Cardiff City fan being put on a stretcher. I assume she had heatstroke, as it was very hot, and I suspect she missed the match, which is a great shame.

We then decided to go to the Green Man, which had been unofficially designated a Blackpool pub by both Blackpool and Cardiff supporters. It was already busy when we arrived but would become much, much busier. Darcy bought the drinks (I had a pint of Brakspear) and we went out into the garden. The atmosphere was positively festive. The fans had really made the effort with very few not sporting at least one item of tangerine clothing. Some had made even more effort and there were tangerine nuns,

Tangerine nuns

 ladies,

Tangerine Ladies who lunch

 Arabs (or shepherds from the 1st Century AD, possibly)

The UAE section of the Tangerine Army

Bernice Clifton directing the traffic

We had a second drink and this time stayed inside, where it was marginally cooler. The pub was really filling up by this time and I was feeling the effects of two pints of beer, too little fluid and temperatures in excess of 25 degrees – i.e. I was feeling pissed, so we decided to go back to the stadium. This time, both Darcy and I had our photos taken in front of the Bobby Moore statue. Not right in front; the Cardiff City supporters were still there. I posed with my “blow horn”, which I had bought five minutes earlier to annoy Darcy’s boss, who would be sitting next to us in the stadium.

Rennie and Bobby Moore (look carefully, he's there in the background)

We then went to look round the stadium shop. I was very impressed with the historic strips from former FA Cup finals and briefly pondered buying a Chelsea top and then thought better of it. I think £40 is a bit excessive for a piece of clothing. I then went and bought a programme. Well, you have to, don’t you? When the gates opened, we went into the stadium. There was a bar code reader at the turnstile, which was very high tech (I’m used to people operating them). We then had to pour our drinks out of our bottles into a plastic “glass”, my bag was searched and Darcy was body searched. I asked if I could have a body search as well but my request was declined.

We then decided to look for some food. Although I had packed butties, we hadn’t eaten them and now we were feeling hungry. The food at Wembley is very expensive and, to be brutally honest, not very nice at all. I opted for the cheapest option: cheeseburger and chips. I had the cheeseburger and Darcy had most of the chips. We then went out to find our seats and I had my first view of the pitch.

Wembley stadium before the match

There was the Football League Community Cup between Folville Junior School and Aldryngton Primary School at 1.40pm. This was a 6 a side match, open to children in Year 6 and below, and very entertaining. After that, there was a lap of honour by the armed forces and then the teams came out for a warm up. Next it was the turn of the inflatable hot dogs with the team flags to be shown off

The Blackpool hot dog

and finally the teams came out on the pitch for the match proper. Darcy had, by this time, got the blow horn out and blown it loudly in his boss’ ear and I took charge of it as official noise maker for the party.

The first half of the match left me a nervous wreck. Although officially a neutral, I wanted Blackpool to win and the mood of the crowd was contagious. When the first Cardiff goal went in, I felt flat. Almost immediately, however, I decided this was not a time to panic and 1-0 down is not irretrievable. The Blackpool fans, who had gone quiet for a brief time, evidently concurred with my opinion because they started chanting and singing again at much the same time as my optimism returned.

Four minutes later, Charlie Adam scored from a brilliant Beckham-esque free kick and all the Blackpool fans and I went mad. When Darcy and I first had sat down, we had been in shade but by now we were in full sun. I had forgotten the sun cream so I divided my time between watching the action on the pitch avidly, being annoyed by a small boy behind me with an irritating megaphone toy and trying to use Darcy to shade my left arm and myself to shade my right arm.

All this was interrupted by Cardiff’s second goal. Again, I felt flat and all around me seemed to reflect my mood, apart from the sun, which was still beating down on me with enthusiasm. Again, my mood lifted and the mood around me, although 2-1 seemed a worse position than 1-0, and the singing and chanting resumed with more force. Then, three minutes later Gary Taylor-Fletcher scored Blackpool’s second, although from our vantage point, it wasn’t easy to see, so we had to see his celebration before we realised he had scored. Again, all the Blackpool fans and one neutral Rennie went mad. I was bouncing around like a Tigger for a couple of minutes.

After another 6 minutes of nail-biting tension, Brett Ormerod scored the third goal in injury time and for the first time, Blackpool went into the lead. This time I bounced a little higher, almost keeping up with Darcy’s bouncing as we celebrated the goal together. In the third minute of injury time, another Cardiff goal went in but was disallowed as it was offside and then it was half-time and time to use the wonderful Wembley toilet facilities and cool down a bit.

The second half was a combination of me screaming at Blackpool players as they got near the Cardiff goal (now situated conveniently close to us) and holding my breath as the ball went down the other end. There was a great deal of action but no goals and as the last 15 minutes passed, the tension was almost unbearable. Cardiff seemed to get all the decisions but Blackpool had the luck and when the final whistle was blown after 4 minutes of injury time, the score was still 3-2 and the whole of our end went bananas (as opposed to tangerines). I joined in the celebrations and gave Darcy a big kiss. I also nearly kissed Darcy’s boss, the guy in front of us, the guy behind and anybody else who would have allowed it but I remembered myself just in time. I then got the camera out and started snapping the celebrations, which continued without me.

Celebrations at the end of the match

Then there were more celebrations. The team then went to collect their medals and the cup and there were more celebrations. The team came back down to the pitch and had their photos taken while fireworks were set off and then there were more celebrations. After that the team did this celebratory slide into the corners at our end thing and there were more celebrations and so it continued, as Darcy and I left to go back to the coach.

We got onto the coach and finally had the butties, which hadn’t taken too much harm from not being refrigerated on a hot day and started to relax. I had a headache from being dehydrated and we were both tired. There was a group of Blackpool supporters who were taunting Cardiff supporters in cars and coaches as they went past. However, one coach went past full of Cardiff supporters who were clapping. I thought that was a great gesture. I called my sister, Panda, who had rung me just after the final whistle had gone. I had not been able to hear her then and I had held the phone out so she could hear the noise. We chatted briefly about football, music and the clapping Cardiff City fans. We then moved onto Cardiff City fans showing their arses (yes, another coach had gone by, by then). Ours was practically the first Blackpool supporters’ coach to leave and it was then I realised how sensible it had been to leave for Wembley so early, seeing as there were about 250 more of them waiting to leave.

My memory of the journey home is a bit hazy now. I remember dropping off and then waking up with a painful neck, looking out of the window at cars with tangerine flags, scarves and bunting going by, dropping off again and waking up with a painful neck. We stopped at some services (Corley, in case you wanted to know), where I bought some water and orange juice. I always find orange juice highly effective for hangovers and my head felt like I had one. Then back on the coach, more snoozing, waking up and looking at cars with flags, scarves and bunting. I received a number of texts from Sammy the Shark, who was delighted with the result and I replied to them. As we drove onto the M55 on the final leg of our journey, I called for a minicab to meet us from the coach. It was there when we arrived.

Then there was the final drive home, while Darcy discussed the match with the driver and I put my pennyworth in here and there, then home, a bath and then bed.

It was a brilliant day and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, despite my vow last year never to see Blackpool again. One really nice thing is that Darcy said it was good to go to the play off final with me because he doesn’t need to explain what is going on to me, as I know about football and understand it. Not bad for a woman who runs like a girl, throws like a girl and has so little co-ordination she’s constantly tripping over her own feet and walking into door frames.

So on Saturday, Darcy and I decamped to 53 Degrees in Preston to see Dragonforce. When we arrived, there was a queue as long as the Nile, so we went into the Mad Ferret; Darcy for a JD, Ice and Water and me for a swift half. When the drinks were safely ensconced in our stomachs, the queue had shrunk to the length of Tolbooth Street in Falkirk (look it up) so we joined the end and were very quickly inside the venue.

I make a point of checking out the support bands at Gigs and have discovered some great bands that way, one of the first being The Straps. However, the first two bands, Glamour of the Kill and Sylosis, did not really do anything for me, not that we heard much of the first support but the second support sounded too derivative for me.

However, Sabaton, the third support, was a different matter. Right from the start it was brilliant. The band came on to a huge fanfare with huge grins on their faces and looking like they were going to have a good time, come what may. They all had magnificent beards, including the keyboard player, Daniel Mÿhr, who, from my vantage point, looked a bit like George Dawes. With a magnificent beard, of course.

Then Joakim Brodén, the lead singer ran on stage. It was getting better. He had a Mohawk (well, that’s what I call a short Mohican) and I love that hairdo; well, on a man, anyway. He was grinning too. Definitely a good sign. It was an indication of things to come as he spent the whole time during the set having what can only be described as a brilliant time. I can only name two of their songs: Cliffs of Gallipoli and Metal Machine; my hearing’s shot at at the best of times so I don’t always hear what the songs are called.

What I can say is they were great. I really enjoyed their set, the music was great and they were really appreciative of the reception they got. Early on during their set, Joakim made this very clear and he kept thanking us for the reaction the band was getting at regular intervals during the gig. He kept me amused too, twiddling with guitarist, Rickard Sundén’s nipples, ostensibly as some kind of effects pedal. 

After a while, I realised the other guitarist, Oskar Montelius, looks like my son, Harry. Well, he looks like Harry would look if he had a long, plaited beard, which he doesn’t. At practically the same time and with a timing that suggests he can read my mind, Darcy turned to me and said “Doesn’t he look like Harry?” pointing at the bearded guitarist in question. Once that fact had been established, I came over all gooey and maternal. I know Harry is 23 and Oskar is probably even older (even though he looks very young to 40-something me) but they always stay your baby.

All too soon for me, which is amazing considering we had come to see Dragonforce, Sabaton’s set finished. I determined that I will buy a CD, so I need to find out if they’re as good in a studio as they are live. There are quite a few bands I love live but can’t be doing with on CD so I need to know these things.

So, after a wait, Dragonforce finally came on. I’d agreed to come to see them on the strength of two tracks, Through the Fire and Flames and My Spirit Will Go On. I love the duetting guitars of Herman Li and Sam Totman and was looking forward to seeing them live.

I wasn’t disappointed. The music was great and they were fabulous entertainers. Herman Li is small but perfectly formed but I was very disturbed by his habit of licking the guitar. It was freezing in there and I was worried his tongue would stick to the guitar and it would have to be freed with judicious use of warm beer. Z P Theart, the lead singer, bore an uncanny resemblance to Captain Jack Sparrow. I kept expecting him to shout “Ahoy there, me hearties!” Oh no, that’s Captain Pugwash, isn’t it? Vadim Pruzhanov, the keyboard player, is blessed with extraordinary energy and co-ordination. There is no way I would ever be able to play the keyboard and do high kicks at the same time. He was also able to come down from his exalted position (high up on the left hand side of the stage) to slum it with his keytar with the guitarists, bass player and front man. Frédéric Leclercq, the bassist, is just totally rock and roll. Unfortunately, I really can’t speak for his bass playing; my hearing is not brilliant and I hear higher registers better than lower ones. The same is true for the drumming and Dave Mackintosh was hidden away behind his drum kit.

We had to wait until the final song of the encore for Through the Fire and Flames. We were treated to the intro and then the band walked off stage. We all stood there with amused smiles on our faces, confident they would return. Which they did, except with everybody on the wrong instruments and Herman Li on high pitched vocals with a comical Chinese accent. My amused smile started to get a bit strained but then they all went back to their proper stations and we got the song in its proper form. It was a great finish to a really enjoyable gig.

Well, you may say that Punk and Metal fulfil a similar need for a Punky Rennie and that may be so, although I would tend to favour Thrash Metal over the more melodic variety provided by Dragonforce to satisfy my appetite for aggressive and obnoxious music. However, in case anybody thinks my taste in music is restricted to loud, fast music, I beg to differ. We’re going to see Kate Rusby next.

We then wandered around the streets near Afflecks in search of the elusive hat and went in some interesting shops, including a vintage clothes shop that smelt horribly musty. Don’t they wash the clothes first? We also went in Rockers round the corner from Afflecks Palace, which had a great selection of clothes. Unfortunately, we had gone at the wrong time because everything was either an S or an XXL, neither of which fit Darcy. We will have to go back when they get the next orders in. Still, he has seen a few shirts that he really likes.

Darcy was very disappointed, however, that so far he had not spent a penny (no, NOT in that way) apart from on the train tickets and was getting quite despondent. I, on the other hand, had not had any breakfast and was feeling very hungry, so we went off to China Town in search of all-you-can-eat Buffets. There were Buffets aplenty and as we were trying to check them all out, we spotted the crowds lining the route of the Manchester Pride Procession in eager anticipation of the events to come. We also spotted two marvellous drag queens, both about 7 foot tall in their platforms posing with three teenagers, while their parents snapped away.

We found a Buffet and proceeded to stuff our faces, Darcy using a knife and fork and I, poseur that I am, using chopsticks. I am a purist and believe in eating food in the way it was intended: knife and fork for european food, Chinese chopsticks for Chinese food, Japanese chopsticks for Japanese food and chapatis for Indian food. Sorry if I’m a snob but that’s just the way I am. The food was very good and the meal was cheap and at last Darcy had been able to part with money. We left the Buffet fuller and happier. Although Darcy’s stomach was beginning to complain. He has a medical condition, you see.

We moseyed down the road to the Manchester Pride Procession, which, by now, was in full swing. In no time at all, I was really disappointed that neither Darcy nor I had brought our cameras. The parade was brilliant. I can’t remember everything that passed by but highlights for me included the Rainbow Flag waving police, SLUTS or Salford Ladies United Temperance Society, the Firemen and Paramedics (I’m sorry but there is no fantasy more potent for a Punky Rennie than a Gay Fireman), the Bears, the Unitarians, Amnesty International and the Religious Society of Friends.

The police officers were all genuine police (in case there are any doubters in the audience), of all ages and ranks. They were all wearing the more traditional uniform, that you don’t get to see too often nowadays and they were, to my practised eye, from different forces around the country. There was a time when you simply would not have seen police marching in a Pride Procession, certainly within my lifetime, and this was a heartening sight for me. The photo below, as indeed have all photos in this blog, has been lifted from the Internet. If any of the photographers object, please leave me a comment and I will remove them.

Police and Rainbow Flags

SLUTS were wonderful Goodies or Python-style ladies carrying banners with statements like “Old Dears Against Queers” and “Mince: Noun Not Verb”. I think their presence was made all the more enjoyable for me by the fact that a few minutes earlier I had seen a small number of clearly Christian protesters on the other side of the road, with placards basically stating that it is evil to be gay. In my opinion, SLUTS just showed them up for the bigots and fools they are.

SLUTS

I first encountered Bears at a Variety Show in Blackpool. This is now a somewhat dim memory for me and the members of the troupe, Bearlesque (now sadly defunct) all now look like Gary Bushell in my mind’s eye. Bears, in case you didn’t know, are supersized, hairy, gay men. They all look completely cuddly, indeed teddy bear like to me. The gentlemen on the float were dressed in drag, beards and all. I particularly liked Cruella De Vil. Wonderful.

I don’t have much to say about gay firemen (or heterosexual firemen for that matter) that can go in a family blog, so I will move swiftly on to the Unitarians and Quakers. I am not quite a birthright Quaker; my mother started going to meeting and taking me and my two sisters when I was three. I went to a Quaker school and after leaving it, went to Meeting once in a Blue Moon. I haven’t been for years although I am tempted from time to time. I don’t find that my Atheism is a bar to attending Meeting; Quakers are well known for their tolerance and inclusivity and I find Meeting the most wonderful opportunity to recharge my batteries (I MUST get up early on a Sunday one day and go) and I love Quakers. They’re great people.

I was not surprised to see people with Quaker banners marching in the procession. I’ve known for many years that the Society of Friends sees Gay love and partnership as being as valid as heterosexual relationships. Only a few days ago, I was delighted to see an article on the BBC News website which reported that the Society of Friends ”looks set to extend marriage services to same-sex couples at their yearly meeting later.” You can read the whole article here.

I hadn’t realised that the Unitarians are another extremely inclusive and tolerant Christian Church. A quick read of the home page of their website earlier when I was looking for the link above put me straight on that matter. I realised that Quakers do not have a monopoly on celebrating diversity and respecting other beliefs. I’m now no longer surprised to have seen them there; just glad I did.

Manchester Pride Paraders

While all this was going on, we were walking towards the end of the march and eventually it came to an end. We went back to the city centre and carried on looking for a hat for Darcy. Eventually we found it: a nice khaki cap that will sit just nicely on his new hairstyle. Our mission accomplished, we could now leave for home.

When we got back to Horwich, I realised that my timing had been about as bad as it could possibly be. The Bolton Wanderers/Liverpool FC football match had just come to an end and the roads were chocker already. I needed to fill the car to ensure we would get home and we must spent about half an hour in stationary and slow moving traffic to get back to the motorway. Fortunately, Liverpool had won the match, which put Darcy in a great mood and the journey home was great fun as he played DJ with his iPod and the FM Transmitter. I was treated to Gangsters by The Specials, Three Minute Hero by Selecter and probably my favourite Ska/Bluebeat track The Prince by Madness to name but three.

Ronnie Biggs is a bit of an anti-hero to people of a certain age in this country. He was one of the Great Train Robbers. He was locked up for the crime but then escaped and spent three decades on the run before deciding he wanted to come back home to this country after a series of strokes.

While he was on the run and in Brazil, he rather inadvisedly made some recordings with the remains of the Sex Pistols (post-John Lydon) and some of the words of one of the songs are still clear in my memory: Ronnie Biggs was doing time/Until he done a bunk/But now he says he’s seen the light/And sold his soul to Punk. I say inadvisedly not because of the sentiments, I actually rather liked the apparent lack of remorse shown at the time and it still appeals, but because the song was bloody appallingly bad and Ronnie just couldn’t sing. That was one of my first memories of the man. I had been too young to be aware of the furore surrounding the Great Train Robbery.

So he came back to England and was sent to jail to finish his sentence. Ten or so years later, he’s still in jail. He’s not the Ronnie we knew and loved. I heard his solicitor say how he is completely incapacitated and would be unable to reoffend. He cannot walk, he cannot talk. I didn’t hear it all because while the solicitor was speaking, I was screaming at Jack Straw (not that he could hear me) for being such a bastard.

I later saw Ronnie’s son, Michael, give a press conference on television about the decision. He filled out the gaps. His father cannot walk or talk or read or write. He can barely communicate. He cannot eat or drink. He is completely incapable of reoffending. Michael showed so much dignity I was really moved and impressed by his whole demeanour.

It makes me question our leaders: for a start, I thought our criminal justice system, and prison especially, had two main purposes: to rehabilitate offenders and to protect society from them. As far as I am aware and, if I am wrong, Mr Straw is absolutely welcome to put me right on this point, prison is not about Society having its revenge on offenders. If that were so, couldn’t we just forget about prison sentences, probation and community service orders? Just erect pillories and stocks in town and city centres and allow us to throw rocks at petty offenders and we could publicly castrate rapists and murder murderers. That’s revenge.

So, if prison isn’t about revenge and it is about rehabilitation and protecting the public, why does Ronnie Biggs have to stay in jail? He is no longer a danger to society and we are no longer able to tell if he has rehabilitated or not and I’m not too sure just how relevant that is now in his case, anyway. He’s a dying man.

I hope that Ronnie’s family and the people working for him are successful. I hope he is released and that he does not die in prison. I think a society which allows people who are no longer a danger to die in prison is something I want no part of. I want to be able to hold my head high and say that the society of which I am a part is a compassionate society.

The fear has receded (although finding the webpage for the link above gave me the creeps) but religion never found its way back into my life. For the past 33 years or so, I have looked to science for explanations for why I am here, how the world was formed and why it is populated by such diverse life forms. Science has done a very good job. It doesn’t claim to have all the answers but then that’s what science is all about: looking for them.

I have also had a few experiences that I might call spiritual, although I always class myself as Atheist: without a god. There is something about wild places that appeals to me. Hazy sunshine during Lakeland Walks or a mist filled landscape early in the morning that awake something very deep-rooted in me but it is much, much older than Christianity. I can so easily imagine Pan, just out of sight, at such times. This is the “Old Magic” mentioned in The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner and the intensely spiritual experiences described in Paul Hawken’s The Magic of Findhorn. I have these experiences and then return to the mundane world of work, living on an income a tiny fraction of Sir Fred Goodwin’s and all the extremely unspiritual experiences I have, such as punk gigs, shopping, holidays, friends and family.

This the sort of person that I am. Most of the time I see things in an intensely mundane way, favouring Quantum Physics and Darwin’s Theory of Evolution over a Creator God or even a number of creator gods. A tiny fraction of the time I think that there is the thinnest of veils between this world and another and that all it will take is the slightest movement or effort and I will be able to see or experience something quite different or, possibly, quite similar.

I had hoped that maybe the veil would drawn aside during the overnight investigation at The Winter Gardens in Blackpool that I went to a couple of weeks ago. I have watched Most Haunted once or twice and Whines and Spirits and Screaming Banshees a few times. I find these programmes highly amusing, although I remain sceptical about what is going on. I don’t necessarily doubt the sincerity of the people on the shows but it all seems a bit daft to me. However, actually being there could be a completely different matter and it would have been nice, even to a non-believer, to have experienced something there.

It started at 11pm, when we were let in through a side door and we had to sign a visitors’ book (just in case any of us disappeared during the night). We then went through into one of the bars and waited to be taken upstairs to begin the investigation.

We started in the Renaissance Room, where our hosts from Supernatural Events explained what the night held in store for us, divided us into three groups and handed out the equipment. The equipment was standard equipment for such events: crystal pendulums, EMF (electro-magnetic force) meters, digital thermometers, divining rods, motion sensors, glasses and 2 Ouija Boards. The glasses and Ouija Boards were kept back for later and we were advised not to use the Ouija Boards without an experienced person to hand.

I got handed a crystal and Darcy was handed a bewildering array of equipment, including an EMF meter, divining rods and motion sensors. He could have done with a couple of spare arms at that point. Two of the groups went off to other areas and our group remained in the Renaissance Hall. One of our number had a crystal, which within seconds was spinning wildly as she asked an invisible somebody loads of questions, all with yes or no answers. Mine refused to move. If there were any spirits there, they were avoiding me like the plague, thus confirming my suspicions that most people wouldn’t be seen dead talking to me.

Darcy had brought his camera and had been busy snapping in the Spanish Hall, Baronial Hall and the Renaissance Room. He had already captured a fantastic display of orbs, which are either ghostly apparitions or dust.

He put down all of the equipment that had been handed to him and had a go with the divining rods with what he felt was indifferent success. With my crystal still refusing to budge, I decided to have a go with the rods and he wandered off with the EMF meter and his trusty camera to do some more investigating and to snap more orbs. The divining rods were prepared to move for me but in an extremely anarchic way, which had me thinking I must be holding them wrong. Our host had demonstrated how to use them but I had no faith in my ability to do anything that would show there was anybody there.

It was at this point that the organiser, Steve, showed up and I told him of my complete lack of success. He reassured me with regard to the crystal and told me how to energise it, with the help of Darcy, who already has had experience of such things, as was evident to Steve. Suddenly, the bloody thing started to move, so I asked it questions so I could establish what was a yes and what was a no. Questions like “Is my name Punky Rennie?” (“Yes”) and “Is my mother still alive?” (“No”). After that, I asked it more difficult questions, “Is Darcy a woman?” “Yes,” it answered to my hilarity. Darcy was not amused. Then “Is Bobbie drunk?” “Yes” again (actually, she wasn’t). “Should Darcy have an Onion Bhaji?” The answer was a definite no and was correct, as later he had stomach pains. Silly Darcy!

I have a theory about crystals now, after this experience. I think if I am able to completely empty my mind, if and when I next use one, I can use it a bit like the alethiometer in the Dark Materials Trilogy. I think it can be used to find out what I am thinking or feeling at the deepest level and I might get some answers to questions that bother me from time to time. I do want to try it again.

After a while, all three groups were brought back together in the Renaissance Room. Some had clearly had experiences and some had been crying. Apart from my question and answer session with the crystal, I had had nothing. There was talk of two children, one of whom was not allowed to run about and play and another who was and the emotions associated with them. We were now encouraged to wander off into various side rooms, staircases and corridors. We were pointed towards certain areas but nothing was explained to us, to hopefully keep the experiences as genuine as possible.

By now, it had become evident that one of our number was a complete sceptic and non-believer and had possibly not wanted to come at all. She was not prepared to accept that anything from any other world or place could be present. Darcy and I were sent to a corridor where we experienced nothing at all; he didn’t even manage to photograph any orbs. While we were sitting there, feeling absolutely nothing, three people came in, including the sceptic. I told Darcy that she was going to frighten all the ghosts away and we made our excuses and left.

After wandering around a bit more and eating a few more Onion Bhajis, we returned to the corridor and sat down. The sceptic returned too after about five minutes. To our delight, it turned out she had experienced something. She had been stood on the stairs and, in her own words, it had felt like Hillsborough. She had nearly fallen down the stairs and nearly did so again in front of us. That, to me, is more proof that the veil to which I referred earlier exists than my complete lack of sensations etc proves that it doesn’t.

We spent the rest of the night wandering about, seeing the bits of the Winter Gardens that you never normally see and which are absolutely beautiful and took my breath away and finally doing some glass work (like Ouija but with Yes/No answers only) with a medium, when we spoke to a gay ghost (yes, really!)

At 4am, we all departed and, yes, we ALL departed; nobody had been lost or spirited away. I was knackered but delighted to find my car had not been clamped, issued with a parking ticket (a constant worry to me throughout the night) or trashed by drunken Blackpoolians (still very much in evidence). It had certainly been an interesting night and Darcy had a wonderful selection of photographs of the least camera shy of paranormal phenomena, orbs.

There may be scientific explanations for everything that happened; the orbs may be dust, the glass may have been pushed or pulled and people’s emotions are probably heightened at such times, thus explaining the tears of some of our party. I’m sure everything that happened and was experienced can be explained away as dust or mass hysteria, coincidence or our imagination (or lack thereof in my case) but I think a paranormal, spiritual or ghostly explanation is so much more interesting and entertaining.

So I remain a paradox: an Atheist who does NOT believe in a God or gods but who looks for another world, close to but apart from this world. I am glad that our sceptic co-investigator had her experience and I hope she didn’t decide to explain it away in the cold light of day. I hope to try my luck with a crystal again and Darcy already has his instructions in this regard, with my birthday getting closer. Finally, and I decided to save this until last. I thought it would nice to share the mother of orbs; well, the mother of orbs on Darcy’s camera, anyway. There it is, hovering just above the floor in the middle of the Renaissance Room.

I haven’t written a blog about a gig in a long while or so it seems. There are numerous reasons for this. One is I haven’t been to a gig for some time (Opeth in November 2008). Another is I never remember the set list. Probably the most important is I never remember the names of the songs and it’s frankly embarrassing to write a review of a gig when I can’t actually name any of the songs.

However, and this is a big however, Miss Behave’s Variety Nighty is a different matter. I have a program next to me to which I can refer when I’m struggling to remember the name of any of the acts and Darcy is sat on the sofa with me and I can ask him if the program is no help.

I’ll start at the very beginning. Darcy asked me a few months ago if I fancied going to see Miss Behave’s Variety Nighty. I answered with a resounding “yes”, as I had seen Admission All Classes last year hosted by the magnificent female sword swallower and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Well Darcy booked the tickets and got me discounted car parking too and off we set last night for Blackpool, all bright eyed and excited. We had a quick drink in the bar and then went and found our seats and sat down, ready for the show. First of all, though, various ladies, gents (well one gent and he was wearing a short skirt, stockings and high heels) and drag queens (I hope I got that bit right – I sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between female impersonators and drag queens) were offering programs, chocolates and roses to the punters. We got ourselves a program and took a good look around at everybody else there.

We had Blackpool royalty there for the evening in the person of Miss Stella Artois and her escort and very regal she was too. She has the Queen Elizabeth wave down to a fine art and I thought she looked great. There were plenty of other very interesting people in the audience and Darcy noticed some people in forties and fifties dress in the stalls behind us.

Before long, the lights went down and Miss Behave appeared on stage. She did the introduction and drew our attention to the busts of Shakespeare and Handel above the boxes. Shakespeare is looking towards the audience and Handel towards the stage. That is because at premieres of his music, Handel would keep an eye on the orchestra to make sure everything was going well and during his plays, Shakespeare would keep an eye on the audience for the same reason. So you see, entertaining and educational.

The acts included The Amazing Marawa, who hulaed, Alex Dandridge, who made us laugh while he did tricks with a spinning football and juggled, Lady Carol on the ukulele, with a magnificent voice and great comedic touches, Jon Hicks, who has a similar painting style to that of Rolf Harris, Bret Pfister, who combined gymnastics and acrobatics on a huge ring swinging from the ceiling and Ida Barr, a music hall/hiphop fusion artist.

The highlights for me were Miss Behave, Barry and Yvonne (Couple Number 69), Earl Okin and Ursula Martinez.

Miss Behave was the compère but entertained us with a few tricks of her own, including a trick with a rose, which she pushed through the piercing in her tongue and then used it to pull her tongue out of her mouth and twist it round: disturbing and extremely amusing at the same time. She also swallowed a sword, which I managed to watch this year (I am of a nervous disposition and passed on it last year). Just as she was about to swallow (oo-er), a man in the audience shouted “Go on” and the poor woman had to compose herself again. Later in the show, she swallowed a table leg – which was hilarious and amazing as the table had a tray with a bottle of wine and glass on it, which didn’t topple over.

Barry and Yvonne are ballroom dancers. Their set started off with a misunderstanding and some innuendo. Barry came onto the stage from Backstage but Yvonne came through the audience. There was a massive dispute about this with Yvonne pointing out that Barry likes to come in the rear. Then as Yvonne clambered very clumsily onto the stage, with the help of a member of the audience, she hurt her thigh, which she then got the poor sod to rub better. After some introductions and some superb contortions from Yvonne, they danced a Paso Doble: in much the same way that Les Dawson used to play The Entertainer. You have to be really good at something to do it so awfully and make it funny. I was almost in tears they were so funny.

Earl Okin was also hilarious. He was billed as a musical genius and sex symbol. Obviously, you will have to make up your own minds but here is a clip to help you.

He sang two songs, “My Room”, a musical seduction, and “Bessie, Bessie, Bessie”, a wonderfully non-PC song about a highly unattractive woman. His impressions of musical instruments, especially the trumpet, were both hilarious and impressive.

The final act was Ursula Martinez. I am considering how I am going to describe her act tomorrow at work when people ask me if I had a nice weekend because I am definitely going to mention it. She did a trick with a hanky. She pushed it into her hand and it disappeared. She then found it in her jacket pocket and took off her jacket, revealing only a bra underneath. Fair enough, I thought, close up magic, no sleeves to hide anything in but not really the sort of magician you’d have at children’s parties. The hanky disappeared again and then skirt came off, then the bra and finally the panties. It was hilarious and a really good act but I don’t know whether to describe her as a stripper who does magic or a magician who strips. It’s a bit of a dilemma.

After her, the fat lady sang and the show was over. Darcy and I returned to the car and as we were walking upstairs in the car park, he tripped and knocked me over as well, a là domino. We hobbled back to the car, Darcy complaining loudly that he was too old and next he’ll need help with dressing himself and we came home.

It was a fantastic night and we’re still both smiling at the thought of it.

My first thought when I saw the picture was how old it makes him look. He’s a couple of years older than me but the headgear makes him look about 15 to 20 years older. Now, he’s never been a dedicated follower of fashion and has had a quite utilitarian approach to clothing and I’m sure he would be very able to justify the purchase of such apparel were he to be challenged but it made me think about the Generation Gap.

When we were teenagers, we were different from our parents. They would never wear the same clothes as us and we would never wear the same clothes as them. We were young and they were old. Their tastes were different too. They referred to the music we liked as “that racket” and we thought their music was boring.

When our parents were young, the word “teenager” hadn’t been coined. What follows is a very simplistic view but it will do. Men of our fathers’ generation wore short pants until they were fourteen and then they left school, got a job and dressed just like their fathers. The women wore ribbons in their hair until they were maybe a little older, then left school, got jobs and dressed just like their mothers.

A family picture from the 1940s

In the fifties, when the word “teenager” was coined, they started dressing differently from their parents; more flamboyantly and in brighter colours. They did their hair differently and they started socialising with people of their generation. This carried on through the sixties and seventies with the gap apparently widening although it had already widened to a huge gulf in the fifties.

In my generation, we had the most amazing teenage rebellion: Punk. I know I’m biassed; I was one, after all but the punk movement took rebellion to new heights – spiked hair, ripped clothes and safety pins and piercings where they hadn’t been in western culture for many, many years.

Punks from the 70s

The boundaries were clear in a way that they had simply not been when my parents were that age.

Well, as the title of one my favourite books at that time says: That was then and this is now. I am 23, 25 and 27 years older than my three children. I have been known to borrow my girls’ clothes and they do accept hand-me-downs from me. My youngest straightens my hair for me and compliments me (very occasionally) on what I’m wearing. I know that I can buy them clothes and jewellery and they will wear them. Not out of politeness but because they like them. My poor Mum would never have got away with that.

As for music, there is a decent overlap. My older daughter loves the music her Dad and I listened to in the Eighties and there are some punk bands she will happily come and see with me. Conversely, I have been to see her favourite band with her and gave them rave reviews after the gig. I wasn’t just being nice. The reviews were sincere.

I work with young men and women of my children’s age, as well, and I do not notice any kind of generation gap between me and them. I treat them like my peers and they treat me the same. Well at least that’s the impression I get.

All this led to the conclusion that we are now in a parallel situation to that before the fifties and the arrival of youth culture. The boundaries have blurred again. The difference is my kids don’t dress like me; I think it’s the other way round. They did not reach the age of 14 and then suddenly grow up but I reached the age of 40 and definitely grew down. Parents with younger kids dress them in similar clothes to the ones they wear and you see plenty of people of my age wearing the same clothes teenagers and people in their early twenties wear. It seems like it’s the same as before, only different.

I was also excited but my excitement was tempered with a degree of nervousness, as I would not be able to approach the dancing with my usual relaxed attitude towards getting it right. This is the sort of venue where we have to be tight and dance well. We spent the practice on the preceding Thursday refining the four dances we were to perform and I was delighted to find out on Saturday that I was to dance three of them.

Our fellow performers in the Festival of Christmas included the Preston Orpheus Choir, The BT Band (Stockport), a brass band, young ballerinas and school children from two primary schools, singing carols and performing a nativity play. Darcy and I were not sure the organisers were fully apprised of exactly what sort of dancers the team comprised. Actually, they knew exactly what we were because Stone the Crows appeared at last year’s festival.

We had two slots and two dances in each. First up, it was Much Wenlock, which can only be a fertility dance, as, in the chorus, one side of two rows of dancers has to present sticks in the “vulgar” position and the other bashes them. I have a very soft spot for Much Wenlock because I “met” Darcy while I was dancing it last year. He danced it very well indeed back then, even though he was a civilian, and I really enjoy dancing it with him now. It all went off without a hitch as well.

Much Wenlock at the Allison Arms

After Much Wenlock, we danced White Ladies, a double White Ladies to be precise, with twice the normal number of dancers. Again, it went off well, although there was some slight confusion at the beginning of the dance, when some of us did not know where we were supposed to be lining up. Okay, at the beginning of the dance, when I did not know where I was supposed to be lining up. Then it was off backstage again, as we were not performing again until after the interval.

We removed our bells (a vital part of Morris Dancers’ attire) and some of us went off to watch the next act, while the rest repaired to the bar. Darcy and I and four others found our way into the top tier of the seats and sat down to hear the BT Band. When they finished the piece they were playing, they accompanied the Orpheus Choir singing a German carol, whose name escapes me now. It was in 3/4 time and, part way through, two of our number got out of their seats and danced a brief waltz to it at the top of the hall. It was very sweet indeed. After they sat down, two more got up to waltz to the music. Darcy and I declined. I would probably have tripped over Darcy’s feet or my own, as I have never waltzed in my life.

After that, it was the interval proper and we made our way to the bar to drink fizzy lager or whatever took our respective fancies. After this small break, we returned to our backstage room and prepared to go out for our two last dances. We danced Ragged Crow, which, I suppose, is our signature dance. We had four sets of four, facing the four different points of “the compass”. I felt it went really well and will have looked great, especially the end, where we got the chance to run at the people in the front row of the audience.

I had a rest during the last dance, as only eight dancers were needed. The final dance was Crow’s Nest and the people who didn’t dance it, joined in with the musicians on percussion. I really enjoy watching this dance but I had to concentrate on making sure I kept time with the musicians properly and that takes concentration (for me, anyway). The dance was flawless and I sincerely hope the percussion was as well. The audience really seemed to enjoy it; the dancing, not my maracas playing and we left to rapturous applause.

After that, some of our number removed their face paint and Darcy and I accompanied one of our friends outside so she could have a fag. Darcy is a non-smoker and I’m an ex-smoker (and the worst sort – a chain non-smoker and tut tutter) but it was nice to go outside and cool down a bit. After that, we went to the pub for some proper beer but it was noisy in there so we left after one drink.

I enjoyed it immensely, as did Darcy, and now he can announce to all and sundry “I’ve had a gig at the Guild Hall”. Bless him!

Time passes, of course, and very angry indeed turns to mild irritation and mild irritation to the complete inability to be surprised by the actions of my fellow humans. This driver will not get off scott free because I am going to blog about him now. However, I will preserve his anonymity because that’s what I do in this blog, so he can consider himself a very lucky man indeed.

So, what did he do to make me so angry at first and so supercilious at the end? He cut me up on a roundabout. When you come off the M55 at Broughton, there are two lanes, one to turn left and one to turn right. I was in the right turning lane because I was turning right and he was in the left turning lane because he was turning right. Yes, you read right. He was turning right from a left turning lane – a mandatory left turning lane too – so that’s 3 points on his licence straightaway, well, at least I think it is.

I mean how dare he force me, in my little red car, into the right hand lane, when I need to be in the left hand lane, going round the roundabout? Is it because he was driving an enormous 4X4? An enormous 4X4 that wastes fossil fuels that are fast running out? Wastes diesel (presumably), wears out the road and looks so damn ostentatious! It makes me mad!

So, Mr I’m a Big Clever Man because I Drive an Expensive 4X4 with a Personalised Number Plate (because I’m so sad that I have to let everybody know my initials) and Force Small Hatchbacks into the Wrong Lane Because My Car is so Big AND I don’t Give a Toss That I’m Destroying the Environment, it’s not big, it’s not clever and you should bear in mind the words of wisdom of my big sister, who is a very wise woman: it’s called the big car, small dick syndrome.

SO THERE!