It’s three in the morning and I am in the mood for a whisky fuelled free flow of thought. Perhaps I should apologies in advance for my drunken ramblings but I won’t because a) I’m not that drunk and b) it’s my blog and I can write what ever I like.
The Girlf slumbers upstairs, annoyed by my abandonment of her tonight, it vexes her when occasionally life takes precedence over her. My honeyed words fall on deaf ears and, disgruntled, she hurumphs me as I try to cajole and soothe.
Well, sleep my sweet your man had other commitments and duties and your needs are limitless and will have to wait for my attention.
For the last two days I have been reeling from a line I heard at the end of a very good film. A throw away line, cheesy and used for effect but for some reason it ignited something in me. A little spark in the centre of my chest; it energised that kernel of my being. Occasionally you are reminded of the child in you, the dreamer, the visionary you once thought you were.
The day to day drudgery can make you forget. We embrace our boredom and call it contentment. We plod along stupefied and accept it as reality. It is so widespread and ordinary we take solace in it.
Every day I wash up. It’s part of my routine, one of my household chores. On no day do I sod the washing up, jump on a plane and end up in Goa. This would not be part of my routine; this would be out of the ordinary. In fact this would be so out of character for me that the thought to drop my sponge and end up on the other side of the world never crosses my mind.
It could however be possible, I could tear off my rubber gloves and find myself anywhere on the planet within the day. The fire in my chest would allow it. The fire inside me would relish it. That urge, the child’s urge wants to fly to distant stars. It wants to traverse the universe and experience the whole of its majesty.
The enormity of creation overwhelms me; my nothingness compared to all that is crushes my ego and dissipates the self. In my sphere of thought and feeling I am God. I am the only sentience that I’m totally sure of. After all, you could all very well be figments of my imagination.
‘No, no’ you shout, ‘we are all as real as you. Don’t be stupid.’
Your protestations are nought, because, of course, you would say that wouldn’t you? You can’t let me believe that reality is merely here for my convenience. That knowledge would unleash megalomania never before seen, the universe my plaything? No man could be entrusted with such a thought.
Here lies man’s reality. The vastness of everything hems us into our little corner of existence. It would take us tens of thousands of years to travel to the nearest stars, let alone the nearest galaxies. We are trapped in our little corner of space and it is a very little corner relatively speaking.
Confronted with these magnitudes we are prisoners stuck in our cell. We can see through the bars but we can never leave. Trapped by distances scarcely comprehendible, distances that reduce our planet to nothing more than an atom in space. So that in the next hundred years, long after all of us are dead, perhaps people may set foot on Mars, maybe orbit Jupiter, perhaps surf through Saturn’s rings yet these dreams, these aims are those of children, trapped in their parents homes dreaming of the day that they can walk the streets beyond the window alone and un-accompanied. Like the child these dreams are the pinnacle of what we hope to achieve, yet they are small fores into the vastness of space. The child is sent to the shops for milk, humanity lands a manned space craft on Mars.
The whisky as worked its way through my system. I am sober and tired. I yearn for the warmth of my woman’s flesh and the peace of sleep. The comfort of oblivion is calling for the sun will be rising soon and its eight minute old light will keep me awake as it triggers primordial evolutionary responses in my system.
For I am a system, a result of billions of years of false starts and dead ends, billions of years of winding evolution that has resulted in whisky and keyboards, contemplation and need. Eons that have given us love and confusion, wonder and frustration.
Right now I am at the zenith of creation, as you are reading this. All that is has led to this point. You are holding the now in your hands.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Friday, 23 July 2010
Weights, telly and porn
My shoulder’s fucked. Left to my own devises last weekend I think I over capitalised on the opportunity to lift weights. This morning I woke up at seven o’clock ‘fuck, fuck, fucking’. It’s one of those movement pains. Doesn’t bother me unless I move my arm into certain positions then I’m rewarded with a sharp, wincing shock. Consequently I’ve been resting it since Monday.
Living on pain-killers is no way to live and to be honest after six months on it I deserve a break. It’s a nice opportunity to take stock. Since January I’ve increased my bench press by over thirty five percent and my arms by fifty percent but to be fair after half a year day in day out it does get boring.
This gives me an opportunity to catch up on some well needed cardio. I used to be very fit but that has all gone by the wayside of late, opting for mass as opposed to speed and endurance. I’m not going to be getting all that iron up for a while so I’ve got no excuse but to concentrate on movement, back to the good old days, dust off some of those old skills.
Technically I’m still a black belt so yesterday I found a boxing timer on-line and shook off the cobwebs. I’m happy to report I didn’t do to badly. Ten three minute rounds of kicking and punching without to much difficulty or strain, albeit with a lot of sweat.
The way I see it is I can’t not do anything. I have to do something, weighing in at thirteen stone. I can’t allow the middle-age slide to begin. My kicks weren’t bad at all once I’d warmed up. I’m chuffed considering I haven’t done any stretches for 4 years. Surprisingly, today my legs are fine, I expected them to be stiff and aching but no, they’re good. It’s nice to have all those old skills manifesting after such a long break. I’m going to have another crack today and then we’ll see exactly how fit I am.
My Sky’s been cut off. The Girlf has never been good at paying bills but it would seem this one was wilfully neglected. She’s apposed to paying seventy quid a month for something she doesn’t watch. I’m steaming, the season starts in two weeks and I haven’t got Sky sports. I’m debating whether or not to withdraw sexual favours.
We still have all the terrestrials and all the radio stations which I suppose is something. Currently I’m listening to NME radio. It appears someone has plagiarised my youth and is broadcasting it. Green Day, however, have robbed a Stone Roses drum intro so three times over the last two days I thought I was going to get Fools Gold but didn’t. The digital age has allowed radio to turn into a mix-tape. I listened to it for three hours and didn’t hear a human voice once, all wall to wall music. It’s de-constructed to the max and really it makes perfect sense. When you want to listen to music you want to listen to music, all the phone ins and competitions grate.
There are quite a few channels that haven’t been cut-off. I do have all the God channels, a lot of black channels and several paranormal channels. This would be ideal if I was religious, African and stupid. I’ve still got movies4men which is the worst movie channel in existence. It should be called movies-str8-to-video. It’s awful, in the early hours it goes all erotic, or not as the case would seem. Soft core, girly bollocks which I can’t believe has any kind of audience in an XXX internet era. There’s nothing arousing about an eighties mullet.
The internet has led us into a debauched age of pornography and out the other side. I have a severe case of porn apathy. There is far too much choice, it’s gotten completely boring. I come from a world where you could live on a flicker-y, black and white VHS for a couple of years, now I’ve got whatever I want at a click. Subsequently I don’t particularly want any of it. You get to the point where you’re so numb to it you’re making judgements on the camera angles or the set. More than once I’ve found myself ignoring the writhing mass of human flesh and admiring the decor. Those houses are lovely, Californian sun streaming over the pool, through the ceiling high widows and on to the marble laid floor. I don’t care what’s going on the white leather sofa.
There’re some filth bags out there with spectacular homes.
Living on pain-killers is no way to live and to be honest after six months on it I deserve a break. It’s a nice opportunity to take stock. Since January I’ve increased my bench press by over thirty five percent and my arms by fifty percent but to be fair after half a year day in day out it does get boring.
This gives me an opportunity to catch up on some well needed cardio. I used to be very fit but that has all gone by the wayside of late, opting for mass as opposed to speed and endurance. I’m not going to be getting all that iron up for a while so I’ve got no excuse but to concentrate on movement, back to the good old days, dust off some of those old skills.
Technically I’m still a black belt so yesterday I found a boxing timer on-line and shook off the cobwebs. I’m happy to report I didn’t do to badly. Ten three minute rounds of kicking and punching without to much difficulty or strain, albeit with a lot of sweat.
The way I see it is I can’t not do anything. I have to do something, weighing in at thirteen stone. I can’t allow the middle-age slide to begin. My kicks weren’t bad at all once I’d warmed up. I’m chuffed considering I haven’t done any stretches for 4 years. Surprisingly, today my legs are fine, I expected them to be stiff and aching but no, they’re good. It’s nice to have all those old skills manifesting after such a long break. I’m going to have another crack today and then we’ll see exactly how fit I am.
My Sky’s been cut off. The Girlf has never been good at paying bills but it would seem this one was wilfully neglected. She’s apposed to paying seventy quid a month for something she doesn’t watch. I’m steaming, the season starts in two weeks and I haven’t got Sky sports. I’m debating whether or not to withdraw sexual favours.
We still have all the terrestrials and all the radio stations which I suppose is something. Currently I’m listening to NME radio. It appears someone has plagiarised my youth and is broadcasting it. Green Day, however, have robbed a Stone Roses drum intro so three times over the last two days I thought I was going to get Fools Gold but didn’t. The digital age has allowed radio to turn into a mix-tape. I listened to it for three hours and didn’t hear a human voice once, all wall to wall music. It’s de-constructed to the max and really it makes perfect sense. When you want to listen to music you want to listen to music, all the phone ins and competitions grate.
There are quite a few channels that haven’t been cut-off. I do have all the God channels, a lot of black channels and several paranormal channels. This would be ideal if I was religious, African and stupid. I’ve still got movies4men which is the worst movie channel in existence. It should be called movies-str8-to-video. It’s awful, in the early hours it goes all erotic, or not as the case would seem. Soft core, girly bollocks which I can’t believe has any kind of audience in an XXX internet era. There’s nothing arousing about an eighties mullet.
The internet has led us into a debauched age of pornography and out the other side. I have a severe case of porn apathy. There is far too much choice, it’s gotten completely boring. I come from a world where you could live on a flicker-y, black and white VHS for a couple of years, now I’ve got whatever I want at a click. Subsequently I don’t particularly want any of it. You get to the point where you’re so numb to it you’re making judgements on the camera angles or the set. More than once I’ve found myself ignoring the writhing mass of human flesh and admiring the decor. Those houses are lovely, Californian sun streaming over the pool, through the ceiling high widows and on to the marble laid floor. I don’t care what’s going on the white leather sofa.
There’re some filth bags out there with spectacular homes.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
Women and football
I have the house to myself this weekend. The Girlf and the Eldest are off on a Cheer jaunt. The Eldest has been practicing her solo for weeks. I’ve seen it so many times I can do the routine myself.
The Girlf hates these Cheer meets. They bore the hell out of her and cost several hundred pounds. Normally she takes half a dozen books to help her get through the fourteen hour days. For this one she has included a compilation of Einstein’s papers.
This is clearly a distancing exercise, a way of separating her self from the rest of the grinning cheer-mums. I call her up on this self riotous, smugness but she hotly denies all.
Already I’m enjoying the tranquillity. Although I’ve only been up for an hour the kitchen is already gleaming. This weekend is a great opportunity for a man clean. The house is best described by the Latin term shit-hole.
The Girlf has been down with a virus all week and every room is strewn with cake crumbs and empty crisp packets. She’s spent the last few days moaning and crying in her death bed, between mouthfuls obviously.
Things got serious on Thursday when her chest began to hurt. She has NHS Direct on speed-dial as it is less effort than getting down to her G.P. Fully expecting to be told it was no-more than a chest infection she was shocked when the health assistant informed her his computer was prompting him to call an ambulance. Funnily, all her symptoms were pointing towards a heart-attack.
Four bloody hours in A and E. She had everything, three types of blood test, scans and x-rays. There’s nothing like a hypochondriac faced with the possibility of there actually being something seriously wrong with them. She spent all the time telling the doctors and nurses she was fine. They just got on with the procedures and left her to wait for the results with a multi-valved tube hanging out of a vein in her hand.
Turns out it was a cartilage inflammation, pain killers and rest. The German doctor thought normal oral pain killers wouldn’t be strong enough and was very insistent on pushing the suppositories on her. A bit too insistent I thought. She said no several times before he stopped trying to persuade her to allow him to shove medication up her arse. All the time the nurse had a ‘not again’ expression on her face and I noted he hadn’t offered them to the rough looking bloke with half a finger on the other side of the room.
If you ever have to go to A and E it’s best to avoid late afternoon. It seems to be the school rush. When we got in at four there were half a dozen little boys in front of us hopping around on one leg. Things calm down about eight then I suppose they get busy again toward mid-night when the piss-head rush starts. With hine-sight we really should have taken the ambulance. We would have got seen a lot quicker.
All alone on a Saturday afternoon and the football season hasn’t started. I’m loving the tranquillity yet I can’t help but think if this was next month the day would be perfect. I could ramp up the radio and peacefully enjoy a match without any distractions. The only time a managed it last season was when she spent a Saturday afternoon asleep, hung-over.
The heady rumour mill of transfers has already started. The Fabregas debacle continues. I thought he looked rather fetching in that Barca top that was ‘forced upon’ him last week. You could almost feel the Gooner’s steaming all over the country, adding to the hot weather. Must be horrible when your captain wants to desert you, eh? Cunts.
It’s pleasing to see that Rooney has had a thirty thousand pound a week pay rise! Good for Rooney, he earned every penny of that in South Africa. Word on the grape vine is that he didn’t perform because he was missing his kid. It’s coming to something when ugly, aggressive pikey tinkers are acting like fags. Try winning a World cup Wayne, give your kid something to be proud of, how about that? Surely that would be better in the long run than pining over missed nappy changes. Cunts.
It’s controversial but I’m starting to feel sorry for Ashley Cole. I’m not surprised he wants to get out of the country. One of his old school reports was in the paper the other day. The gist of the article was ‘look, he was a wanker then as-well’.
The poor bastard gets shit for getting laid now and he’s single! Is it me or did Cheryl move on a little too quickly for a heart broken woman. She was ‘being comforted’ by her new bloke within a week. No over lap then Chez, mmmm?
I can’t be too hard on her I suppose. We should be glad she didn’t do a load of coke and start on a black woman in a toilet again.
Cunts.
The Girlf hates these Cheer meets. They bore the hell out of her and cost several hundred pounds. Normally she takes half a dozen books to help her get through the fourteen hour days. For this one she has included a compilation of Einstein’s papers.
This is clearly a distancing exercise, a way of separating her self from the rest of the grinning cheer-mums. I call her up on this self riotous, smugness but she hotly denies all.
Already I’m enjoying the tranquillity. Although I’ve only been up for an hour the kitchen is already gleaming. This weekend is a great opportunity for a man clean. The house is best described by the Latin term shit-hole.
The Girlf has been down with a virus all week and every room is strewn with cake crumbs and empty crisp packets. She’s spent the last few days moaning and crying in her death bed, between mouthfuls obviously.
Things got serious on Thursday when her chest began to hurt. She has NHS Direct on speed-dial as it is less effort than getting down to her G.P. Fully expecting to be told it was no-more than a chest infection she was shocked when the health assistant informed her his computer was prompting him to call an ambulance. Funnily, all her symptoms were pointing towards a heart-attack.
Four bloody hours in A and E. She had everything, three types of blood test, scans and x-rays. There’s nothing like a hypochondriac faced with the possibility of there actually being something seriously wrong with them. She spent all the time telling the doctors and nurses she was fine. They just got on with the procedures and left her to wait for the results with a multi-valved tube hanging out of a vein in her hand.
Turns out it was a cartilage inflammation, pain killers and rest. The German doctor thought normal oral pain killers wouldn’t be strong enough and was very insistent on pushing the suppositories on her. A bit too insistent I thought. She said no several times before he stopped trying to persuade her to allow him to shove medication up her arse. All the time the nurse had a ‘not again’ expression on her face and I noted he hadn’t offered them to the rough looking bloke with half a finger on the other side of the room.
If you ever have to go to A and E it’s best to avoid late afternoon. It seems to be the school rush. When we got in at four there were half a dozen little boys in front of us hopping around on one leg. Things calm down about eight then I suppose they get busy again toward mid-night when the piss-head rush starts. With hine-sight we really should have taken the ambulance. We would have got seen a lot quicker.
All alone on a Saturday afternoon and the football season hasn’t started. I’m loving the tranquillity yet I can’t help but think if this was next month the day would be perfect. I could ramp up the radio and peacefully enjoy a match without any distractions. The only time a managed it last season was when she spent a Saturday afternoon asleep, hung-over.
The heady rumour mill of transfers has already started. The Fabregas debacle continues. I thought he looked rather fetching in that Barca top that was ‘forced upon’ him last week. You could almost feel the Gooner’s steaming all over the country, adding to the hot weather. Must be horrible when your captain wants to desert you, eh? Cunts.
It’s pleasing to see that Rooney has had a thirty thousand pound a week pay rise! Good for Rooney, he earned every penny of that in South Africa. Word on the grape vine is that he didn’t perform because he was missing his kid. It’s coming to something when ugly, aggressive pikey tinkers are acting like fags. Try winning a World cup Wayne, give your kid something to be proud of, how about that? Surely that would be better in the long run than pining over missed nappy changes. Cunts.
It’s controversial but I’m starting to feel sorry for Ashley Cole. I’m not surprised he wants to get out of the country. One of his old school reports was in the paper the other day. The gist of the article was ‘look, he was a wanker then as-well’.
The poor bastard gets shit for getting laid now and he’s single! Is it me or did Cheryl move on a little too quickly for a heart broken woman. She was ‘being comforted’ by her new bloke within a week. No over lap then Chez, mmmm?
I can’t be too hard on her I suppose. We should be glad she didn’t do a load of coke and start on a black woman in a toilet again.
Cunts.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Raoul Moat
Finally I sit down to write after far too long of a sabbatical. It’s been over a month and plenty has happened in the interim. I have worked many hours, wedding plans have changed, I’ve buried an uncle and there has been an entire World Cup. So it is with a little trepidation that I sit back down at this keyboard to write, after all I am slightly out of practice.
Upstairs the Girlf sleeps off her virus which the morning will reveal to be either imaginary or substantial and that revelation will dictate my day. Therefore it is at this late hour, sweaty and tired from work, that I shall let my mind and fingers flow and get back into the swing of things.
Raoul Moat is dead. The soap opera of the last week has reached its inevitable conclusion. Compulsive viewing, compulsive reading, pulling me away from the back pages, away from a dour tournament into a gory tabloid heaven of voyeuristic smut. Joy.
Each new day has brought forth yet another sweetmeat to titillate me. Jealous revenge, written confessions, arrests, kidnappings, accomplices, ex’s. Dirty revelations that have had my fertile imagination working overtime, fleshing out what journalists can’t and won’t say.
Drugs, violence, searches, dead-ends and the most talented footballer of his generation all coming together to intrigue and amuse.
People are stupid.
A strange man with a misspelt name infatuated with a girl young enough to be his daughter, straight from prison, embarks on a rampage. Murderous, he cast himself as a hero. A wronged lover victimised by society and by the police. A down trodden renegade he moralises about his action, justifies them, blames everyone else, glories in the limelight and develops a cult following.
Tragedy becomes farce as he evades capture in an area scarcely bigger than a football pitch. He pops up to steal a tomato or sleep in somebody’s spare room. He brazenly saunters down the main street in a small village and gets away with it and all the time the families of his victims and friends leak stories of domestic abuse and violence. In every picture he looks increasingly deranged and yet he still thwarts the police like some kind of criminal mastermind.
He knows the area like the back of his hand we are told because he’s fished there. The area is tiny so no doubt anyone could know it ‘like the back of there hand’ after a couple of visits.
He discards mobile phones as if he himself is getting bored of the police’s inability to shot him and has to resort to leaving clues. Slowly, slowly a legend is forming. There is a hitless of his perceived enemies. People are in hiding. Facebook groups are being created. We are told that he is a lovely bloke.
Then at the story’s denouement Gazza turns up with a chicken dinner for his best mate Moaty. Gazza’s people are speechless and the police aren’t swayed by that goal against Scotland so Moaty doesn’t get his chicken dinner or a one to one with the great man.
A long winded search turns into long winded negotiations. On his knees with a shotgun to his chin Raoul Moat cry’s that he never knew his dad. Clearly he was fucked from the start. His ‘One’ has abandoned him, all is forfeit and still the police don’t put him out of his misery. ‘Just shoot the cunt’ we scream at the news.
Eventually the poor prick has to suck it up and do it himself. It takes him seven hours to pull the trigger.
Fin.
No. Not Fin, because this whole sorry saga brings to the fore the worst in our society, an abandonment of our natural family ties. All those connections of love, all those bonds that should have held a nutter like Moat in check weren’t there. I’m not just referring to the hackneyed poor me story of his non-present father.
What of Samantha Stobbart’s parents, her mother, who allowed her to take a doorman’s number on a night out when she was only fifteen, a doorman twice her age. What of her stepfather, who was initially against the relationship but was ‘won over’, charmed by this thirty one year old, steroid using bouncer who was fucking his 15 year old daughter. Like we’d been already told, he was a lovely bloke. He didn’t throw 15 year old girls out the clubs he worked in, he fucked them. Both primary carers complicit in all this and what do they do as it becomes apparent that he’s not as charming as they once thought? When he starts to become increasingly controlling and begins to isolate her from her friends and family? What do they do when the bruises start to appear? They emigrate to Tenerife taking her ‘loving’ sister with them. They leave her to her fate; they leave her to deal with choices she made as a child.
Nice family.
What of Raoul Moats own brother? Who had to watch the ‘execution’ live on television? He is reported to be devastated by this. Obviously not devastated enough to get his arse off the sofa and away from the television. Not devestated enough to get to the scene of the stand off and perhaps talk his brother down. Not that devastated after all they hadn’t spoken for nearly twenty years. He of course blames the police, not his psycho brother who blew his own head off.
All these natural connections, all these stock responses haven’t been forth coming during any of this soap opera. Moat never knew his father, so he became an awful father. He was violent and controlling so his women bore him children and everyone involved was left to their fate by the extended families.
Samantha Stobbart apparently still loves him. He took her child hood, he beat her and eventually shot her with her child in the house and yet she still loves him. He murdered her new man, perhaps a relationship she fostered merely to keep Moat away from her, yet she still loves him. Perplexing. Perplexing and depressing.
People are stupid.
Upstairs the Girlf sleeps off her virus which the morning will reveal to be either imaginary or substantial and that revelation will dictate my day. Therefore it is at this late hour, sweaty and tired from work, that I shall let my mind and fingers flow and get back into the swing of things.
Raoul Moat is dead. The soap opera of the last week has reached its inevitable conclusion. Compulsive viewing, compulsive reading, pulling me away from the back pages, away from a dour tournament into a gory tabloid heaven of voyeuristic smut. Joy.
Each new day has brought forth yet another sweetmeat to titillate me. Jealous revenge, written confessions, arrests, kidnappings, accomplices, ex’s. Dirty revelations that have had my fertile imagination working overtime, fleshing out what journalists can’t and won’t say.
Drugs, violence, searches, dead-ends and the most talented footballer of his generation all coming together to intrigue and amuse.
People are stupid.
A strange man with a misspelt name infatuated with a girl young enough to be his daughter, straight from prison, embarks on a rampage. Murderous, he cast himself as a hero. A wronged lover victimised by society and by the police. A down trodden renegade he moralises about his action, justifies them, blames everyone else, glories in the limelight and develops a cult following.
Tragedy becomes farce as he evades capture in an area scarcely bigger than a football pitch. He pops up to steal a tomato or sleep in somebody’s spare room. He brazenly saunters down the main street in a small village and gets away with it and all the time the families of his victims and friends leak stories of domestic abuse and violence. In every picture he looks increasingly deranged and yet he still thwarts the police like some kind of criminal mastermind.
He knows the area like the back of his hand we are told because he’s fished there. The area is tiny so no doubt anyone could know it ‘like the back of there hand’ after a couple of visits.
He discards mobile phones as if he himself is getting bored of the police’s inability to shot him and has to resort to leaving clues. Slowly, slowly a legend is forming. There is a hitless of his perceived enemies. People are in hiding. Facebook groups are being created. We are told that he is a lovely bloke.
Then at the story’s denouement Gazza turns up with a chicken dinner for his best mate Moaty. Gazza’s people are speechless and the police aren’t swayed by that goal against Scotland so Moaty doesn’t get his chicken dinner or a one to one with the great man.
A long winded search turns into long winded negotiations. On his knees with a shotgun to his chin Raoul Moat cry’s that he never knew his dad. Clearly he was fucked from the start. His ‘One’ has abandoned him, all is forfeit and still the police don’t put him out of his misery. ‘Just shoot the cunt’ we scream at the news.
Eventually the poor prick has to suck it up and do it himself. It takes him seven hours to pull the trigger.
Fin.
No. Not Fin, because this whole sorry saga brings to the fore the worst in our society, an abandonment of our natural family ties. All those connections of love, all those bonds that should have held a nutter like Moat in check weren’t there. I’m not just referring to the hackneyed poor me story of his non-present father.
What of Samantha Stobbart’s parents, her mother, who allowed her to take a doorman’s number on a night out when she was only fifteen, a doorman twice her age. What of her stepfather, who was initially against the relationship but was ‘won over’, charmed by this thirty one year old, steroid using bouncer who was fucking his 15 year old daughter. Like we’d been already told, he was a lovely bloke. He didn’t throw 15 year old girls out the clubs he worked in, he fucked them. Both primary carers complicit in all this and what do they do as it becomes apparent that he’s not as charming as they once thought? When he starts to become increasingly controlling and begins to isolate her from her friends and family? What do they do when the bruises start to appear? They emigrate to Tenerife taking her ‘loving’ sister with them. They leave her to her fate; they leave her to deal with choices she made as a child.
Nice family.
What of Raoul Moats own brother? Who had to watch the ‘execution’ live on television? He is reported to be devastated by this. Obviously not devastated enough to get his arse off the sofa and away from the television. Not devestated enough to get to the scene of the stand off and perhaps talk his brother down. Not that devastated after all they hadn’t spoken for nearly twenty years. He of course blames the police, not his psycho brother who blew his own head off.
All these natural connections, all these stock responses haven’t been forth coming during any of this soap opera. Moat never knew his father, so he became an awful father. He was violent and controlling so his women bore him children and everyone involved was left to their fate by the extended families.
Samantha Stobbart apparently still loves him. He took her child hood, he beat her and eventually shot her with her child in the house and yet she still loves him. He murdered her new man, perhaps a relationship she fostered merely to keep Moat away from her, yet she still loves him. Perplexing. Perplexing and depressing.
People are stupid.
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