I, like almost everyone, have spent many many years being a self absorbed, tiresome, carping, petulant,egocentric,whining fucking dipshit.

It’s the human way.

Now I don’t expect this to ever really change, but eventually in every life comes bad news that cannot be drunk away or smoked under the carpet.

So you have to metaphorically put away those childish things…

This isn’t about the size of your TV or how under appreciated you feel at work, it’s not about how many friends you have on Facebook or how even running the hoover around once in a while feels like a massive Sisyphean task that you need to yelp about.

It’s not about who slighted whom at a dinner party, Elaine in Accounts payables reluctance to answer the phone which you just..”don’t see why you should have to do”, or the fact that you are using a throw away internet blog to address something serious because essentially you are an idiot.

Eventually life has a nasty habit of focusing your attention on the people and things that really matter.

That’s not to say that we have any intention of turning away from the petty griping, the tiny slights, the seemingly inconsequential issues that require hours of frenzied debate and the general minutia of why you are wrong and we are right..

But once in a while you have to take a beat..

And this is that beat

For those who know who they are…

But be aware tomorrow we still continue to ride for Mexico and freedom..so put that Pepsi Max down and concentrate both of you.

It’s election time.

I could sit here and waste my time typing ineptly into the ether and raging about all sorts of nonsense, but we now have the “blogosphere”, where everyone is an “off kilter commentator on the mores of modern society”

Hilarious types with their satirical You tube videos or their simply priceless Tweets about the leaders debate, where they just spot things no-one else possibly could and then mention it in 140 characters and change the world for the better.

Isn’t that the beauty of the new improved internet, it’s truly for everyone, it encourages the swelling of pride and the belief that your opinion counts.. Your opinion matters, you can change things with a perfectly crafted reply to a Tweetdeck witticism by Armando Iannucci

The newspapers can talk about the “you-tube” election and how “face-book wot won it”

We can all jig giddy with delight and send messages via our fucking blackberry about…”.being on the train and about five minutes away…Zara had an abortion you know”

However your average polling station is still a draughty school hall with chipped olive tables and a handful of cold looking people seeming confused as they fiddle with flasks of luke warm tea.

One of the things that is going to be hand in hand with the return of this website is a massive amount of rampant hypocrisy and a disturbing unavoidable tone that,because we did this all five years ago, we now sound like your Granddad blithering on about the old days.

It’s a tough one, and from time to time I shall attempt to address it, but most of the time I won’t, because you are wrong so fuck you into a cocked hat.

So…

——————————————-

Reasons people have mentioned to me in the last week they are voting Conservative – (or how you stopped thinking and are a cunt)

Gordon Brown wasn’t elected.

No, no he wasn’t, but if you had paid the slightest, and I mean the slightest notice to party political activities in this country in the last five years, I mean before there was a massive worldwide economic crash and all of a sudden every dicksplash in the pub lost a few quid and thus decided he was Jeremy Paxman, then you would have noticed that the handover to Brown was set in stone years ago.

But that he was fucked in the arse by a steam powered glove full of quick set cement by Blair, who kept him dangling for years and then let him take over once the vapid war criminal got a scent of blood in the water.

This was going to happen…you were too busy being a twat to notice.

By the way..it’s not unprecedented…John Major was Prime minister before anyone elected him and you were still drowsy enough to not give a shit about that because Facebook didn’t exist and the Newspapers weren’t so strapped for stories that they felt the need to ask idiots what their opinions were all the time and give them credence.

We need to bloody the nose of the Government over Expenses.

Sit down..shut up, you are being led around by the big toe by the tabloids, you gibbering imbecile.

There is no point getting snippy about it, Sleaze, corruption and general atavistic behaviour are rife, you know why?

Because these people are in positions of power..this is not new, you barely wheezing moron, getting on your high horse about one particular bit is as pointless as having a bit of a hissy because Profumo wasn’t all that as a husband.

No-one can argue it’s right…but let’s be adult about it and not screech around the playground whining about how unfair it is….because if you have ever parked in a disabled spot, failed to admit your council tax responsibilities because your bucktoothed girlfriend moved in, as it was a shorter commute or you ever put in a dodgy receipt for that Pizza Express business meeting..you have done the same.

I’m not too chuffed that some tweed wearing fiasco got a few grand to clean his moat, but I’m not going to get hysterical about it, or become a ludicrously pompous self righteous arsehole and stamp my foot ineffectually and waste my one vote on a fit of petulance.

Might as well vote for the “yes I’m allowed to paint my bedroom walls black” party and have done.

Lets find out why our social service workers are so disillusioned with their pay and conditions that infants get battered to death and spend a little less time pontificating second hand over dinner about things we got off “Have I got news for you”.

Where my Taxes go -

A fantasy island argument that you have no way of possibly knowing.

I don’t drive, frankly this makes me a better person than you because I never ever bore the shit out of someone by giving them detailed directions to Dunstable via A-roads or ever sucking the joy out of a room by mentioning miles per gallon statistics or how a new Saab has some “kick”.

Also I never watch Top gear, purchase car magazines in motor way service stations or buy Jeremy Clarksons books because I mistake his cryptoracist piss, for wit.

That’s me..you have to live with it.

However, I also don’t track every penny I pay in tax as it’s impossible and can therefore not pinpoint where it is spent, whether it be on potholes, immigrants, nice hats for council officials or moats for chancers.

None of us can, pay your taxes.

That’s part of your job, what isn’t part of your job is to then be instantly blindfolded by people with a tiresome agenda in the media and fall hook line and sinker for such notions as “my taxes pay for Ukranian people to eat Fabergé eggs in crystal houses full of joy”

No they don’t.

Your larky bigots say how immigrants come over here taking all the jobs, then you get some antiquated OAP misguidedly remarking how immigrants don’t want to work.

First off..daft racists…get your story straight.

Secondly..

It’s a newspaper headline in a newspaper with a history of wretched lying and bias.

How stupid are you?

Really, if you fall for these things how can you shit without help?

Hi..my name is George..I have been caught innumerable times lying and changing facts to apply to the agenda I have, I also make things up out of the clear blue sky and am well known for my bias and the gaudy incoherent tales I have about Lady Diana….by the way Polish immigrants took a kidney from an English child and they made it into a casserole.

REALLY GEORGE..that’s a disgrace…Eastern Europeans coming over here stealing the organs from our children..it’s a….

Oh by the way I was making that up to get you to listen to me..but I will deny this in really small print on page 5

Oh..OK

However..SKITTLES GIVE YOU CANCER AND THEY WERE INVENTED BY POLISH PEOPLE TO CAUSE HOUSE PRICES TO CRASH INTO PRINCESS DIANA…

REALLY GEORGE..that’s a disgrace…

You people deserve all you get.

Your taxes go the same place everyone else’s go..fuck knows, but if you don’t pay them, you go to prison unless you are a football club or obscenely rich, and you don’t even notice them because they aren’t in your nett pay, so stop whining and pretending you are some kind of socio-economic analyst.

It’s time for a change

And this is the end game.

It’s going to happen, Nick Clegg had a brief moment in the sun, but looking good between a smug upper class Tory tit and a punch drunk Scot Prime minister who seemed to have forgotten what day it was, is hardly an achievement.

He’s the leader of the Lib-dems, their previous champions include a squinty eyed adulterer who wore khaki and seemingly worshipped at the altar of Lewis Collins in “Who Dares Wins”, a ginger erratic alcoholic with a good sense of humour but no notion of where his shoes were and a man in his late nineties named after a character in Flash Gordon

The bar isn’t that high.

I Love the Lib-dems and I am sure this election is the one in which they have really enjoyed the patronising notion that the little Lib-Dem that could..finally did..but they wont.

Yet it’s time to change..look what Labour have done to the economy.

Yes look…you may have noticed the single biggest worldwide economic disaster since 1929.

That will be worldwide..

I assume if you are reading this you are firstly..getting a bit sick of me, and rightly so, but secondly, you have internet access, you will notice how you are not scrabbling around for food in a landfill or busy contracting diphtheria.

Of course the fact that the couple next door haven’t trimmed their borders is absolutely vital, but you will notice that despite a worldwide economic crash, you still have a roof over your head, of course your cousin Diane is struggling because she lived her entire life on credit, that will be money she never had to begin with, that was somewhat troublesome once a worldwide economic crash occurred….her being essentially a thief and everything.

You know who I blame..Labour.

This is what will help, let’s vote in a smarmy vapid dipshit who backs a swathe of right wing policies to encourage tax breaks for Phil Collins and footballers and has absolutely no experience in the job involved.

Let us forget about society and anyone else, let’s focus on why I should be better off and why single mothers should be punished for the pitiless gash between their legs that led to feral offspring who keyed my car.

Let’s elect a party with a historical track record of gleefully shitting on working people in order to encourage the success of free market individuals who were recently responsible in a large part for the world wide economic crash because no-one could police them.

Let’s send to vastly historical forthcoming international conferences, a man who has no chin, no gravitas who represents a party that despises social justice and actively encourages the sacrificing of infants to a nameless elder god…just because his wife is “pretty”

Oh what the hell.

Bit off topic and one or two of the facts might be dicey, but it works for the Daily Mail.

I’d say Vote labour….

Gordon is not the best, the cabinet contain many many disasters..but it’s your society…

But you people don’t even know what’s good for you.

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast

What is this hollowed out creaky cobwebbed shell?

Dear God it’s the dusty once hectic front page of JRI and we have neglected it.
Shocking dereliction of duty and due to various clerical errors we haven’t got a soul to blame it on but ourselves.

Well, it’s time to break out the Hoover and the Pledge, because deep within the duvet a restless malice has stirred and two idle Brummy chancers, have decided that it’s time to draw back the Tarpaulin of Torpor and tidy the old place up and see if we can attract some visitors again.

Now of course we are renowned for False dawns, in fact our false Dawns are a big sellers at many a well disguised adult emporiums all over the West Midlands …with its pliant adjustable juddering anus and the drawstring on the back that gives you vocal encouragements such as, “I’ve dropped me Doner” and “the Bus is coming…hurry up and shoot yer muck Gaz”….our ergonomically luxurious adult dolls are half the reason we fucked off from this place for the best part of 4 years.

However due to a dropped bollock in shipping we are out of stock, so we might as well spruce up the website and embark on bugging the arse out of people again with petty and badly punctuated screed, full of seemingly random Capital letters.

Obviously, and we have checked the stats, there is no-one here to read this, but as a shifty oriental once wondered, if a fat bloke writes a front-page article and nobody reads it, is it still unfunny.

The answer is clearly ….yes it is.

So….we shall be filling some bin bags, hosing down the dog shit off the drive and applying a new coat of paint.

Let’s be having you.

Thats how we roll…….baby.

No, I ain’t got my childhood
Or friends I once did know.
But I still got my voice left,
I can take it anywhere I go.
Hey, hey, so I guess I’m doin’ fine.

Hello.

Now here at House of Spam we are, of course, renowned for our innovative ideas, far reaching R&D and never ever ever finishing anything we start or starting anything we say we are going to do.

That’s why we are internationally famous in my mind, and you are negligible and reek vaguely of damp.

However, it’s all well and good being a ground breaking blue chip company in my mind, who have a large office block called Ram it towers that doesn’t exist, but every once in a while it’s vital that we shock life back into the market by announcing exciting and scintillating developments that will simply revolutionise just about everything ever.
So we can ensure once more that people can be safe in the knowledge that no matter how long this post is, we will not finish what we have started.

In many ways it is a burden to be this cutting edge, especially in the dynamic twin markets of not finishing things, and excruciatingly disjointed paragraphs about absolutely nothing that serve as irritating preambles to getting to the point.

We adopt a scientific approach to such matters, for example a less annoying poster would have totally deleted this bit of text and cut to the chase. That however is not for us, no, not while there is still valuable space in which to refer to yourself in the third person and irritate….we have Lab test results that illustrate that just by using these extra lines, posts can be 60-70% more unreadable and skimmed.

That’s what we are all about.

I digress.

Ponder this question…How many times have you heard someone say something along the lines of….

“Here’s 20p, why don’t you use it to call someone who gives a fuck?”

Often?…never?…if it’s never that’s really going to interfere with the whole premise of the post, so as a favour to me just pretend it’s Often and keep your mouth shut.. Ok?

Well we have an answer to that sizzling put down.

———————————————————

NEW FROM HOUSE OF SPAM.

Don’t feel isolated, hated or alone any longer….no more will you think that no-one on the face of the entire planet is remotely interested in your tedious complaining or coma inducing anecdotes.

Welcome to the only Phone number you will ever need.

0909 432 9978

0r

0909 – G1VE – AFUCK

That’s right…an exclusive 24 hour, seven day a week hotline from House of Spam, that will put you in touch with people who GIVE A FUCK, about what you are carping on about in your nasal reedy voice.

Modern life is all too often a dizzying whirl of obligations, pressing deadlines, power hats, shitting and humiliating social faux pas, which may or may not involve misplaced and poorly timed shitting incidents….often we don’t have time to just sit back, perhaps on the patio, look at the stars and smell coffee…….dude.

That’s modern life for you…don’t blame me, you wanted the high definition television and Gym membership, you craved the designer womb, wife with an eating disorder and gaggle of vacuous friends whom you bitch about in the taxi on the way home.

I didn’t force them on you….you made your bed, now lie in it…lie in it..pick up your stupidly overpriced blue tooth vibrating jizz phone, the one that Asian lad with too much gel in his hair bullied you into buying at a regional branch of T-Mobile, when you were trying to avoid going into H&M with the Girlfriend again….

Pick it up and call people who GIVE A FUCK, about your footling concerns, job dissatisfaction or asinine story about what, “Jez did last week outside Legs Eleven with that Blonde bint who was having a violent fitting reaction to some Cheap E,”, while you stood about in the street drinking 8 quid bottles of pissy lager, in your pastel V necked sweater and ripped designer jeans with your new tribal tattoo on your bicep, you smug self satisfied, sack of fucking spunk.

Yes, on a GIVE A FUCK line, you can be sure to find a friendly voice who will always GIVE A FUCK, about the mundane intolerable bullshit you call your life.

Whether you want a monosyllabic grunt that indicates someone is at least listening, or you require a creepily attentive middle aged shut in who thinks every banal word you utter is worthy of a excited gasp and “really?…no Really?”….we have something for you via our difficult to negotiate and needlessly time consuming, touch tone menu options system…..you vapid cocksucker.

Really…we GIVE A FUCK.

Did you and your fat necked husband have a minuscule domestic tiff this morning over the whereabouts of the Car keys?

Don’t waste your time regaling an increasingly agitated group of colleagues about it, who only came in to get something out of the communal fridge and want you to catch fire more and more, as every second passes…no, spare them…call 0909 – G1VE – AFUCK, where one of our trained and sedated operators can skilfully feign interest.

Did a supplier fail to deliver a non-essential piece of dull engine block equipment at the exact moment you pompously insisted upon?…Really, why drone on and on and on and on about it to the suicidal rather edgy bloke at the desk nearby who is exactly one more story away, from driving a Biro through your eye and slamming your head in a filing cabinet…Instead call 0909 – G1VE – AFUCK, where someone we pay less than minimum wage and give Ketamine to, can say “yeah”, while they watch the Jeremy Kyle show.

Do you feel the need to speak to someone at 2.30 in the fucking morning, because you have lived your entire life like a self centred, shallow ungrateful twat, and due to your incredibly low IQ have still not worked out that this is the exact reason why you are in your late 30’s and alone and have had too much Cabernet Sauvignon?….Don’t call me…really…don’t fucking call me…I’m asleep and when i say..”no it’s fine you didn’t wake me”, i am lying through my gritted teeth.

No Call 0909 – G1VE – AFUCK, where you can talk to a recorded message stored on a server in an office on an industrial estate in Fradley, calls cost £1.50 a minute and eventually terminate in Guyana , you gullible fuck-slot.

Remember no conversation is too petty or puerile for us to turn away, because we GIVE A FUCK, we really do relish the excruciating day to day minutiae of your insipid little life and every hapless brain spasm that you call a notion is to be cherished and discreetly added to your itemised monthly bill, because we GIVE A FUCK.

In fact should you call the GIVE A FUCK helpline and think that for some reason we do not GIVE enough of a FUCK about your late night concerns over a suspected testicle lump, or your very real suspicion that Darren might be seeing someone else behind your back,
Simply call 0909 – RLY-GIVINGAFUCK and leave a message on the answer phone, which is full and never listened to, so we can investigate your terrible lack of ANYONE GIVING A FUCK, and never ever refund the 14 Quid we have just swindled out of you……go whine to Watchdog we have left the country.

Also , coming soon when we have registered and set it up, which we are doing..right now, so don’t nick it you fuckers, please log onto the website Www.wegiveafuck.com , where teams of helpful Spam Bots will give you the misguided impression that they GIVE A FUCK and you are a valued member of a thriving internet community, who care.

Simply fill in the easy on-line registration forms including your Credit Card details and once we have validated their accuracy by purchasing things off Amazon, you will receive an E-mail from the GIVE A FUCK team which will allow you access to a forum full of other people who only want to talk about themselves.

Remember..our motto is…..We give a fuck.

Enjoy the Hold music.

I got a call from a brother to tell me, i knew the second he started talking what he had to say.

We won’t get to see the man together now as we always said we would and that is a crying shame, for which i won’t forgive my stupid procrastination.

The second the news sunk in everything just seemed to go a little dimmer and the world is a less interesting place to be, starting now.

I’ll admit it will be a while before i can listen to the big man again, i was stood in the shop not long after hearing, thinking about it…i hummed a little bit of “Couldn’t love you more” to myself, and suddenly i was crying….in public…like a woman or a homosexual or something.

So a period of silence i feel.

It’s not considered good form to be an overtly emotional soul, especially on the internet, it at once opens you up to jibes and mocking, we should all remain guarded and aloof, maintain a hip façade of 21st century cynicism and let nothing show.

John Martyn didn’t do that…rarely in his life, though he jested and joked and was glib and quick tongued especially when drunk, and certainly never in his music.

He was heart on sleeve all the time and sometimes sang like an open wound.

His honesty and intensity were two of his finest traits.

For me he was the greatest musician of this or any other age.

As a guitar player, it began and ended with him, he wasn’t the best i suppose, no poll will ever throw him out there as such.

But for me he was. Every chord he put on record seemed to have more soul in it than any number of extensive virtuoso solo’s.

He was never flashy, he didn’t play all the notes, he played the right ones.

The driving acoustic Rhythm of “May you never”, the gentle lullaby of “my baby Girl” the brutal funk ass kicking on something like “Look on”, and everything in between, all of them perfect.

I won’t deny that his later stuff, while always superb, the man couldn’t make a boring record, it was not all his very best, but if i tried to pick an album to recommend it would be impossible, basically everything from London Conversation in 1967 to Foundations in 1987 is essential.

—————————————————

Then you have the voice.

I think i first noticed John Martyn when i was about 6 or 7, my father used to play him and he was amused that i loved the song May you Never.

But it was the voice i noticed.

On his early albums it sounded to me as a child like a huge bear hug…..plus the album covers showed a man who looked like my Dad, all wild hair and beard.

He would wear suits and still look like he slept in a hedge.

So did my father, he would combine a jacket with his faded purple “crusaders” baseball cap and go to business meetings.

I thought he was the coolest man on then planet then…it ran John Martyn, Clint Eastwood, My dad.

So i associated JM with my Father, even to this day when i listen to the right album at the right time of night i can still smell a faint aroma of his Decanter of Scotch from which i took early stolen nips and felt illicit and sick, and the addition of the late night cigar my Dad would enjoy in the darkened dining room, his Huge 70’s head phones on.

As i grew up the sounds of John Martyn in the house became familiar and welcome.

The smell of Sunday lunch being cooked, all the windows and patio doors open, my mother laughing at my sister and i playing whatever nonsense in the back garden with our idiot Labrador ,while my Dad would read the paper and occasionally pipe up, tell us to watch it or he’d have to get up to us…we’d goad him until he sat forward, then run away laughing and shrieking….

Meanwhile John would be in the background, “going down easy” or telling us about a mysterious Jelly roll maker.

Nights when my father would go somewhere for work and he’d let me go along for the ride, he had a Capri with seats that had this feel i can still recall we’d be driving through the dark, past my bedtime and he’d drive too fast cause he loved to…He’d put John Martyn on the stereo and if i was lucky it would be “Johnny too Bad”, the voice now slightly changed, he sounded mad and bad and probably dangerous…it was my favourite at the time, i think my father knew, cos it was usually that one.

A few years later it changed again, my Parents divorced and my Mother was gone.
I’d wake up at night and hear music downstairs…only the voice was broken and sad, it sounded like the loneliest man in the world as he talked of Sweet little Mysteries and pleaded, “baby please come home”, and I’d pad down there barefoot and find my father….he’s be sat in the dark, crying sometimes, angry others, now and again just passed out, the cigar dead in the ashtray and the scotch spilt on the carpet.

I’d try to wake him up and get him to bed those times, often he wouldn’t stir and I’d go to the airing cupboard, i couldn’t reach the blankets so I’d end up getting a big beach towel and putting it over him…a childs idea of keeping him warm i suppose..

I’d listen to the music and watch my father sleep, I’d maybe cry a bit myself, i knew he maybe shouldn’t drink so much and i was scared one day he might not wake up and i wouldn’t know what to do, and i’d watch until the record finished and the last sound of the needle coming off the groove would send me off to bed leaving him to sleep it off.

My father took me to see John Martyn in time, we would drive to London at night to see him after school, just he and i and afterwards we would stop for a Curry somewhere before he headed back up the Motorway in the rain.

I’d try to stay awake to listen to Grace and Danger, or Small hours… I’d take in the the lyrics by now and wonder about girls who were “very very lovely who would take me home”, and wonder how that was going to be …but no matter how hard i tried, the motion of the car, the lateness of the hour, the drain of the adrenalin and the voice would send me to sleep long before we got home.

I often think about that now, what my Father must have thought, speeding past the Little Chefs of Britain with his son sliding off the seat asleep beside him.

Probably nothing

The greatest John Martyn show i saw was the last with my father…he had a new woman, and i was older, it had provided the first difficulties between us, i would stagger in drunk, he would find this hard to bear and grew angrier, i hated his choice of partner, who in turn hated me and we grew further apart.

But that one night we went to the old Irish centre, in Digbeth in Birmingham, a fairly cosy venue.

He bought me a pint of Guinness and was not pleased about it i sensed.

John Martyn came on and it was to be an acoustic set, with Danny Thompson playing too, the legendary double act.

Some shows we had seen, John had been drunk, and the wrong side of incoherent, or he would not play guitar, and let too many keyboards take centre stage, or bland saxophone.

But not that night.

That night he rolled it all back.

He was brash, and bawdy, and tender and threatening, playful and heartbreaking.

He was on fire, and i knew that the voice could do what it wished at will, it could rise and fall and batter or caress, and i realised it was going to be exactly the same as God’s if i ever met the big bloke.

It was halfway through a version of John Wayne, that was ripping the fucking roof off, i was reeling and i looked at my Father and he looked at me, and we shared a look that just said…”this is unbelievable”…and we laughed madly and shook our heads in nothing short of awe

… and then the moment was gone.

I can’t begin to tell you the number of Melancholy drunken nights that John Martyn got me through since.

I have grown up listening to him on at least a weekly basis, if not much more.

When things were shit, or someone had trampled my heart or i had fucked something up, i knew that the only possible course of action was a bottle, the dark and Mr Martyn.

And i freely admit i would sob like a child.

I have shed more tears in the gloom to John than could be imagined.

But he never made me gloomy…his music is not depressing, he is not a martyr.

He made bad times bearable, because in every word he sang, every note he wrote, no matter how emo you were being you could feel there was a wild woolly songwriter out there who just knew what it was you were feeling and could sympathise, had his own troubles to tell and would probably get his round in if given half the chance.

My father and I have long since fallen out, we don’t speak, the slights and history are long in the past, I forget what it is we clashed upon sometimes, these days….it has been years.

I hear of his activities from other family and always ask after him, i hear he does the same for me sometimes and i realise then how fucking stupid the situation is, but then it is what it is.

The first thing i did when i found out John had died though…i texted my father to tell him.

I didn’t think for a second he would reply.

While i was writing this mournful screed.

He did.

So thankyou for that…one last time…RIP John Martyn.

Raise a toast, for he had soul.

I’m going away to leave you
Going to leave you in disgrace
Nothing in my favour
Got the wind in my face
I’m going home
Hey, hey, hey, over the hill
Over the hill
Hey, hey, hey, over the hill.

Dr B. Fett – “Hello group, we have a new member today, would you like to stand up and introduce yourself?”

Mac – “Errr, yeah, okay, hmmm, not really great at talking in groups but here goes:  My name is Mac and I am a star wars hater”

Star Wars, the fucking prequel trilogy, what else is there to say? I have been going on about this for years, since the fourth one (first, no fourth fuckers – chronological in order of making), I had new hope after each shite instalment and each time it was dashed upon the rocks by that stubborn, beardie shit bag.

The prequel trilogy is terrible, on so many levels, that’s a given so I am not going to go into that here. As it happens, there are some great video reviews of the first two prequel movies on youtube that if you have a few spare hours (they are about 60 mins each) then they are pretty much the final word on the utter shambles that pertains to be a plot & story.

What really concerns me is that the prequel movies and the myriad assorted cartoon fuckwittery actually have a profound and negative affect on the original movies. So much so, that I had given up on Star Wars – it took all three of those films to do it but, yup, did not want to know and I was actually able to accept the fact that the upcoming star wars tv show will be utter shite and further damage what was once a great thing.

In the last few days something wondrous has happened and I can honestly say that I love Star Wars again. So please, if you find yourself in the same situation where star wars was once a great source a pleasure but now makes you feel all angry and pent up then hopefully, the following will be of some use.

My son is four years old, he dislikes the clone wars cartoons as they are boring (he is right – seemingly children in Lucas’ house like politics and trade discussions). But, he has suddenly started to show an interest in star wars due to a new lightsaber toy on the market. So, I want to get him this but felt it was important that he watched the original films first.

So, we sat down and watched Star Wars and it was awesome! 40 inch HD TV with the DVD upscaled to 720p, surround sound rig, lights dimmed, sunday afternoon, few cold ones. Jesus, felt like I was 10 years old. And the boy, oh the boy loved it, hell, my super girly daughter even enjoyed it – it was, well, it was great.

So, following weekend, Empire, it was always my favourite and jesus, it blew me away. I reckon I have not seen it for about five years and wow, awesome, can’t wait for Jedi this weekend. Have to say, did not hold the kids attention quite so much but by this point,  who cares.

So, I think, just about, my star wars and lucas hatred is subsiding and I am just going to pretend the new films never happened. This very morning, whilst explaining the plot of the second one and building the kids up to Jedi on Sunday my daughter asked how Lukes father became Darth Vader – I replied: “I don’t know baby, I don’t think it really matters.”

So, cured? Maybe not entirely, it still hurts, but I view the new films now in the same way as the cartoons and everything else – it’s not for me.

May the force be with you, always.

Where to start?

2002 (or somewhere close), Hull, UK, two friends, nay, brothers, in a pub (where else?), someone, I am not even sure if it was one of us or our lady friends and the now classic (to us at least) ‘just ram it’ was uttered – another few drinks (ok, more than a few), the world best granddad (a big shout out to g-diddy) was ushered off to his hotel and the night continued back at SoG’s house – Doom on the PS1, a daft argument about the literary status of Harry Potter and a good hearty snooze from myself.

Pivotal evening? Who knows? It matters not as Just Ram it, in concept was born.

So, eight or so years later, where are we? After several hissy fits, we have both retired from the site and maybe stopped enjoying it several times but, testament to the site and our initial enthusiasm, the forum at least is still up and running.

Well, a few years back we were talking a big relaunch, took the site offline, built the basics but then choked. Sadly, it has sat in that state for the last two years.

In that time, the web has moved on: blogging, microblogging, social media (blah, we were social media 8 years back) – so, I don’t know what has changed, but it just feels like the world needs Just Ram it again so… were back baby.

So, rants? That’s done, we might rant about shit, but we are not going to restrict ourselves in that way anymore. Will we update regularly? Who knows? Probably best to hope for the worst and then anything we do do will be a nice suprise.

So, JRI 2010 – no promises, more than rants, social media beware, watch out fuckers, we’ve got our eye on you.

So, I have said my bit, I am the quiet one to watch in the corner, the next noise will come from my brother, the big man, SoG – so bro, bring it, no pressure like ;o)

2010 – Just Ram it