No, because what’s really unsavoury in all of this is:

A) The media circus willing to fork out obscene amounts of money for the exclusive rights to what is tantamount to watching a young woman die.
B) The manipulative scumbags lurking behind the scenes, creaming off their cut of each and every deal closed as the destructive force that is cancer tears somebody’s insides apart.
And C) The opportunist soundbite merchants jumping on the celebrity-grief bandwagon to tell us how sad they are at the death of someone they’ve probably never met, but most certainly wouldn’t give a flying fuck about were it not for the spotlight opportunity associated with such a media carnival. (Yes, that means you Mr. Brown, and all the other scummy politicians who came out to offer their insincere condolences. I didn’t see any of you giving statements for the other unnamed statistics who happened to die from cancer on the same day)

What manner of society is it that clambers across each other, chequebooks open, to buy the exclusive rights to another human being’s painful demise? Whether that person chooses to allow it or not, or even actively encourages it. Whatever happened to self-control?

What sort of society is it that buys into this sick freakshow and funds the vultures by throwing money at their sleazy publications?

What sort of society is it that cares more about somebody they’ve never met than their own families? Allowing their kids to run riot in the streets or their elderly relatives to rot, long since forgotten, whilst salivating over photographs of a wedding and christening they were never invited to.

Or allows Max Clifford, his lackeys and all the others of their type, to fund their next golfing holiday off of the naivety of a dying girl?

A shit one. That’s what. A society shattered and rent down the middle. A mess of a society with all the outward appeal of a ripper victim.

And of course, it wouldn’t be complete without the now customary public outpourings of grief from the great and the good. Eager to share their sadness and grab an inch of column space, leading the way for the rest of us to grieve en masse.

Sickening.

So what’s next for the PR and marketing men, now that this particular cash-cow has been milked dry? Where can they go from here? Who can they take advantage of? Manipulate? Use until they serve no further purpose or die?

The disabled? The mentally infirm?

What’s the next gimmick? The next big stunt?

Rape? Murder? Genocide?

Never fear. So long as they’re willing to cough up the readies, OK magazine will cover it.

I think I shall return to my darkened room for another lie down. Wake me when it’s all over.

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No. 65 A Mess of a Society with all the Outward Appeal of a Ripper Victim

In the meantime, why not take a gander at Head Full of Snow – Home to the underground (and selected overground) music of the late 60s and 70s.

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Jeffman has a Lie Down

Dealing in psychedelic rock, psych-pop, acid, space, classic, prog rock and all that good stuff from the late 60s and 70s it will certainly be one for anybody into the underground (and overground) sounds of that most freaked-out of eras. There’ll be album, song, band reviews, news and features – so head over and take a gander.

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No. 64 Head Full of Snow is Go!

“As soon as you’re born they make you feel small, By giving you no time instead of it all, Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all…”

Now even moreso than ever. As well as everything else a child has foisted upon it during its formative years on this heartless wasteland of a rock we inhabit, nowadays they are also targetted from birth by the disgusting and murky world of marketing, eager to rob a child’s innocence in return for their share of the 30 pieces of silver that perpetually passes through this shabby industry.

Their conniving minds realised that kids were an untapped pressure lobby, ripe for recruitment in the continuing war to rinse every last penny from the pockets of their beleaguered parents. So they market to them with every manner of tat going, safe in the knowledge that peer pressure will ensure a healthy ROI (that’s a vomit-inducing marketing and business acronym for Return On Investment).

The savagery with which children are propelled into the adult world is sickening, the last vestiges of innocence are all but drained away by the time they hit double figures and it’s not a great deal different than how it was 100-odd years back. The days when we’d happily put them up chimneys or send them down the mines to detect gas once the canary had popped its clogs.

Put yourself in the mind of an about-to-be-born baby. If just prior to the moment of blinking your way into the natural light you became fully conscious of your predicament and a voice told you just what you had to look forward to, would you come out?

Picture a life where  for the first sixteen years you would either keep your head above water or sink to the bottom, suffering the slings and arrows of everyone from teachers to peers along the way, whilst teetering upon the tightrope, either side of which lies lasting disappointment to your parents – the ones who tried to give you everything and you enthusiastically repaid with casual contempt.

Then you realise that was the easy part! What lies ahead is a damn sight more horrendous. A continual cycle of boredom, servitude and absolute fear of losing everything. Then there’s the constant spectre of failure, always lurking in the background just waiting to swallow you up in a perpetual state of regret and self-loathing.  Throw in the lies that the greedy and powerful spread in their efforts to keep you down on your knees. The injustice perpertrated on a daily basis, grinding its stony thumb further and further into your mind, turning reason and emotion into a worthless pile of dust. The crime, the packs of feral youth, the war and conflict wiping out generations, the terror, the casual killing, the corruption, the callous cruelty, the arrogance and sneers of the greedy rich, the events beyond your control that push you closer and closer to the abyss; desensitizing you until all you feel is an aching sense of loss, but you’ve no idea why.

And for what exactly? So once you’ve served your use you can be cast aside and forgotten about? Left to rot for the final few years of your existence, having knocked your pan out for greater part of it. And during your time as a human commodity you’ve done your bit to repopulate the production line and sentenced your own children to the same fate.

When faced with that prospect, the sensible move for the about-to-be-born baby would surely be to turn tail and head for the hills.

Yes, when put like that, life seems about as endearing as a bag of spiders.

The way things are, perhaps the best a parent can do for their child is not have them in the first place. If the greed-driven animals out there are so desperate to own this world and everyone and everything in it, let them fucking have it!

I couldn’t really care less anymore.

In other news, you may remember I made the New Year’s Resolution to stop being nice to people. Well you’ll be pleased to hear that it’s going well. This week I refused to give up my seat to a fat person on the bus, one for whom a heart attack was clearly imminent. I let a door shut in the face of a student. And I neither smiled nor said “thank you” to a surly shopkeeper.

And on it goes.

Jeffman has had time to calm down since writing this and will hopefully have made a full recovery in time to launch his splendid new psychedelic music review blog.

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No. 63 The Curse of Childbirth

Well to counter this I would like to start a campaign – right here, right now – to keep Carol Thatcher off our TV screens.

I suppose firstly I should explain who Carol Thatcher is and what it is she has done.

Well for those who don’t know, that surname is no unfortunate coincidence, she is indeed the daughter of Maggie Thatcher, despised former leader of this country and close friend of dead Chilean fascist dictator, Augusto Pinochet. Thatcher produced two offspring from her foul person, both at the same time incidentally. These were ‘The Honourable’ Sir Mark Thatcher, a crook who is barred from entering a number of countries and if there was any justice in this world would presently be rotting in an Equatorial Guinean jail, and his aforementioned twin sister, Carol.

Carol Thatcher was this week sacked from lightweight BBC teatime wallpaper, The One Show, presented by gargoyle impersonator, Adrian Chiles, for which she was an occasional reporter. The very public sacking was on account of her referring to black tennis player, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, as a ‘golliwog’. I should add that this comment was made in private following the recording of the show, and was leaked by somebody at the BBC for whatever reason.

Now comes the tricky part. Should she be sacked for what was a private comment made to the presenters and guests off-screen, one for which she was apparently admonished by those who were there? Well, there are arguments for either side of the case and it’s always amusing to see how quickly the Daily Mail jump to the defence of freedom of speech whenever racist language is involved, but one has to ask the question of whether the BBC – a publicly funded corporation- should be giving our money to somebody who in 2009 sees nothing wrong with calling a black person a ‘golliwog’?

It somewhat echoes the furore a few weeks back when it emerged that another brainless toff and heir to the throne of England, Prince Harry, had referred ‘affectionately’ to a fellow soldier as a ‘paki’. It’s not so much the intent that is in question here, as in both cases it’s probably true that there was no malicious or hardcore racist agenda, it’s the fact that these hooray Henrys, living the high life on public money seem to be so out of touch that they regard it as acceptable language. It’s basically an attitude of just because they have money, they can get away with whatever they bally well like – the legacy of the Rake’s club and all that came before it and has come ever since.

Anyway, back to the campaign: LET’S KEEP CAROL THATCHER OFF OUR SCREENS.

As I said, the Daily Mail has been particularly vocal in their support of her, which is typical of a newspaper that worships the ground her mother walks on. They even went as far as to publish an article on their website entitled ‘How the golliwog went from innocent children’s hero to symbol of bitter controversy’, a one-sided piece whose only purpose surely was to see how many times they could get away with using the word ‘wog’ in the name of ‘journalism’, whilst simultaneously delighting their vile readership.

Well my campaign spits back in their blackshirt eyes and bellows the contempt this long-time enemy of decent people (they initially came out in support of Adolf Hitler) and shabby excuse for a newspaper truly deserves.

The Daily Mail has been making particular noises that the whole sacking incident is a form of revenge by the BBC for past transgressions with her demonic mother. A claim the BBC wholeheartedly refutes.

Well you won’t get any such pussyfooting from me. My reasons for keeping Carol Thatcher off our TV screens are quite clear and thusly explained:

A) She is the daughter of Margaret Thatcher

B) She is an irritating toff with a voice that would drive a deaf man to sawing his own ears off with dull cheese wire and a mouth that could chew an apple through a letterbox

C) She is the daughter of Margaret Thatcher

Yes. It all comes down to that woman at the end of the day. Carol Thatcher is the ghastly reminder of the mad Baroness and her foul legacy. And if you say, “shut up, you old lefty, get your mentality out of eighties, we’ve moved on.” I will counter that with, “No we fucking haven’t.”

Why are there no jobs now? The recession? Yes. The clueless pricks in power? Yes. The greed, greed, greed and more greed displayed by the bankers downwards? Yes. Thatcher and the Tories? Yes.

She destroyed industry in this country. She promoted greed. She rewarded the selfish. She decimated communities.

Of her many vile achievements there is one, when all is said and done, that will be her crowning achievement. Her one resounding success above all the other shit she rained down on us.

Closing the pits? Neutering the trade unions? Selling off the family silver? Destroying industry? Parading a fascist dictator (Pinochet) in front of us as though there’s nothing wrong in that? Making the quality of life for millions of people a lot worse?

No. She managed to completely destroy solidarity between the working classes. There has been and always will be those that forget where they came from. The blacklegs, the gaffer’s snitches… those types. But once there was a certain amount of power within a workforce. Not anymore though. Except for in small pockets here and there, it is largely every man for himself and sod the rest. She broke the Unions, riding roughshod over laws instated to protect workers and in doing so robbed us of our voice. As an ex-toolmaker (another trade now all but obsolete thanks to her love of cheap foreign imports), I saw firsthand blokes who’d just given up. I’ve no idea of what their politics were during the 70s and 80s, nor was it any of my business, but one thing is certain – they were content to take whatever was thrown at them from management (be it unreasonable demands or abuse) because there was no longer an alternative.

Margaret Thatcher famously said, “There’s no such thing as society”, and by Christ, she’s bloody well right! She destroyed it!

So let’s show our contempt for her and keep her rancid daughter off our TV screens.

Feel free to show your support.

There you go, Daily Mail. That’s balanced reporting for you.

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No. 62 Let’s Keep Carol Thatcher off our Screens

By heavy downpour, I mean ‘dusting’. By country, I mean ‘London’.

Nothing like the snow we used to get but because, for once, London was affected, it was a case of baton down the hatches and declare a national emergency. You’d think it was The Day After Tomorrow the way the capital’s media network simper on about the white stuff falling magically from the sky. Nowhere else really gets a look in. After all, it’s not London, is it?

image courtesy of World Economic Forum

Anything north of Watford is considered an illiterate backwater populated by toothless dullards trying to get a tune out of a punctured inner tube, whereas any sane individual knows that’s just Dudley.

In fact, anything further up the map than the M25 circle is regarded as t’North and therefore neither matters, nor probably in their mind’s even exists.

Such a blinkered attitude to the rest of the country makes London the natural home to the 19 carat, cubic zirconium tosser. They’re all there. The bankers, the stock markets, the fashion houses, the big marketing agencies, the right-wing press in all its forms, the spineless media execs (whatever one of those does), the town-houses of the landed gentry, the royal family and, of course, the Houses of Parliament, filled to the rafters (if there’s the chance they might get on television) with politicians and sleeping Lords.

Speaking of which, I wrote a post last week entitled All Politicians Are Scum. You may be forgiven for thinking that I perhaps left the word ‘lying’ out of that statement but it was in fact an intentional omission. I didn’t wish to give the impression that a certain frugality with the truth was the only fault of these burdens on the oxygen supply.

As I stated in the article last week, politicians are indeed lying scum, although I should add that this is a charge that could never be levelled at crypto-Thatcherite, Peter Mandelson. Honorary member, Lord,  key architect in Tony Blair’s successful hammering of the final nail into the coffin of the labour movement and enemy to honest, working people everywhere.

Twice resigning from government due to alleged underhand dealings and twice insisting he’d done nothing wrong, Mandelson made a return to government late last year when he was handed the post of Secretary of State for Business, presumably on the grounds that he was oily enough to negotiate with business leaders on paid-for junkets throughout the world and maybe successfully kick-start the British economy. So far he’s doing a splendid job – well the oily schmoozing at the taxpayers’ expense bit anyway.

He was also particularly vocal in condemning the recent strikes and secondary picketing by energy workers over the enforced use of shipped-in foreign labour when there’s an ever-increasing dole-queue in this country. Awfully brave to do so from his ivory tower, whilst his subjects freeze half to death on picket lines, risking their livelihoods for what they believe and facing a considerably shorter pay-packet next week.

Just another instance of government seeing fit to ignore the people who pay its wages – instead desperate to keep in with their so-called mates in Europe – and displaying an arrogance that would’ve made Thatcher and her brigade of criminals proud. And once again it’s this ‘untouchable’ attitude that pushes people towards the vile rhetoric of the BNP, who’ve been revelling in the strikes this week and doing their damnedest to score political points from them. Quite ironic for a party whose first moves, were they ever to take power (maybe not as ridiculous a notion as it once was), would probably include the criminalisation of trade unions and likewise the freedom to withdraw one’s labour in an industrial dispute.

Jeffman’s quite fed-up with it all and can’t really find the energy or passion to write anything else at the moment. “Wat Tyler, where are you now that we need you?”

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No. 61 Peter Mandelson is not a Lying Scumbag

According to the Prime Minister and saviour of the world, Gordon Brown, the present economic crisis is no more than “the birth-pangs of a new global order.” Apparently the solution is not to “muddle through it as pessimists but make the necessary adjustment to a better future…”

It would seem this ‘necessary adjustment’ is for the likes of you and I to make. By losing our jobs, our livelihoods and our homes. Repossessions are on the rise and although we’re not even a month into 2009, the likes of Zavvi, Adams, Barratts, Barclays and Corus have announced closures, receivership and mass redundancies. Of course, those five are just the tip of the iceberg with other high-street chains shutting up shop and the lifespan of the likes of Jaguar looking very grim indeed.

But so long as the boys in Westminster are all right, that’s all that matters.

Words cannot begin to describe the anger and absolute revulsion Jeffman feels towards these scabrous, reptilian politicians who once elected to power see fit to abuse it. That goes for all denominations. A septic brew of arrogance, lies, perceived self-importance, greed and veritable fuckwittery has put us in the foul position we now find ourselves in, all courtesy of the esteemed members of Parliament.

It’s safe to say that the vile legacy of the 1980s – where what we already owned was unexpectedly sold back to us and our industries were flogged off to the highest bidder, whilst cheap imports replaced sustainable, home-grown products – is still bearing its sour fruits. It was then that the money men were handed the keys to the castle and allowed free reign and it’s this gesture, plus either the unwillingness or inability of a subsequent government supposedly on the side of the common man to reverse these acts of piracy, that see’s the scrapheap of human life pile ever higher.

The warning signs that we would be dragged into the whirlpool of a global recession have long been there but the initial reaction from our elected representatives was to refute this claim and say that we were in good shape to steer ourselves clear.

Lies or ineptitude? Either would see the greater part of the population fired or at best facing disciplinary procedures. As it’s the public purse that pays their wages, bare-faced lying is surely a criminal offence!

Of course it isn’t. Not where a politician is concerned. A prerequisite of becoming a successful MP is the ability to lie through your teeth, preferably on both sides of your face. This is done in the safe knowledge that if it were to ever come on top the buck could easily be passed to one of the sub-species, fawning lackeys they employ to mop up the trails of slime left in their wake.

So now they’ve finally announced that we’re officially in recession, why should any sane thinking man or woman believe the previous claims that we’re both well positioned to ride out the storm and that they’re the ones to sail us through?

All politicians are scum! Anybody labouring under the misguided assumption that they have a divine right to speak for somebody else should be thrown out of any political race by default. Anybody whose ego is so horrendously distended that they believe people would want to vote for them (policies have become mix-and-match across the board and therefore meaningless) should be hounded from the comfort of  their middle-class suburb, dragged down to the nearest river and immediately drowned. As Groucho Marx famously said “I don’t care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.“ The same can be said for the freeloading scum presently lording it over us.

100 years ago there were two main political parties in this country with no distinguishing differences between them. Conservative and Liberal. Both with the interests of the rich at heart. Now there are three main parties with no distinguishing differences between them – and still with the sole interests of the rich at heart. How far we’ve come!

There was a popular slogan scrawled on the walls of Great Britain during the Thatcher regime of the 1980s. One that got Charlie Brooker into a certain amount of trouble with some crazed Americans when he used it in an article regarding the Bush administration a few years back.  I shall leave you on its rather pertinent sentiment:

“Guy Fawkes, Where are you now that we Need You?”

Make of that what you will.

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No. 60 All Politicians are Scum!

I imagine people would ask this question with a regularity bordering on infuriation, if A) anybody knew who I was, and B) I actually believed that anybody cared.

Precisely six people know Jeffman’s true identity and they’re sworn to secrecy on the promise of certain death. Not even the crack-team of writers know who the trilby-sporting enigma really is. Which is how it should be.

But back to the initial question, which I suppose you find yourselves wondering on a daily basis. The answer is: “of course”.

In the absence of anything better to write about in what is essentially a slow news week – after all, there’s only so many times I can tackle greedy bankers being handed more of our money to squander in the naive belief they’ll stick to their side of the bargain and we’ll one day see a return on it. And Presidential inaugerations hold as much interest for me as the Presidents themselves. Unless, of course, there’s a shoe involved -  I have chosen to list some of the things I do like. You lucky people.

So here goes. Stuff that keeps Jeffman from flinging himself headfirst out of the nearest second floor window.

Booze - When sampled to excess it helps take the edge off this horrible, horrible world. It also blots out the overwhelming feeling that life’s passed you by and you’ll never amount to anything, no matter how low you aim. These are good things. Ask anybody falling out of a pub doorway on a Saturday night and they’ll tell you exactly the same. But be sure to drink to excess. Too little will only make you maudlin.

Doctor Who – Doctor Who brings unequivocal joy and there’s nowt wrong with that. Some of Jeffman’s earliest TV memories stem from watching Tom Baker’s Doctor Who in the late seventies and very early eighties. Memories that are now being fleshed out as Jeffman enthusiastically snaffles up the DVD re-releases of Doctor Who in all eight of his classic incarnations. With the show still going strong, although about to lose its finest exponent since the aforementioned Baker, and more and more of the old serials finding their way onto DVD (this year’s release schedule being particularly exciting), there’s legs in this unequivocal joy yet.

Evading Reality – This is something Jeffman can claim to be particularly adept in. Whether it’s burying his head in the sand, putting his hands over his ears and pulling his trilby down over his eyes, or just locking himself in a perpetual, alcohol-fuelled daydream of someplace else, his skills at ignoring a problem are second to none. Avoiding real life and substituting it with something a damned sight better (not particularly difficult) keeps the head above water whilst all around are engulfed by the tsunami of sewage.

The Chip on my Shoulder – Tis the one thing that keeps me sane and is taken down every so often for a damned good polish and a reapplication of glue to ensure it never slips.

Music – Jeffman was born in a crossfire hurricane and he howled at his ma in the driving rain. But it’s all right now, in fact he can’t play an instrument, nor read music but who cares? Tis the music that keeps the voices at bay. Once more, unequivocal joy is unbound.

Jeffman likes stuff from the late 60s and from the 70s. Mainly psychedelia, prog rock, acid rock and all that good stuff. If you’ve seen the Musical Interludes here, you’ll already know a few of his favourites. Which conveniently brings us to the new music review blog, Head Full of Snow, which will be launching the end of January/February. It covers all the genres mentioned above and more. The banner’s in the sidebar and will be hyperlinked upon launch.

People – A few. Not many.

So there you have it. Some stuff that Jeffman likes. Well you did ask! Make of it what you will. Normal service will be resumed next week.

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No. 59 These be a few of me Favourite Things

Nowadays he has the look of a haunted corpse about him. That’s quite a sacrifice to make in return for the privilege of wearing one’s man-badge with pride.

Now I’ve never really had anything against Richard Hammond, despite his suspect claims of proletariat Brummy roots, but in all fairness anybody can look good when stood alongside a crypto-fascist with a merkin on his head, namely Jeremy Clarkson. However, he managed to plummet right out of Jeffman’s estimation the other Saturday night when his new TV show was unveiled to an unsuspecting audience.

I only managed to catch this monstrosity through sheer bad luck. I was still incapacitated by Christmas illness and thus not sampling the delights of a barmaid’s apron. Having just been considerably underwhelmed by the naming of the next Doctor Who, I happened to leave the telly on. And lo, it did appear. Total Wipeout.

To be fair ‘The Hamster’, as he’s known to a legion of fans and fruity housewives alike, has been seeking that elusive solo vehicle ever since he began his tenure on the BBC’s Top Gear – and I don’t mean the sort of vehicle that leaves you in a hospital bed wondering who the strange woman claiming to be your wife is.

Many will be in the unfortunate position of remembering the short-lived and slipshod teatime chat show he tried on ITV. Then there’s Brainiac, which was quite good but never as good as when Vic Reeves took over the mantle. Then there are those embarrassing adverts for Morrisons with that vomit-inducing, ‘feelgood’ Take That song playing in the background. One has to wonder how much ‘the bloke next door’ sold his soul for, whilst the recession sinks its teeth into the job prospects of everybody else.

(EDIT. Morrisons this week announced the creation of 5000 more UK jobs over the course of 2009. Great news! The once leading exporter of industry takes another step closer to becoming a nation of subservient shelf-stackers.)

But now the wee fella has his very own primetime Saturday spectacle (if 6.20pm on a Saturday night counts as primetime) with which to display his talents, and though I’m not a paid TV critic, I recognise raw shit when I see it. The sort that brings its mates along to jump me in a dark alleyway and gang-rape my eyeballs.

Total Wipeout is just that. The sort of programme that requires a caustic soda bath with a steel wool flannel immediately after watching.

The premise of this abortion – not that it really matters – is a timed challenge in which thick people shout at the camera before attempting to negotiate an obstacle course comprised of water, mud and… erm, obstacles, along with assorted other ‘endurance’ events. Everything takes place over water so as to break the falls of the contestants at the inevitable moment they come a royal cropper and plummet to a wet awakening beneath. Oh, and everything’s padded too. Presumably to make the brain donors taking part feel a little more at home.

At best it can be described as a rip-off of Takeshi’s Castle, or the legendary It’s A Knockout even, but lacking the former’s anarchic charm and the latter’s Stuart Hall.

Hammond’s role in this fiasco is to provide to-camera links between ‘events’ and also provide a ‘humorous’ commentary whilst the ’shenanigans’ unfold and the thick people get wet. It has all the endearing qualities of a purulent ball of warm contempt, spat directly into the eyes of each and every license payer on a cold winter’s morning.

This may or may not show Mr. Hammond to be little more than a one-trick pony, left floundering when prized from the callous teat of the objectionable Jeremy Clarkson. His career choices have certainly left a lot to be desired – likewise my own, so if anybody wishes to grossly overpay me for the next one you can contact me here – and if there’s any justice left in the world, after taking his cut from the public purse and signing up for this crap, it’ll be the final nail in the coffin of a lamentable solo career.

In case there are any Hammond fans reading, don’t worry, it won’t be.

But never fear. There is a way the BBC could salvage this programme and also my faith in humanity. All it needs is a few simple changes.

Firstly drain the tanks of water and replace with cold, hard concrete, maybe sprinkling a dusting of broken glass over the top while it sets. Then remove all padding and ensure any jagged edges are made particularly prominent. Finally drag Richard Hammond out from the safety of his TV studio and slap him back into the coma from whence he came.

There. Instantly watchable.

In all honesty, if Total Wipeout is a sign of how the rest of 2009 is going to pan out, then I shall be returning to hibernation. If somebody would be kind enough to wake me in 2010, I’d be less than grateful.

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No. 58 Gangrape of the Eyeballs

You see, anyone that knows me personally or reads this rubbish with something bordering on insane regularity, will already have made an assessment in their minds that I am the cut of cove who has a very low tolerance towards fellow idiots, the greedy, politicians (not mutually exclusive of each other, by any means), so-called celebs and… well let’s just say 99.9% of the human race.

But this painfully low tolerance threshold isn’t just reserved to his fellow man. It would seem to stretch also to whatever dose of lurgy is presently doing the rounds.

This Christmas, in what has become something of a festive tradition at chez Mann, your host was struck down with a vicious wee bastard of a virus that I have since found out has reduced the Great British nation to what could be a ropey outtake from the remake of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead. Albeit one involving a great deal more snot, phlegm, and a continual interchanging of feversh sweats and ice-cold shivers.

Jeffman’s a martyr to such pandemics. If there’s a good’un knocking about it’s a relatively safe bet that he’ll cop for it – twice as bad as anybody else! For it’s also true to say that nobody catches for an ailment quite as bad as Jeffman does.

He literally lacked the energy to remove himself from the sofa, which can be a royal pain in the arse when your pint glass needs a refill. Nevertheless he showed exemplary courage in the face of universal adversity and hauled his sorry behind over to the fridge or where the hard stuff was kept without complaint.

Not that the usual award-winning tactic of attempting to poison the illness with alcohol worked on this occasion, for the blighter was resilient even to the most potent combination of beer, brandy, rum and port drunk straight from the washing up bowl – suitable for all manner of cocktails, punch concoctions, and occasions when entertaining polite company.

Christ! Jeffman even resorted to heating the rum up in the microwave, hopeful that its medicinal qualities would be intensified and chase the Demons from his shivering, cadaverous body, but only succeeded in burning his mouth. Then left it too long to cool. Nothing worse than lukewarm booze.

But if his Christmas hols were knackered by the infiltration of unclean spirits and the prospect of returning to the world’s dullest job at the start of this week, his spirits have since been lifted by not only the news of the death of one Thatcher’s lackeys (there can’t be long left for the witch now, surely) but also the latest pearl from our old friend Case M, star of Idiots in the Workplace. Apparently his boiler blew up over Christmas, leaving him without heating in what is proving to be one of the coldest snaps of recent years. Of course, it might just be a lie, as is generally the form with this suspect character. Nevertheless, we can but hope.

PS. After making my predictions for this year in my Christmas message, Jeffman has entered into the spirit of things and made a New Year’s resolution. One he shall endeavor to stick to.

This year: Stop being nice to people

Tis a messed up, festering scab of a dog eat dog world out there and my naturally pleasant temperament is clearly wasted on it.

You have been warned!

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No. 57 Christmas Illness and a New Year’s Resolution

“It’s Christmas time, and there’s no need to be afraid. At Christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade.”

Indeed so. Well, maybe if you’re a politician, a banker, or anybody else fortunate to operate under the sleazy banner of corrupt and bone idle rich – complete with obligatory easy-wipe conscience.

For the rest of us, well Christmas is just a slightly sparkly plaster – you know, the sort they stick on the bloodied knees of toddlers at Playschool, complete with minute depictions of whatever cartoon character is currently flavour of the month – administered in preparation for the wasteland of precariousness that inevitably lies ahead.

Take Woolworths for instance. Set to close its doors in the UK for the final time on January 5th 2009. The name has been trading for 130 years, which has led to the media’s ‘nostalgia’-tinged banter about how wonderful the pick ‘n’ mixes were, Saturday jobs for teenage girls, and shoplifting etc. But amidst all this dewy-eyed reminiscence there’s also the small matter of 27,000 suddenly out of a job.

That’s 27,000 human beings, with lives of their own, families to feed, and bloody great bills to pay. Not a statistic chanted ad nauseum by anodyne newsreaders every few minutes of the day, nor a great whopping figure whose only purpose is to bolster the steadily rising unemployment figures. Makes one so proud to be alive, right here, right now!

This is actually my third attempt at writing this. The other two I gave up on in despair, there being a distinct lack of anything remotely positive to focus on. These are frightening times and there’s no point trying to gloss over it with false festive cheer…

… Though we can but try. Here goes. There’s an episode of Doctor Who on Christmas Day (only an hour? has the credit crunch hit Gallifrey too?) and that’s about it.

Jeffman will emerge from his customary drink-induced nirvana just long enough to watch the aforementioned televisual treat before reattaching the brandy and beer drips to his forearms and forgetting it was ever on. Then he’ll do his best to erase the sheer crapness of the past twelve months from his mind in time for what forecasters reckon will be an even crapper year. A festive-wrapped parcel of used hypodermics delivered directly to your front door. 365 of the buggers, in fact.

If you worked for Woolworths then this forecasted sapling of shite is already bearing fruit. As it also is with the current collapse of the building industry, as well as manufacturing, which has been on its arse for years. And whilst this is allowed to go on the government bring in stricter measures to tackle benefit claimants. Measures that will inevitably hit those most in need through no fault of their own, instead of the ’scroungers’ they claim to be targeting; all in some half-hearted, middle-England courting bid to supposedly get the unemployed back working. I’d have thought that even from the ivory towers inhabited by the Whitehall brigade, it would be bleeding obvious that thanks to their cosying up to the corrupt banking fraternity there are no fucking jobs out there.

It’s so easy for a politician who has probably never, nor ever will, had to undergo the fortnightly degradation and suspicion of signing on whilst some jobsworth glares accusingly from across a desk; to come up with these ideas and in the process tar everyone with the same brush. Dole Scrounger!

Everything is crap. Britain has lost its way spectacularly. Each day is akin to undergoing waterboard torture with the unflushed gruel from a dosshouse bog. 2009 threatens to swallow us all in this tidal wave of crapness.

All you’ll see on Google Maps is the occasional head bobbing in a sea of effluence (as opposed to the perpetually promised affluence), gasping for a few gulps of air before another undercurrent of raw sewage drags them back beneath the surface.

Those fortunate enough to have built their houses on the hill, be it through fair means or foul (mostly foul), will be able to take potshots at these intermittent heads from their sanctuary, thus livening up an otherwise dull existence and giving them a reason to get out of bed in the morning. After all, aren’t the ones with the money, the same ones always telling us paupers it doesn’t bring happiness?

I look forward to meeting you in the dole queue next year.

But enough of that. I’m off to drink myself into a world of happiness, abandon and easy women, whilst I can still afford to. I shall return in the new year with exciting news – well, for me perhaps – of a new music journal, soon to be hitting the webstands (Yawn!). In the meantime, here are a few predictions for 2009:

The unemployed will be made to wear orange jumpsuits whenever they leave the dosshouse they’re living in, following the repossession of their homes. Failure to do so will result in the freezing of their benefits.

Smoking and drinking to be outlawed among the proles. Anybody found drunk in charge of a cigarette without a Waitrose receipt as proof of purchase will be publicly stoned at the football ground of their choice.

Compulsory seizure of all television sets. To be replaced with festive flagons of napalm to liquidise what little sense the brain still possesses, and rusty spoons with which to gouge out your eyes.

Job interviews to follow the X-Factor blueprint, including a compulsory song and dance routine, before an audience of baying loons. In the absence of TV sets, your humiliation will be broadcast directly into the minds of the great British public. Saturday night. 7.00PM. Ad infinitum.

The last pub in England will close its doors for the final time, prior to being converted into a block of duplex apartment/ Chinese/ Indian buffet restaurant-styled mosques.

The government will be replaced by a troop of shaved dwarves and nobody will notice, allowing the honorable members of Parliament to get on with the more important business of counting their money.

Christmas will be banned forever so as not to offend the terminally miserable. The same goes for dancing, smiling, laughing, and anything else that could be mistaken for enjoying yourself.

Merry Christmas and all that.

Jeffman will be back to his usual cheery self in 2009. In the meantime he has generously given his writing team Christmas Day morning off, as well as allowed them an extra lump of coal to suck on during the cold winter months.

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No. 56 Jeffman’s Christmas Address to the Nations

Tis the mighty Jethro Tull, with the somewhat wonderful ‘Ring Out Solstice Bells’ taken from the 1977 album, Songs From The Wood.

Oh yes, Sir Cliff, this is what you do at Christmas. Instead of living in Portugal and dodging your income tax, release a song about the Winter Solstace. The original Pagan festival from which Christmas is drawn (or Christmas hijacked, dependant on your particular view).

So here it is, ‘Ring Out Solstice Bells’, with lead singer, Ian Anderson, looking resplendent in a rather handsome trilby. One has to wonder if he has a Pork Farms Christmas pork pie stored beneath it.

And is that David Diddy Hamilton doing the introduction? One thinks it is. A double Christmas treat. Huzzah!

enjoy

Remember, for anybody faintly interested (form an orderly line) the musical interludes will be phased out in the new year when they move to a new music blog, Head Full of Snow. More as it occurs.

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Jethro Tull -- Ring Out Solstice Bells (Musical Interlude)

This is simply because A) he doesn’t care, and B) he’s in no hurry to experience the unfortunate end of a bullet delivered by some ‘offended’ NRA-type, exercising both his right to bear arms and his right to travel to other countries whilst doing so.

However, I couldn’t let the Iraqi shoe-flinging incident slip without at least tickling the subject’s belly and seeing what pops out.

Here we have the outgoing President of the USA and professional tuning fork, George W. Bush, accosted by a pair of wayward shoes. Man alive!

Now it’s not in Jeffman’s nature to raise so much as a smile, but on this occasion he allowed an exception to the rule and mistreated himself to a wee giggle. A more bizzare sight you’d be hard-pressed to find this year. Here you have a nation’s leader and possibly one of the most unpopular men in the world at present, ducking items of clothing (albeit impressively for his age), on TV, in a room packed out with journalists. You just can’t write this stuff.

If you were to measure a politician’s worth by the manner in which they left office, well at the top end of the scale you’d have the undoubtedly popular JFK, cut off in his prime by a stray bullet or three. And lurking right down the bottom there’d be George, harangued by a flying shoe. This brings to mind a similar incident involving Richard Nixon and a hurled trilby, just prior to his resignation.

But the real question here has to be not how this was allowed to happen, or even why the Secret Service hadn’t reduced the Iraqi journo’s head to a cloud of red and grey mist the moment he cast an admiring glance in Clarks shop window and thought, ‘hmm… those slip-ons would go well with my beige slacks’

The real question is how on Earth did he miss? At that range? Twice!!!

’twas a poor showing all round, really. One has to suppose that the notion of a school fete and coconut-shy would be lost on the Iraqi nation.

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No. 55 George Bush and the Flying Shoe

This is the core membership of the band, Roy Wood and Bev Bevan, who lasted from The Move’s conception as an amalgamation of assorted Brummy bands, to the first E.L.O. album, after which Roy Wood departed. It was also the first album to feature their then new member Jeff Lynne, who would go on to take the reigns of E.L.O.

This album dipped a tentative toe into the realms of prog rock, and sounds absolutely splendid for it.

Featuring some spiffing slide guitar from the mighty Roy Wood, ‘When Alice Comes Back to the Farm’

Enjoy

Incidentally, if anyone’s remotely interested, the musical interludes will become defunct in the new year, when they move to a new music blog, currently in development. More news of which, closer to the time.

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The Move -- When Alice Comes Back to the Farm (Musical Interlude)

Suffice to say, said little man would surely have been in need of a new stupid stick once he’d finished beating this particular pair of dullards about the head, evidently using up what you’d think to be a limitless supply of idiocy on the pair of them.

For those in the dark to just who the deuce I’m bumbling on at about, Karen Matthews – who, along with her genius accomplice, may go on to be the first diagnosed cases of terminal thickness – is the woman who was last week found guilty of the kidnapping and imprisonment of her own nine-year-old daughter in order to claim the reward money put up by a national newspaper for her return, and obviously milk any other source of income that would arise because of her ordeal. Michael Donovan – who appears to be some sort of uncle or other to somebody, in what must’ve been a bizarre in-breeding experiment gone wrong – was the one who kept the girl drugged and tethered at his home. It was also to be his job to find the girl and claim the reward, which was then to be split between this pair of master criminals.

Nice people, indeed. But the sad fact is that the world is now so chock full of the stupid and the senseless, the vile and the violent, and the selfish and the shallow, that very little surprises Jeffman. He is completely desensitised to the continual stream of shocking stories that fill the news bulletins and next week’s litter trays; of the murders, the rapes, and the casual acts of wanton antisocial behaviour that keep the news channels busy for 24 hours of the day.

More and more are buying into the lie that has been sold to them by greedy Media execs and their parade of string puppets such as Jade Goody, Peaches Geldof, and a raw sewage tidal wave of similarly talentless non-entities that clog up the TV screens and column inches like the sweaty, white heart attack batter that cakes the arteries of a 100-a-day smoker with a predilection for fried lard butties. The lie that you can get something for nothing if you’re willing to cash your brain in at the door and wallow nose-deep in a mire of faecal soup.

Expecting something for nothing is a national pastime, one which makes crime such an attractive and booming vocation. Qualifications are rarely required, which is a good thing considering the state of Britain’s education system, and even the clinically stupid can give it a fair crack of the whip, the aforementioned pair being a case in point. So perhaps the only option remaining to an embattled government in their supposed ‘War on Crime’ is to admit defeat and open crime up as a fully taxable profession.

That would smooth out any unfortunate peaks and troughs due to appear when the time comes to announce the recession-adjusted unemployment figures, plus the extra tax will come in handy when the shortfall created by the government’s recent borrowing spree needs to be met. With the prisons emptied, the government could then use them to house all the honest, hard-working people who’ll be losing their homes over the course of next year.

Jeffman really doesn’t know how these flashes of brilliance come to him.

Which nonsense reminds me of that old saying I just made up. “Give a man a fish and he’ll feed himself for a day. Give a man a fishing rod and he’ll clatter it around the other man’s head and take his fish.”

You have been warned.

Jeffman endeavors to stay abreast of current affairs. However, inebriation sometimes gets in the way, causing him to impart his questionable wisdom a whole week after the event. As is the case here.

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No. 54 Slapped with the Stupid Stick

This is Jeffman’s favourite song of Lennon’s post-Beatle’s stuff and easily the stand-out track on 1970’s otherwise lacklustre Plastic Ono Band album.

‘Working Class Hero’

Enjoy

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John Lennon -- Working Class Hero (Musical Interlude)

One advert in particular has recently been causing ructions at casa del Mann, simply because of its sheer audacity when it comes to degrading a once proud human race. DFS and their marketing agency should be hauled off to the Hague, post-haste, and tried for crimes against humanity. Not even Saddam would’ve sank to something this low.

For those who haven’t already seen it, take a peak at the vid above, one of three variations of the advert -- but be warned. Tis strong stuff indeed and not for the faint of heart. One would recommend a stomach nurtured on asbestos fritters and cast-iron curries.

I did warn you. That sheer affront to human dignity has on occasion caused Jeffman to vomit blood. Violently. At inopportune moments. Such as the time it invaded his line of sight from the window of a nearby Currys, and caused him to empty the contents of his stomach over a passing troop of small orphans on their first journey out into the bad, wide world since their parents had met with an unfortunate end in a bizzare hot air balloon/hedgehog incident.

But it would seem there is actually a glimmer of justice remaining in this dark and barren world; enough to deliver the occasional splinter of what must be pleasure to an otherwise tarnished existence.

Yes, the Advertising Standards Agency in all their implicit wisdom have banned the offending monstrosity. Never again will DFS be allowed to pollute Jeffman’s finely tuned cerebral cortex.

I suppose it’s only fair that I explain to any of our blind readers what the fuss is about. The DFS ad features a succession of what can only be described as outright cocks miming along to Nickleback’s ‘Rockstar’. The choice of song may be bad enough but it’s the shameless performances that really rankle, causing the involuntary loss of one’s breakfast and the previous night’s beer.

There are crack-whores who display more self-dignity and self-control than the assorted production-line gits that were employed in the making of this visual equivalent of chewing your way through the contents of a fourpack of lightbulbs, whilst suffering with a mouthful of ulcers. In fact, one has to wonder if they were employed at all, or whether there’s a little man just out of camera shot holding a HIV infected needle to the throats of their firstborns. How else could you guarantee such a genocide-inspiring performance?

Surely not money. Surely not! The human race hasn’t sunk that low in its pursuit of a few extra pennies, has it?

Oh sorry. I forget so easily. Of course it has.

But thankfully for those of us who don’t consider stripping ourselves of the remaining shred of dignity we’re still allowed, as a means to paying the bills, this is a small triumph.

All right, the ads have been banned because of a deceptive representation of the furniture sizes involved. But we all know, deep down, the real reasons because they’re 100% cringe-inducing slurry. Now all we need is for the ADA to ban adverts all together and Jeffman may once again get a decent night’s sleep.

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No. 53 DFS Advert Finally Banned -- Jeffman Stops Vomitting Blood

MARY WRAPPED THE FIRST CHRISTMAS PRESENT. CELEBRATE THE LORD’S BIRTHDAY HERE THIS CHRISTMAS

Well he should’ve seen it coming really. Jeffman knew it would only be a matter of time before the grasping hand of religion tried to muscle in on the festivities and claim their share of the seasonal purse.

Any right-thinking individual knows full well that Christmas serves two purposes and two purposes alone. Drinking to the point of central nervous system collapse and acquiring a respectable stash of loot. Just what the religious bods thinks this has to do with them is beyond me.

Further investigation reveals that it is largely the Church of England and the left-foot brigade seeking to infiltrate this otherwise glorious festival of drunken debauchery and wanton consumerism, evidently for their own nefarious purposes, whatever they might be. (maybe trying to pull us into church in November, or even as early as October?)

Let’s just put into perspective why this has to be one of the Church’s less well considered attempts at dragging themselves into the 21st century.

Christmas is all about the presents. It’s about buying someone a bit of tat in the hope that your efforts are rewarded tenfold. It’s also about the celebration of the birth of a certain man with a beard, who makes a sterling sacrifice each year, delivering presents to others on his own birthday. And most importantly, as touched upon earlier, Christmas is the time of year for a monumentally royal booze-up with enough of a kick to turn the ghost of Oliver Reed teetotal.

At chez Mann this entails the purchase of enough spirits and beer to drown a Blue Whale – for those quiet moments between visits to the pub - and then drinking myself, quite literally, into next year. As Christmas is all about tradition it’s then customary for me not to come around until at least the second week of February.

Which just goes to show that the season of good tidings and the teachings of what is in danger of becoming little more than a shambolic cult are diametrically opposed to one another? If we allow this infiltration of the annual slurp-fest then where will it all end? A religious hijacking of Sundays? The jolly boy’s official day of recovery.

Jeffman’s staggering ignorance of religious festivals also stretches to Easter, Witson, and Pancake Day.

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No 52. The Religionisation of Christmas

responsible advertising from the shallow world of fashion

So how would one define fashion?

Well I took the liberty of peeking into the Not What it Used to Be Dictionary of Foolishness and found the following:

Fashion [fash-uh n] noun, verb, idiom
-    Looking at what someone else is wearing before making a purchase yourself.

Indeed so. Fashion is dictated by a cabal of ludicrously attired and obscenely overpaid designers who would readily sell you the shirt off your own back at four times the price you paid for it, and then proceed to make you feel guilty for breathing the same air as them. It is from this arcane collective (I hesitate to use the word thinktank) that the clothes you or I wear filter down to the high street. Like shit down a hillside in a particularly heavy rainstorm.

It seems that any chancer can become a fashion designer. All one needs is a hilarious name, an outrageous accent, and a complete and utter detachment from reality. Noble qualifications indeed. Once these are acquired then you’ll be ready to take on the glitzy world of fashion and destined for the untold riches that come with it.

For instance, there may be economic upheaval every which way you look, but that doesn’t stop Ralph Lauren charging £90 for a shirt. And if we’re in any confusion as to what a shirt entails, it’s two arms, a bit of fabric front and back, and some plastic buttons to stop your belly hanging out. Oh, and don’t forget the little stitched polo player on the left breast. There’s no need for anything as elaborate as LEDs stitched into the seaming, or even a collar that glows in the dark.

In fact, the beauty of this scheme, and what will appeal to every chancer worth his salt, is that these garments can be knocked up for about 50p a pop in one of the many third-world sweatshops where child labour and bondships of servitude are not only legal, but actively encouraged. The public will eagerly pay the other £89.50 for whatever insignia you spend all of three minutes devising on the back of a beermat.

Obviously, once you’ve penetrated the elite, then you can hurl any old tat down a catwalk so long as it’s sellotaped to the withered frame of a chronically bulimic 15 year old, too smacked off her tits on heroin, coke, horse tranquilisers, and crème de menthe, to realise how preposterous she looks.

The name of the game is exploitation; the noun of choice for the veteran pros of the chancing circuit. Exploitation of the serf workforce assembling the garments. Exploitation of the waifs and strays plucked from obscurity to model the tat (although if they play their cards right, have a volatile temperament, or are of the correct breeding; they too can progress to the official status of overpaid chancer). And exploitation of the consumer at large, who comes to the table ready brainwashed into believing that the more you pay for an item of clothing, the higher your social standing is.

Simple fact: it doesn’t matter if you have neither a pot to piss in, nor a window to chuck it out of. If you’ve got your hands on a £100+ shirt, the world will think you’re someone.

Any chancer with a steadfast conviction to their chosen vocation has a strong footing when it comes to taking the fashion world by storm. The possibilities are endless, so long as the public at large allow themselves to be dictated to on what they can and can’t wear. And as it’s the fashion Gestapo dictating the pace at which fashion changes, the canny chancer will always be quids in.

Example: Some gullible type spends £100 on a shirt; £150 on some jeans; £200 on shoes; and £400 on a jacket. Within the year, they are made obsolete by the very bloke who created them when he brings out his latest line of overpriced scrag-end. Ergo: the gullible type has to rush out and buy some more, thus avoiding the ridicule of their equally shallow friends.

Fashion designer is possibly the Dubai World Cup event of the chancing calendar, and therefore the ultimate goal of any Young Turk starting out on the scene.

So what are you waiting for? You need never work again.

Jeffman doesn’t follow fashion. He exists in a place between past, present and future; beyond the grasp of fad and trend. His trilby and the occasional Cromby are his only nods to the sartorial SchutzStaffel. Suffice to say, this refusal to conform ensures he always looks good.

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No. 51 The Chancer’s Formbook: Fashion

Scrub that.

A lot of people haven’t got the manners they were born with. When that means you lack the simple courtesy of a squawking, wailing bundle of uncontrollable shit and piss, well that’s some achievement.

Courtesy has gone the same way as respect – a word, incidentally, that some brain donors think can only be gained by putting a bullet in somebody else’s head.

Jeffman promised sour grapes last weekend, and it’s a rather toxic looking bunch of sour grapes that he delivers.

You see, Jeffman was cordially invited to attend a job interview for a job that would’ve been of a particular benefit to furthering his path towards his eventual goal. He won’t say he was particularly excited, because the word ‘excited’ doesn’t exist in his repertoire, but it would’ve been a thankful release from the day to day turmoil of being bored to bloody tears.

Anyway, being the courteous type that I am, I threw on my best bib and tucker and hotfooted it straight to my pre-arranged appointment.

Suffice to say, all went fine and dandy and Jeffman quickly extracted himself from the aforementioned engagement and rushed back home to sit by the phone.

Where he has remained until this day.

One has to question the credentials of a company that promises they’ll be in touch and then, to paraphrase Blondie, “Leave you hanging on the telephone”.

Well what do you expect from a marketing company? A shoddy trade that is populated by Flash Bernards who think a wide-awake suit and a Mickey Mouse haircut amount to having a real job. A shabby bunch of chancers that’re so utterly obsessed with making money for themselves, and as a by-product their slipshod clients, that they’ve had any basic skill of human interaction, unmotivated by profit, sucked kicking and screaming from their vapid, decayed, vacuous husks.

And it’s not the first time this has happened to Jeffman. Oh no, Sir Cliff.

There have been numerous occasions where he has taken the trouble to attend interviews, only never to hear from the bastards again.

Maybe they’re still considering my application, but two, three, four, or five years down the line seems to be a rather strenuous vetting process, even in these days of global terrorism.

One interviewer once had the audacity to even tell me that if I was offered the job, I must let them know of my response as it was evidently “Common decency and good manners”. Thanks for that lecture, cock! Needless to say I never heard from them again. Thankfully the company was out of business within two years, which I see as some sort of karma-inspired vengeance for the smiting of the mighty Jeffman.

In all fairness, this probably sounds like a pretty bad indictment on Jeffman’s good self. Maybe Jeffman is a terminally poor interviewee. Perhaps beneath the polish and shine, and the courteous demeanour they spot that Jeffman is in fact a misanthropic cynic with no desire to be beaten into the conformity they require to justify their shallow existences. Or worse still, they think he’s a pushover undeserving of a thirty second phone call or a polite letter of declination.

If the latter is the case, then come my next interview I shall turn up drunk, kiss the interviewer, punch the receptionist, and proceed to urinate in the corner of the room.

If that doesn’t get me the job, then nothing will.

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No. 50 Jeffman’s Sour Grapes