Liar, liar, Alex on fire...

Yesterday, the hot wire story informed us that Her Majestys Rapacious Coercive (HMRC to  you) has insufficient tax experts in its' ranks, to tackle big business and its phalanx of tax avoidance...sorry, mitigation boffins. Was it ever thus. In common or garden speak, the people that make the rules, ain't as smart as those that break the rules.
It follows therefore, that it's far easier for the aforementioned Coercive to nail small business for every brass farthing due.. Now, don't get me wrong. I believe we should all pay taxes, due. However, in these ascetic times, when small businesses in particular, are hard-pressed merely to subsist, it does seem ironic in the least and plain wrong at best, to witness grandissimo fleecing of the people who, by and large, are least responsible for our economic woes, by those wankers (government of whatever persuasion) who fiddled (and then some) while Rome burned.
It's odd how capitalism can seem so...North Korean at times.
Anyway, i've been at the bugging again and can now exclusively reveal details of HMRC Chief Tax Collector Dave Hartnett's no nonsense meeting with Jim O'Neill, Goldigger Sachs Chairman, over outstanding tax and late payment interest...
Dave (for it is he) 'So Jimbo, what about this £20 million of unpaid tax then?'
Jimbo...'Er, how about lunch at Claridges, Dave?'
Dave...Fuck it, Jimbo. You know how to turn a boy's head'.
Jimbo...'Whose turn is it to pay?'
Dave...Why the fuckin' taxpayer, of course.'
Gales of laughter and popping of pre-lunch champagne corks.
Moving on...and before today's musical interlude, how I laughed when I heard Piers Moron's answer to the question of whether or not he was aware of phone hacking during his 'dear leadership' of the Daily Mirror, at the Leveson Inquiry...'To the best of my recollection, I do not believe so. I was not personally involved and all journalists knew they had to operate within the law'.
'Herr Hitler, were you aware of the genocide of 6 million Jews during the holocaust?'
'To the best of my recollection, I do not believe so. I voss not personally involved and Herr Himmler knew he had to operate within the Geneva Convention'.
I mean no offence. But with the greatest of respect, you wouldn't believe either, would you?'

Music...Another gentleman no longer with us. Incredibly, would have been 76 this year. Like so many of those flawed genius types, he was never going to get there, but entertained us royally whilst he was around. I never saw Alex Harvey in concert, so the clip I've posted, represents what I missed. However, at least there's still plenty of material around to enjoy. A true entertainer and all round bampot. Classic stuff. Luxuriate in all that is The Sensational Alex...

All in it together...

I see from last night's news and today's press, one of Prince Harry's bestest chums was mugged. Harry is now a hero, for sorting it all out...well, he phoned Plod and said, 'gosh, friend, robbed, Blackberry, you're ma' best pal, blaaaargh'.
My investigations (courtesy of some deep-throat phone tapping) reveal the true tale. It would appear that Tarquin Faw-Faw III was quietly becoming pished in Club Toffee-Arse, when some bounder stole the maraschino cherry from his favourite 'Shoot the Proletariat' cocktail. To make matters worse, the small gold embossed sword through which said fruit was skewered, was left tantalizingly perched on the edge of the glass, atop a single black velvet glove with the epithet 'WaNkA' and an appropriate hand gesture symbol inlaid in gold leaf.
Upon receiving a call from his deeply distressed buddy, Harry swept into action, without the merest fear for his own safety. He bravely finished the seven remaining courses of his light supper at Chez Silver Spoon, quaffed a HALF carafe of Chateau Mouton Rothschild (well, we're all in this together you know) and asked his fag to call 'those plebs with the moustaches' to get a number for Gran's Finest Filth and pass on his own deep shock at this 'jolly monstrous' turn of events.
So, there you have it. Hazzer to the rescue. All in a day's work for the Monarchy. Makes you proud to be from Great Britainshire (wipes tear from eye, salutes and sings national anthem).
Before I announce today's track, I also heard the disturbing tale of Marcin Kasprzak, who bound and gagged his fiance, before burying her alive in a cardboard box. Fortunately, the girl escaped and this useless piece of shit will do time for attempted murder. Given the fact that this has at least a semblance of a happy ending, I did manage a wry smile when it was reported that Kasprzak had only wanted to 'give her a fright'. Say fuckin' what?!? Whatever happened to jumping out from behind the toilet door and going 'boo'? A lot less arduous on the victim and unless the law has taken some dramatic turn of which I am unaware, not punishable with jail time. Tosser.

Let sanity prevail...music. My first ever gig, was at Greens Playhouse, City of Glesga', to see the late and so very great Rory Gallagher. I was 14 and sad to say, I remember very little about it, but the fleeting flashbacks assure me that I would have been blown asunder by the great man, close to or at the peak of his powers. I've always loved 'Live in Europe'. Still got it on vinyl and the track I've chosen, shows the versatility of the man, kickin the bejesus out of a mandolin rather than his trademark '61 Strat. If this doesn't have you leaping about like Michael Flatley on acid, you're dead already pardner.
Enjoy, with my compliments...

Reminiscenses gone astray...

It's been a while since I posted 'owt. It's not that I've run out of steam, but Planet Mad is so mad just now, parodying it, seems somehow like interfering with the most colossal self-fulfilling prophecy. For example, not so long ago I posted about Newt Gingrich, surely a jaw dropping satire of a potential future President of the USofA. He faded away on the Good Ship Obscurity as he was surely destined to and then...bloody hell, he's just reappeared as a serious prospect, because so many of the other hopefuls are such fuckin' contemptible maladroits. I know...it's America. Land of Reagan, where shit actors CAN be ElPrez. I'm just performing my civic duty in warning you of the dangers lurking across the Pond...
Anyway listen, 'tis the season to be exhibiting mirth, so I'm veering off my usual semi-foul mouthed tirades and turning to my eternal salvation...music. I'm also posting this for all my fans (Sid and Doris Bonkers) simultaneously, on Farcebook. Whoooo, I've gone all hi-tech. In truth, I was questioning the wisdom of continually blogging to mostly myself, so if anyone (virtually everyone) hasn't encountered my previous ramblings, you're now in for a treat (in my humble opinion). However, don't read them if you don't relish opinions or occasional swearing. I'm not responsible for any of my views (I didn't ASK to be born) and you can lose your property if you don't keep up repayments...disclaimer speak.
Back to the tunes. Given this time of year (reflection and all that) I'm just going to post some U-Choob bits and bobs, featuring faves that transport me to my lovely, lovely youth. Many of the artists are no longer on Planet Mad and whilst I don't want to go all maudlin, it seems kinda appropriate to remind everyone of some outstanding musicians sadly missed, given the sheer volume of utter pish that is mass produced today, with no small contributions from Overlord Cowell and his ilk.
All of that said, today will not be a 'missing' person. 'Book of Saturday' by the mighty King Crimson, is one of those tracks that never fails to surprise and delight me, simply because  it comes from a band and Prog era that did not regularly feature such delicate and achingly beautiful sparseness of arrangement. Additionally, the lyrical and vocal perfection of Mr John Wetton, a musical stalwart, means that it should never be covered by another soul, as long as I have the ability to purchase a firearm and take care of them. The album version is frankly, perfection. The live version attached for your delectation though, is faithful and entirely sympathetic to that original, just as it should be, given it is performed by the same artist, albeit about 18 years later.

Enjoy...you simply can't fail.

Adolf for Chancellor...

I was happily chefing away today, when all of a sudden, a diatribe came spouting forth, from a visitor to my little kitchen world. 'It's this fuckin capitalist world that's the problem. In Hitler's Germany, capitalism was effectively banned. No price rises that increased profits to then be passed to shareholders. A Centrally administered economy, to mobilize large scale projects and get people working. Employers and employees under Government control. No 'fat cat' stuff.'
I mentioned the War once, but I think I got away with it. It's this monumental economic maelstrom that has everyone and their pet goldfish, ruminating about solutions to solve our global travails. And who can blame us? We're all in a high state of 'FUC'...Fecal Underpants Concern...and why would we not be?? It's a freakin shambles out there in the big bad world and as if the general landslide of bad news wasn't bad enough, now fuckin' Adolf Hitler has the (final) solution.
Personally,  I don't know if he was all bad, all the time. Sure had a bit of a temper on him and when he didn't like you, you certainly were never left in any doubt about it (look out, look out, there's a V2 about). There's a kind of refreshing honesty about that. He was also named 'Man of the Year' by Time magazine in 1938...no, really. However, his thigh slapping gaeity, was somewhat overshadowed by his penchant for a spot of pre-tiffin, mass murder, which for my money, also pops a bit of a damper on his economic prowess. The global economy may indeed be in a bad way, just not that bad, that we need a Chancellor with a joke shop 'tache and Tourettes arm.
Oh and lest I forget, the fella that regaled me with his alternative economic theories (cribbed one might surmise from a Xmas/Birthday 'Adolf Hitler...Quite a Decent Cove?' book) was none other than an Exterminator...quite.
Whilst we don't have an Adolf in Scotland, we do appear to have a Finance minister that likes to stick a Jackboot to the minions. John Swindler of the Scottish Nazi, sorry, National Party (real name Swinney, but stick with the change) has decided to sell his second home. Big deal?...well yes, actually. Swindler bought the property under the Edinburgh Accomodation Allowance scheme, funded by the taxpayer. The sonofabitch could have rented or stayed in hotels, still using our money, but where would the fun in that be, when he can use funds belonging to you and me, buy a nice big hoose, then sell it, trousering the (post-CGT) £60,000 profit??  And the get-out, as explained on Newsnight, is that diddums had to pay the CGT at a higher rate than before. Pardon my use of the vernacular, but this bespectacled fuckwit, must be havin a laugh. After all the shit we had to endure from these leeches in the most recent scandals, you would have thought that this dickhead would have had the integrity and good grace, to lead by example and plough his ill-gotten gains back into some local employment project or charity, rather than his own fucking Bank account. Finance Minister indeed...his own. Beggars belief, even though somehow it doesn't come as a surprise. Hopefully, we've not heard the last of this, though and i'll be posting again...
Now, in a breakaway, new and excitingly innovative addition to my already excellent blog (anyone looking for a self-publicising, rampant egotist?) welcome to...McNics Minis. What the fuck are they, I hear you ask. Well, ya cheeky bastard, they're just little throwaway observations, not worthy of my normally erudite ramblings. So, gather your cheeks together for the inaugural MIni...
Brad Pitt is in Glasgow shooting a new movie about zombies. No hidden agenda there then.
Say goodnight McNic...

Welcome to Planet Mad...

Hi Lloyd. Been away, but now I'm back...(courtesy, Jack Nicholson, The Shining).

Today, whilst embarking on a fleeting Bank visit (some other bastard was holding it up) I noticed that the branch now had piped music in the background. So, to the strains of Sweet Love by Anita Baker, I deposited 50 quid with one of the cashiers, skilfully resisting the lure of asking if I could buy her a drink, or if she came here often. Now, I can remember a time when I quite liked the strains of Ms Baker. I was younger then and it was always handy weaponry, for a chap to show his more romantically sympathetic side. It was therefore more than a little incongruous to find Anita now gigging in the 'Evil Institute' when 'You've got to pick a pocket or two' by Fagin would surely have been a more appropriate musical selection.
All of this idle whimsy is merely my way of dealing with a world that has radically altered from my lost youth. Music was played in Bars or restaurants or the hairdressers, not in financial establishments. Nor was a Kenco coffee machine in evidence. I mean, what next...'That money is now in your account, sir. Oh and there's your tuna and sweetcorn panini and remember your semi-skimmed coconut latte on the way out...'
Speaking of things musical, I also recognize whilst slipping gently down life's runway, that my taste in tunes has changed somewhat. Since an earlier blog has revealed my alarming and unapologetic penchant for Radio4, an occasional saunter down Desert Island Discs avenue, reveals some startling musical selections from various assembled guests. On a recent outing, we endured, sorry, enjoyed, the verbal musings of Michael MacIntyre. Now I quite like the bloke, though in rather smaller doses than when he first appeared on screen. Sadly, like so many celebs who float your boat, MacIntyre has now become more omnipresent than God, or Simon Cowell as you may know him and I suspect we all like a little less of him. Anyhoo, his final disc selection was Ella Fitzgerald singing a live version of 'Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered', which was simply jaw-dropping. A voice meltier than melted Valrhona chocolate, accompanying a classic Rodgers and Hart composition...yes, I admit it, I lurve Ella. Now to get on with the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, back in La-La Land (some of) the natives have been restless. As extreme lassitude descended on some of Englandshire's finest fuckwits, it was decided en masse, to pillage (presumably the rape will follow) carefully selected town centres, aided by the marvels of Blackberry and Titter. There's something confusing to yours truly, about disaffected yoof (and some not so yoof) being able to afford a better phone than moi, but still feeling the need to play the proleteriat card. Goodness, whoever thought that the rise of the downtrodden would be sparked by the need to acquire a larger TV screen, so that they could watch themselves stealing said telly on Sky News, later that day. Come to think of it, that entire concept may be a little too cerebral for some of these wankers.
Listen people, there's no easy answer to dealing with these monstrous wastes of oxygen. Yes, we've ALL been screwed by the financial 'system' and in some senses our collective avarice is to blame. The rush to gain wealth, has resulted in corners being cut, in an attempt to get the prize, quicker. Rules are made to be broken, right? There is and always be, an underclass out there. It's the have and have nots syndrome and it just seems a helluva lot more pronounced now, simply because world finances are so far up the shitter, that an enema of Niagara proportions wouldn't flush out all the crap. Depressingly, it seems unlikely that we've seen the last of this mob siege mentality, but if our elected fuckwits would actually get their heads together and say some unpalatable things that those who elected them can believe in, we might get this train out of the station. Fuck Johnny Do-Gooder and the human rightists. Grab this problem by the collar, cut out the weasel words and restore some much needed sanity.
Y'know, I'm going to finish this rant and lead by example. There is a connection of thought in this little analogy. There are a never-ending stream of famines in Africa. As a whole, it is a continent, fraught with problems. It's pretty well ignored as an economic basketcase, so the only time it seems to be in sharp focus, is famine time. The call goes out, the cameras roll and the money pours in. Not once, have I ever heard any politician/anyone from aid agencies suggest that part of the solution would be to introduce the dark art of contraception en masse. It's understandable, many of these people have little to do other than procreate. They have no jobs, no societal structure as we understand it and a climate that does not lend itself to producing enough food and clean water to provide for so many hungry mouths. So why not discourage them from producing ever more children?? Remove misguided religious practices/beliefs out of the equation. No 'pope on a rope' principals of sinful childbirth interruption. Yes, wearing a condom may be akin to eating a Mars Bar with the wrapper on, but it could also become a badge of honour and put an immediate halt to unnecessary population expansion, whilst we tackle the other important underlying issues in that stricken continent. Tackle the problem at its' roots...
Ok, now that I've made myself as popular as the Chairman of the Monogamist Society, inviting Ryan Giggs to Guest Speak at the Annual Bash, i'll leave you with late news that a midget had items stolen from him during the peculiarly Englandshire riots. Just how low will these bastards stoop...Boom, fuckin, boom.
Say goodnight, Gracie...

Ramblings of a random mind...

At the risk of being a complete Blog-bore, I find little at this juncture of pressing concern, about which to work up a lather, so to speak. So, rather than chunter aimlessly on, I thought a few random observations and general stupidity would do nicely, whilst I await my next brain tsunami.
It would be remiss I suppose, not to mention what an absolutely shit summer it has been thus far, here in the neo-Arctic wastes of Scotland. Seriously, I write this little featurette on the longest day (Midsummer) watching the rain cavort from the ever blackening skies, thinking 'this global warming thing...what a crock.' We've certainly upset someone along life's merry way, to be lumbered with this relentless precipitation. I hear a whisper that the 1958 Scottish Tennis Open Final has been postponed for another year, after what meteorologists are insisting is merely a 53 year heavy shower, which will give way to a sunny interval, possibly in time for a late decision on play in 2012. Typically, it was the only occasion in a glittering tennis career, that Aussie fave Rod Laver, made it to Scotland and given that he'll be 73 next year and that the other finalist is now sadly dead, he may well be awarded the title, with his opponent 'in absentia'...bet the weather's better there too.
Shitey weather is not something that our Greek Euro-cousins will have to contend with at this time. Ah the heady days of the Drachma and Ouzo pissing out your pores. It must seem a long way off now, as they've run up a bigger tab than Amy Winehouse at an 'all you can drink for free' night, at Temptations Bar, next to the Betty Ford Clinic. I've clocked up a few miles keeping up to date with the Doomsday scenarios relating to Greek debt and whist I think it inappropriate to delve too deeply in this Blogette, using my years of financial experience, I think in brief, it could be summed up in two words...total fucking shambles...yes Einstein, that's three, showing just how easy it is to get your sums all fucked up. Listen, those Greek protestors should worry. At least they can bask in the luxury of a superb tan, whilst they eat the bark off trees, because it's 600 Euros for a pint of taramasalata (I was going to say, on the rocks, but that could seem a little insensitive, given the parlous state of their economy)...
Anyhoo, European Monetary Union amongst a whole bunch of disparate nations was a basket case from the off. Not 20/20 hindsight folks, just common sense. None of us actually likes each other, with the possible exception of a just about bearable two week annual vacation and then its back to xenophobe central...and that's just Glasgow and Edinburgh.
and finally Cyril, I heard a piece on radio today that made me choke a little on my Kung Fu Panda Crunchers cereal (I am very 'cereal hip'). Burmese pro-Democracy heroine, Aung San Suu Kyi has announced that during her 15 year detention by the Burmese authorities, listening to Dave Lee Travis on the World Service, 'made her world so much more complete'. I can't make my mind up if she's...
a. just insane after years in the virtual chokey,
b. ready for another wee therapy spell 'away from things', or
c. the biggest piss-taker since David Icke during his 'Son of the Godhead/Turquoise Twat' phase.
Whatever the explanation for Ms Kyi's fondness for the Hairy Arseho...sorry, Cornflake, that detention must have been some scary experience, for that beardy todger to be the sanity saviour...and I thought I had problems.
Now, Charlie Sheen and David Icke in a sitcom..that's the kind of detention experience I want...

Politics. Or the inability to imitate life...

I find myself (reluctantly) returning to the political stage, after hearing an interview this week on the 'Today' programme on Radio4. Oh yes, I listen to Radio4. Quite an admission and although I am seeking help, the pills haven't kicked in just yet.
Michael Gove is the current government oik, running the Education Dept. He also has a face made for punching and a matching supercilious attitude, borne no doubt, of his Calvinistic Aberdonian adoptive upbringing and scholarship won English studies in his Oxford Alma mater. He was actually born in Edinburgh, so he really has in fairness, had very little good fortune from the earliest of times. I can somehow picture Gove the Younger, in full bespectacled mode, bullied remorselessly, for being...well, a git. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way condoning or in favour of such actions, but I'll make an exception in his case. With his little head poised perilously over the lavatory, awaiting the inevitable flush, muttering dark oaths about returning to the education system in adulthood and 'sorting' things...
Well, Uncle 'call me Dave' seems to have found it within himself to have faith in this weasel...well his wealth is estimated at around £1million...so he's ripe for a cabinet post in this 'we're all in it together' governmental hierarchy. Even prior to this great elevation, he seems to have had rather a chequered little political career thus far, never a million miles away from rubbing someone up the wrong way...sadly never an axe murderer, but there's time yet. In keeping with many of his counterparts, he's been partial to the odd dalliance with his expenses and when all is said and done, nothing I have seen or heard, will convince me that this little nonentity of a gnome should be doing anything that might be considered important to the UK populous.
Anyhoo, in this interview, he was asked a pretty straightforward yes or no question regarding an accounting blunder in his department, with £300 extra per pupil being allocated in some academies. Cue the smooth talking glove puppet, turning into a babbling, tittering little prick, because he had been found out and couldn't bring himself to admit the thing that all of us little people ask of these out of step/out of touch politicians...yes, the truth! I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or jump on a plane to Londonshire and toe-end Gove straight up the passage.
You see, friends, Romans, Countrymen, Gove is just a microcosm of the many reasons that swathes of people throughout this pox-ridden island, despise politics and the system that allows wankers like him to preach their gospel to us, to show us how to improve things and by definition, ourselves and yet when they are given the opportunity to admit to that one human frailty we all possess - the ability to make a mistake - they choose to wriggle and squirm (or simply lie) their way out of it, thus attaining instant credibility expiry and full unencumbered membership of the 'unfit for purpose' club.
As someone once said, 'if voting changed anything, it'd probably be made illegal'...