The second resolution is a little more difficult to achieve. I’m aiming to shed three stones in weight before seeing in 2013, which I realise is a big ask given my genuine love of pizza and curry and pies and crisps and that, but I’m doing my damnedest to stick at it.

To that end, I’ve done something fairly drastic – I’ve started to run. Well, I say run, it’s more of an awkward, wheezing stagger around the block at the moment. But, it’s a start.

Those who have only known me in adulthood will understandably struggle to picture me as a runner. Something to do with the aforementioned pizza, curry, pies and crisps, I’ll bet. Those who’ve known me a little longer will know differently, though.

Y’see, as a teenager, I was quite the promising middle-to-long distance runner, following in the footsteps of my dad, a former Birchfield Harrier in his own right. The plan was for me too to develop my talent, join a club, and perhaps enjoy a lifetime of competitive athletics. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that I’m pretty much made of glass as various injuries took hold. A knee complaint saw me housebound for an entire summer at the age of around 13, and near constant ankle-knacks eventually led to me calling it quits a couple of years later. Shortly afterwards, I began to gain weight, and the rest as they say, is history.

So, why have I started again? Well, it’s not quite the sudden epiphany some have when they take up a new fitness pursuit. Nor is it any sort of desire to try and recapture past glories. It’s more a matter of practicality.

Just under a year ago I began, along with my colleagues at S&X, to look after PR for New Balance (the world’s finest purveyor of athletic footwear, I’ll have you know). One of the perks of this was being gifted with a few pairs of trainers, including some of their lovely fashion-led shoes which quickly became acquainted with my everyday attire. However, there was one pair of shoes which remained firmly in the box – a pair of shiny, top of the range running shoes.

Frequently I would see them peering out at me from the wardrobe, almost pleading with me to try them on. “Come on, Tom. We’re worth £95, for God’s sake! Wear us!” And it was tempting. But knowing that I’d become so unfit that sprinting for a bus left me fairly breathless, I felt sure that my running days were over forever.

That was until I read about a new iPhone app called Run5k, an ingenious little system which builds you up from running in bursts of just 45 seconds to begin with to, hopefully, being able to run for half an hour non-stop by the 8th week. It’s early days, but I’m at least getting out and doing my bit and setting out on that road to being three stones lighter. And, touch wood, none of the old injuries have flared up just yet, which is promising.

So, why am I writing about this? Well, it’s quite simple – I want to make sure I stick at it, and I feel that by announcing my intentions as publicly as possible I’ll be extra motivated to, y’know, actually go ahead and do it. The logic is simple – if I tell you all now that I intend to lose the weight, I feel obliged to do it so I don’t sound like some knobhead who’s full of good intentions but not willing to put in the effort. And it also means that if we get to new year’s eve and I’m still a fatty, I’m giving you a free pass to direct a ginormous torrent of abuse in my direction. Win-win, in a way. Sort of.

Here’s how it will work – my progress will become a regular topic of discussion here and on my Twitter feed. I’ll keep you up to date, let you know how far I’m running, and how much weight I’ve shed. I’ll be open about when I’ve done well, and honest when I’ve done badly. And a little encouragement would be appreciated too, if you feel at all inclined to offer it.

And in the spirit of openness and honesty, if you saw this message earlier, I have to confess – I didn’t go. My dinner was ready when I got home and it looked so ruddy delicious that I couldn’t wait a minute longer. But I’ll endeavour to get up early in the morning…

You know I will. I really will.

I fear the day will soon come when that poor bloke is me.

Last month my mate Perksy arranged a night at the Tap and Spile karaoke in Birmingham as a pre-Christmas gathering. I sang a couple of duets, had a laugh with friends, and looked on in amazement as Rachel New stole the show with a frankly magnificent performance of White Lines by Grandmaster Flash. It was wonderful.

That would have been that, except it awakened something in a few of us. Perksy, Kerri, Sarah and I went back. And then again. And this weekend we racked up our fifth trip to the karaoke in little over a month.

We’ve developed significantly in that time. Kerri and I have finely honed our performance of ‘The Bad Touch’ by The Bloodhound Gang, I’ve shed the initial nerves to the point where singing several songs without copious amounts of Dutch courage doesn’t particularly concern me, we’ve become well known enough that we were entrusted with the compering of the midnight countdown on New Year’s Eve, and ‘Karaoke Richard’, our master of ceremonies, has bought us drinks.

However, amid all the considerable fun we’re having , I must confess that I do have a lingering concern that we could be becoming those karaoke people. The ones who show up every week, the ones who take it really seriously, the ones who develop a high opinion of their own ability… the ones who end up getting carried away and audition for X Factor. Oh God…

While jovially I’ll always steadfastly insist that my singing is worthy of any stage, the truth is that my limitations mean that I’ll generally perform something between spoken word and parody opera. Only, I must be honest, there have been occasions recently when I’ve tried to actually sing. Y’know, properly, like. I know that Perksy has too. What is becoming of us?

Kerri and Sarah, on the other hand, are perfectly accomplished singers, so I’m less concerned that they might end up embarrassing themselves. However, their in-depth summits during the process of song selection suggest that they too might have been afflicted with the mindset of the regular karaokist, let alone the occasions when they’ve continued to sing the refrain of a song acapella long after the backing track has finished. Milking it, obviously.

Our most recent visit, though, made me think that we may seriously need to take a look at ourselves and work out if things need to brought under control.

You see, midway through the evening, spots of water began to drip through the ceiling, which soon gave way to several significant streams of water. As beer buckets were brandished to catch the errant liquid, I realised that it kind of looked like piss. And it kind of smelled like piss. And it kind of… WAS piss. Real life, genuine human piss, coming from a flooded toilet upstairs. With that in mind, spare a thought for Karaoke Richard who, in the initial confusion as to what could be causing the leak, had decided to TASTE the mystery liquid. Bless him.

At this point, you may imagine that with the bar covered in significant puddles of human waste, the pub would have closed immediately due to environmental health concerns. You’d be wrong. As fairly cultured and intelligent people, you might imagine that we would have made a collective decision that a pub with piss literally raining down from the ceiling wasn’t the place where we should be spending our Friday night. Sadly, again, you’d be wrong. We just bloody love karaoke so much, and if it takes an inadvertent golden shower to do it then that’s just something we have to put up with.

It’s time to admit it, we have a severe problem, and we can only get through it with your unwavering support.

Until then, I would like to sing ‘You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling’, please.

You know I would. I really would…. BABY BABEH!

—

Here’s a little bonus feature for you, dear reader.

After reading this blog, you’re probably anxious to go and do karaoke now. It’s OK, I don’t blame you.

As a self-appointed expert, though, I do have some tips for you to follow. Take heed of these, and you too could become a world-class entertainer.

1. Only sing songs you actually know

It may seem like a very obvious thing to say, but there’s an incredible amount of people who get up to sing a song without seeming to have the first clue how the song goes. Yes, we all know the chorus of ‘Especially For You’, but if you don’t know the verses you can eff off, tbf.

2. Only sing songs everyone else actually knows

Some lad a couple of weeks ago got up and sang some obscure death metal song that was eight minutes long and which nobody else had ever heard of. Everyone was bloody well pissed off.

3. If you want to feel like a rockstar, sing Oasis

There’s something about Oasis songs which makes everyone want to sing along with you. Feels nice, man.

4. If you’re not a great singer, just make it funny

A humorous ad-lib has saved many an average singer. On the other hand, there’s nothing worse than somebody getting on the mic and thinking they’re hilarious when really they’re just a loud annoying pisshead. All about balance, isn’t it? Needless to say, I’m ALWAYS hilarious.

5. Don’t be shy

At the end of the day, it’s a laugh, and nobody is going to think any less of you for taking part. Well, they might, but they’ll have forgotten about it tomorrow. Just have a drink, grab the mic and have fun.

That’s very much how I feel tonight as it becomes clear that Britain has said a resounding ‘NO’ to the introduction of the alternative vote. Exasperation doesn’t begin to cover it.

My mom often tells stories about how, even as a toddler, I was into politics. I’d sit in front of the TV and, in between episodes of Postman Pat and Thomas The Tank Engine, I’d revel in the activity of the likes of Thatcher and Gorbachev. Turning 18 heralded the magical moment when I could first exercise my democratic right. I was the first through the door at 7am when the 2002 council elections rolled around, and I’ve not missed an opportunity to have my say since.

However, therein lies the problem – I’ve NEVER ‘had my say’ because my vote hasn’t once counted for anything. May 1979 saw Conservative Richard Shepherd claim the Aldridge-Brownhills seat from the Labour incumbent. 32 years on, he remains our MP. And I’m certainly not a Tory.

Some will point out that, having secured 59.3% of the vote at the last General Election, AV would not have been called into play in Aldridge-Brownhills. Obviously, I can’t argue with that. But, I can only wonder whether, under the current first past the post system, there are some who are reluctant to vote for a smaller party because it’s ‘a waste of a vote’? Perhaps some are so resigned to yet another Tory victory that they don’t even bother to head to the booth?

With AV, a fairer system which guarantees that the majority of people get to have their say, I would at least go into the polling station with a bit of hope that something MIGHT happen, rather than the familiar inevitability that it’s all in vain.

While not perfect, I haven’t seen a single compelling case to retain FPTP ahead of AV. The ‘NO’ campaign was based around the vague, the irrelevant and the notion that it was somehow so complex that our mere human minds would explode upon trying to comprehend it. Funded by the same out-of-touch ageing millionaires who bankroll the Tories, the ‘NO’ campaign took the form of one of most spiteful, condescending and morally bankrupt political crusades I’ve ever seen, compounded by David Blunkett’s admission that the oft quoted ‘£250 million’ figure was nothing but a great big whopping lie.

Compare and contrast the promotional material. On one hand we have this wholly logical and eloquently laid out argument from the ‘YES’ campaign. The ‘NO’ campaign, meanwhile, were peddling this clichéd metaphor WHICH DOESN’T EVEN EFFING MAKE SENSE.

And so, why did such an obviously superior system lose out to the current archaic method? There will be an element of ‘the better the devil you know’, obviously. Some will have fallen for the blatant lies emanating from the ‘No’ camp. Some will have voted ‘No’ because The Sun and The Daily Mail told them to. Some will claim they didn’t understand what AV was, which I can only assume means they didn’t bother to try and find out – after all, you’d need to be a total simpleton not to grasp the concept, and none of us are, so we’re all fine.

Most idiotic of all, though, are those who refused to support AV simply because it was a proposal that was forced through by the Liberal Democrats. The anti-Lib Dem sentiment that has existed since the election has puzzled me, purely because many of the arguments against what they’ve done in parliament seem to highlight a fundamental lack of understanding of the situation.

Let’s start with the initial condemnation (no pun intended) of the decision to partner with the Conservatives in the first place, and the constant insinuation that they have somehow ‘sold-out’. The truth is that the Conservative-Lib Dem coalition was the ONLY viable option. A Labour-Lib Dem partnership would not have been enough to form a majority. A Conservative minority government would have been unworkable.

Here’s the reality – the Liberal Democrats lost the election. Five seats down on 2005, they hold 57 seats compared to the Conservatives’ 306. And yet, some people seem amazed that government policy is weighted towards the Tory manifesto. A coalition requires some give and take by its very nature. When you barely have one seventh of the stake in the partnership, you need to be prepared for more give than take.

The fact of the matter is that this is as good as it was ever going to get for the Liberal Democrats. If you went to the polls last year on May 6th expecting the sun to rise over Clegg’s Britain on the 7th, you are, frankly, an idiot. A Liberal Democrat majority was simply not going to happen. The possibilities were clear – either being the perennial third party, where none of the pillars of the manifesto would be implemented, or the minority player in a coalition where at least some of your policies will be utilised. As a supporter of the party, offered these two options, there’s only one logical choice – otherwise what’s the point?

Of course, mistakes have been made. The student tuition fees saga was as cringeworthy a political scenario as any I’ve ever witnessed. However it boils down, once again, to the Conservatives wielding the balance of power within the partnership. Clegg’s mistake was not backing the proposals in government, it was signing a pledge whilst in opposition.

And yet, despite all the concessions made to Tory policy by the Lib Dems, they’d managed to secure one of the greatest parts of the bargain of all – the chance to secure a fairer political future for us all, a genuine once in a lifetime chance to achieve a greater freedom of choice, a greater democracy, to make our MPs work harder, and to make our government more representative of the country as a whole.

We blew it. And we may never get the opportunity again. But then, I’m used to being on the losing side of a poll…

Bravo, Britain. Bra-bloody-vo.

I make my return to the blogosphere just ahead of one of my favourite days of the year.

St. Patrick’s Day is a wonderful indulgence in Irishness. It was a particular joy at University, when I’d rise, don the green jersey and tricolor, cook a full Irish breakfast for my lucky, lucky housemates, sink a pint of Guinness, then head out where I’d continue to get the black stuff down my neck until the early hours of March 18th. Even lectures weren’t a particular barrier, as anyone who witnessed me staggering into the University of Lincoln’s Cargill lecture theatre one year will testify (it’s not big and it’s not clever).

It’s been a less hardcore affair in recent years, what with pesky work preventing the all day benders,  but I always make the time for a swift couple of pints and a soda farl or two.

Here’s the thing, though (and this is essentially the point of this blog) – Irishness, to me, is far, far more than donning a funny hat and getting royally pissed once a year. And yet, some people remain seemingly hellbent on denying me my heritage.

It’s often jovial, but it occasionally takes the form of sneering derision, people almost hauling me over the coals as to my claims to Irish heritage, before, inevitably, coming to the conclusion that the fact that 50% of the blood sloshing around inside me is Irish isn’t enough for me to justify any significant link to the Emerald Isle.

It frustrates and confuses me in equal measure. Why are they so determined to make light of my roots? I hate to come across all Daily Mail, but a person with black skin wouldn’t have to face a similar inquisition over their claims to have African or Caribbean heritage, because there’s tangible evidence literally looking you in the eye.  As my mom often likes to say when she, ridiculously, faces a similar challenge to her right to claim Irishness: “If Irish people had green skin, I’d be green”.

And she would. My mom was born Helen O’Shea and raised in a distinctly Irish household in Birmingham. My grandparents, Cal and PJ hailed from the small, picturesque village of Kildysart, Co.Clare, before venturing across the Irish sea to make a life for themselves and their children in Blighty.

Life has dealt me a largely lucky hand, but I think the thing that makes me feel sadder than anything else is the fact that my granddad was taken from me far too soon, only a week after my first birthday. All I have are the tales from my family, their recollections of a truly great human being.

Nanny Cal also went too soon. I was 11 when we lost her very suddenly to a stroke, and words don’t accurately describe how much I miss her to this day. She was an enormous part of mine and my sister’s childhood, picking us up from school most nights, looking after us until mom got home, and one of the kindest, gentlest human beings to ever walk the planet – the quintessential Irish lady. I’ve never known a shock like the enormity of her passing, and never a day goes by when I don’t think of her.

It’s the untimely loss of my grandparents which I think makes me cling on to my Irish heritage all the more, a passion to respect their legacy, ensuring their memory will never be forgotten. It’s hard to explain how you can feel such a belonging, such a connection with a nation that I’ve never called home. But it’s something that burns inside me, which should go some way to explaining why I don’t take kindly to somebody questioning it.

This is probably as good a point as any to clarify, for the avoidance of any doubt, that I’m not denouncing my Englishness by any means. Half of the blood inside me is English, courtesy of my dad, and I’m hugely proud of that part of my heritage too. (I just don’t support the English national football team anymore because most of them are dicks, innit?)

Of course, in the eyes of the law, I’m 100% British. Going back to the smug idiots who love to question my claims to be Irish, the one thing I hate to be asked is “Do you have an Irish passport?” – because it’s a question I can’t answer ‘Yes’ to.

My citizenship is British, my passport is British, and, in every official piece of documentation I ever fill out, I’m duty bound to list my nationality as such. It may seem insignificant, but I always do so with resignation – I yearn to write English/Irish, to formalise what I feel I am, my own sense of identity.

I was recently able to do just that when filling out my census form. Thanks to the ‘How Irish Are You?’ campaign, I learned that there’s a difference between Nationality and Ethnicity. And so, while I had no choice but to list ‘English’ under national identity,the ethnicity section allowed me, finally, to list both of the nationalities I feel a sense of belonging to. I doubt there were many people to take as much joy out of filling in their census as I did, I can guarantee you that.

Having done it once, I’m eager to do it again. And thus, I’m currently looking into going through the process of registering my ‘foreign birth’ with the Irish authorities, gaining dual citizenship, and the right to carry both a British and an Irish passport.

It’s a long and arduous process, which costs a considerable amount of money and requires me to submit an almost prohibitive amount of paper work, including the original copies of my parents’ and grandparents’ birth and marriage certificates, as well as my own birth certificate – even surrendering my passport for a period of time.

People may question why I’m going through it. There are no obvious benefits or incentives to do so, but I WANT to do it. I want to honour my grandparents, I want that link to them, I want something tangible to prove what I feel so deeply inside, my commitment to my roots. And, as much as anything, I want that official bit of paper to silence the begrudgers once and for all.

So please, enjoy the Craic tomorrow. Drink, wear a leprechaun hat, do a little jig if the mood takes you. But, please… don’t call me a Plastic Paddy. Because I’m not.

You know I’m not. I’m really not.

Some like it, some find it irritating, but I’m often asked one thing: “What does it mean?”.

The truth is it’s mere plagiarism of the legendary Frank Sidebottom. Seeing as the famous last line of almost all of his songs tends to figure heavily in my online musings, I was shocked and genuinely saddened to hear of the death of Frank – or, to give the name of the man beneath the papier mache head, Chris Sievey – earlier today.

While I’d heard that Chris was unfortunately battling cancer, I was blissfully unaware that the situation was as grave as it sadly turned out to be. The sad irony behind today’s news was that merely minutes before the announcement was made, news of his next gig had been published on his official Facebook page. It seems that even his management didn’t realise quite how serious things were.

Frank Sidebottom had already enjoyed the height of his fame long before I became aware of his work. I first encountered the act in around 2006/2007 when Frank guested on Iain Lee’s superb former LBC show.

Frank, typically, was loud, brash, arrogant… and brilliantly funny. I wasn’t entirely sure I really ‘got’ what I was listening to – in fact, I’m still not sure I ever did get it, or if there was indeed anything to get – but I liked what I heard. From that moment I became an avid fan and first ‘borrowed’ the ‘You know I am…’ signature shortly afterwards. I’m currently weighing up whether or not I should drop it out of respect, or keep it as a tribute.

It’s almost ironic that as the world of showbiz lost one of its most original and creative talents, my former colleagues at Global Radio were once again going through the harsh upheaval that’s become an all too frequent occurrence in the world of modern media.

I’m no longer well placed nor qualified to comment on the ramifications of  decisions made by my former employers, so I shan’t declare any opinion of whether I think it’s right or wrong. It’s simply not my business to do so.

However, the changes are indicative of the state of broadcast media in general. Factors influencing the changes in the industry are the financial climate, obviously, but also the general dilution of media outlets.

It was easier to take risks and do something different way back when, because there were less outlets to lose your audience to. Four TV channels, truly independent radio stations broadcasting live content 24 hours a day, and that was your lot.  These days, there’s not only multi-channel TV to contend with, but also the user-generated content behemoth that is the internet – and much less opportunity for people to actually make money from their talents.

Of course, there’s pros and cons to that. As somebody who writes blogs like this and presents on internet radio, I pretty much love the fact that anybody can put their work into the public domain. Conversely, as somebody who sees how watered down TV and radio has inevitably had to become in the face of such competition, I do mourn that much simpler time.

It’s understandable, really. I was brought up on formats like The Big Breakfast, TFI Friday, Fantasy Football League, Shooting Stars – shows that weren’t afraid to break new ground, to take chances, to create something truly different, truly memorable, truly entertaining.

Where does the new talent get to shine now? Every programme is presented by the same few people. Dermot O’Leary, Ant and Dec, Davina McCall, Vernon Kay. Stale, unadventurous formats. So frightened are programmers of their new competition that the only option seems to be to play it safe and familiar. That lack of cojones, together with dwindling revenues demanding cheaper production costs, makes broadcast media on the whole terribly boring today.

Take Gladiators, for example. The original series was filmed in front of thousands at the National Indoor Arena and screened to millions on Saturday nights. Resurrected a couple of years ago, the new incarnation was filmed in a small studio before an audience of a couple of hundred at most. Quite evidently made as cheaply as possible, Gladiators v2.0 received audiences so tiny it was eventually withdrawn with no more than a whimper. Television today summed up in a nutshell.

Currently, James Corden’s World Cup Live is being hailed as some sort of second coming of TFI. The fact of the matter is it’s not in the same league… however, it’s undoubtedly one of the most creative formats that’s been on TV in a long time. I find that so depressing I could hammer my head repeatedly against a brick wall in frustration.

Look at Frank Sidebottom. Had the act launched today, its best hope probably would have been to become a cult hit on the internet. No programmer would be brave enough to give him a spot on radio or TV.

Despite that, people who care will never stop putting content out there for the love of it, regardless of how little reward there is for it.

To that end, I’ll be back on Rhubarb Radio tomorrow night from 6…

You know I will. I really will.

Chris ‘Frank Sidebottom’ Sievey
1956-2010

And yet, as the biggest feast of football on earth gets underway, you must forgive me if I feel underwhelmed. The simplest way I can sum it up is it’s akin to somebody who spends their life watching proper bands at small gig venues before finding themselves at a Take That concert at Wembley Stadium – everyone loves them, and you kind of have to admit that they are quite good, but somehow it just doesn’t seem ‘proper’.

So, what are the reasons for feeling like this?

It’s supporting a team containing wastes of oxygen like Ashley Cole and John Terry and money grabbing liars like Gareth Barry, led by a cheating thug like Steven Gerrard (football’s own OJ Simpson).

It’s the jingostic hype, generated mainly by people who don’t even follow the game – where patriotism becomes racism.

It’s the stupid songs in the pub. “There were 12 German Bombers in the air…” / “Two World Wars and one World Cup…” / “No surrender to the IRA…” - SHUT. UP. YOU. EMBARRASSMENTS.

It’s the fact that people somehow believe we have a God-given right to win the damn thing.

It’s crap songs like James Corden and Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Shout’ perpetuating popular culture’s myth of what football fans are actually like. (Genuine true fact: In 20 years of going to football, I have NEVER heard the chant ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’ – it exists only in bandwagoning pop music)

It’s the fact that I kind of want to see James Milner do badly in order to give Villa a better chance of keeping him.

It’s the fact that when we do go out, somebody is going to have their lives made a misery by The Sun newspaper. It may be an England player, maybe one of the opposition. In recent years, it seems mainly to have been referees. But somebody will face the witchhunt.

Aside from England for a moment, it’s the fact France are in the World Cup and Ireland aren’t.

It’s seeing people who usually have no interest in the game suddenly deciding they’re experts on its finer points. Cue the regurgitation of statistics they memorised from that morning’s paper.

It’s the fact that, if England do win a big game, it’s all backslapping and everyone’s happy. Part of the fun is the bragging rights, the feeling that, when you do succeed, it’s special just to you and yours and not to everyone. International Football lacks the feelings of pride and envy that club football heralds. Euro 2008 was brilliant because England weren’t there, everyone supported different teams, and we got to enjoy some of that division based rivalry these tournaments usually lack.

It’s the fact the hype will get worse if England somehow do win the bloody thing…

More than anything, it’s the fact that given the choice between England winning the World Cup, or Villa winning away at Wigan on a cold Tuesday night in February, I’d pick the Villa every single time.

And yet, I’ve bought my England shirts, I’ll be going in to town to watch the match later, and I reserve the right to be a complete hypocrite when I inevitably get swept away in it all.

All I want is for us to show a little dignity… is that too much to ask?

“A toddler was ordered off a bus because the foreign driver was ‘offended’ by his England football T-shirt, his mother has claimed.

Sam Fardon, 27, was allegedly told to get off the service with her sons Dylan, two, and 10-week-old Adam as they made their way to a childcare group.

The unnamed driver, who had a Polish or Eastern European accent, said Dylan’s white England shirt was ‘offensive’ and he threatened to turf the family out on the street.

Hell in a handcart, Broken Britain, etc.”

Naturally, the story carried a picture of the patriotic family unit with the stern facial expressions that only victims can pull off:

So that’s that then. The Great British Chavs were right and I was wrong. The England shirt ban is true, it is happening, and, God help us, it really is the fault of those damned foreigners!!! OMG LOL!!!!111111

The Daily Mail readers were, inevitably, up in arms. Here’s a selection of the intelligent reasoned responses on offer:

“SACK HIM AND CHARGE HIM FOR BEING A RACIST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If it had been the other way round HE WOULD BE SCREAMING RACIST FROM THE ROOF TOPS.

- Pete, Pontefract U.K, 24/5/2010 15:50“

“If you do not like the emblems of my country………

LEAVE my country……….

- (Old) Robert, Worcester UK, 24/5/2010 16:02“

“So it’s deeply offensive to immigrants who come to this country that english children wear England shirts. I hope she sue’s the pants off him for bullying her little boy who was patriotic enough to support his mother country.

- Anne, North Yorkshire, 24/5/2010 16:20″

And, my favourite:

“This kind of incident would never happen in any other Country, what has happened to this once Great Country, the loony left are certainly in charge of the Asylum. Cameron gained a lot of votes so this sort of rubbish would be kicked into touch, but I suppose the “Mighty Lib Dems.” would have somethink to say about it.

- Jake, Warwickshire, 24/5/2010 16:02″

Of course! #nickcleggsfault

Needless to say, the bus company in question pledged to investigate the case fully in order to reprimand the bus driver who so scandalously denied the rights of honest British citizens to show a little national pride.

Only, all evidence pointed to a different story entirely. Here’s the result of First Group Buses’ inquiry:

“Following an alleged incident involving our service and the refusal of a young passenger wearing an England shirt, the following statement has been issued to the media. Paul De Santis, Commercial Director for First said: “The claim made about one of our drivers’ behaviour is a very serious one and we have been in touch with this woman several times to try to establish what actually happened.

“We have carried out a full investigation and can’t find any evidence to substantiate this claim. No driver fitting the description given was working on any routes in this area at that time. Our buses were busy around the time yet no one else has been in touch with us about this alleged incident.

“We expect the highest level of professionalism from our drivers and such an act would not be tolerated. However, in this instance it now appears that no such incident took place.

“Far from banning England shirts on our buses First is fully supportive of England’s World Cup campaign and we are, in fact, currently fitting good luck banners featuring England flags on all our buses in England.”

So, what of Sam Fardon? Surely there must be some misunderstanding, a crossed wire? I’m no conspiracy theorist, but could there be a cover-up from the bus company? The big question: What would drive an ordinary mother to tell such a bizarre lie?

Thank God for this quite superb Facebook group. Thanks to the super sleuths among their number, I can now divulge the side of the story The Daily Mail have refused to tell.

You see, this upstanding patriot is, in fact, the very same Samantha Fardon who stole a chequebook and used it to pay £5,000 to herself, together with a string of other offences in 2002.

And, shock horror, England’s rose was at it again in 2004, this time stealing from the kind-hearted couple who were trying to prevent her from forever remaining the despicable waste of oxygen she is.

Which all goes to show that The Daily Mail essentially libelled a decent and proper English company, who’ve had to waste their time and efforts in investigating and dealing with the fallout of a completely fabricated story, based on nothing but the word of a proven liar, an undoubted cheat, and an apparent pox on society who thought nothing of using her own innocent child as a pawn in this bizarre game. And, as yet, they’ve neglected to offer a correction or apology. THERE’S your Broken Britain.

As for those comments on their story, isn’t it remarkable how everybody who thought to have their say on this matter was unanimous in their condemnation of this imaginary bus driver? Except I know for a fact that’s not the case, because I personally wrote a balanced comment suggesting there may be more to the story than meets the eye before the rebuttal from the bus company. I returned with an updated comment after Sam Fardon’s story was utterly compromised by pesky facts suggesting that, in the interests of fairness and honest journalism, The Mail should publish a further story including the information that had since come to light.

Neither of my comments made it through the approval stage. Funny that, isn’t it?

There, I said it.

Before the more discerning (snobbish) reader closes the blog and vows never to read my musings again, bear with me… I mean, of course, it’s not my primary source of news, but I often describe it as the tabloid pudding after my broadsheet main course.

The entertaining thing for me is to see how The Sun will take a story, twist it in a way that it becomes an effective bait for the uneducated, then you can sit back and imagine the ‘HELL IN A HANDCART’ response it’s likely to get from some. It’s sort of unpleasant, but in a nice way – not nasty like The Daily Mail. Russell Brand got it spot on.

It’s evidenced perfectly with this story. A piece of Police advice mentions that pubs may wish to discourage the wearing of Football shirts in order to prevent its clientèle from engaging in violence. It’s misplaced concern at worst, yet The Sun puts its own special spin on the story to engage wind-up mode… “ENGLAND shirts could be BANNED at pubs” screams the story’s top line, selected words capitalised to enhance its anti-PC tone.

Next comes the quote from the victim (attributed to nobody because, let’s face it, the journalist has made it up) which increases the sense of outrage and injustice: ‘But one patriotic fan said yesterday: “We often hear of a loss of pride in Britain, now cops want to ban the England shirt. It’s like saying anyone who wears one is a yob.”‘

So, simple Police guidance has now been twisted into the boys in blue aiming to BAN the England shirt! It cranks up. We can imagine the level of indignation the typical moron is currently feeling… only, in these days of social media, we don’t just imagine their reaction. And thus begins an online movement fuelled by the most retarded game of Chinese Whispers of all time.

Before we know it, despite The Sun’s story carrying no suggestion that the Police advisory comes as a result of protestations from those of other nationalities and creeds, the cries of outrage reach these frankly desperate proportions:

(Click image for full size)

Needless to say, the poster of that particular garbage is no longer my Facebook friend.

It’s actually their tips on being frugal at Christmas which are deemed worthy of inclusion.

Therefore, the updated card now looks a little like this:

Let me know if you spot anything else!

At Christmas time, however, I’ve noticed that things get a little repetitive.  ”Oooh, a Turkey’s been saved from the dinner table!”, “Ooh, a drunk Santa’s been fired!”… yes, we know, we remember from last year.

So confident am I in my ability to predict the stories we’ll be reading over the festive period, I’ve produced this:

Both I and my Rhubarb Radio partner-in-crime, Kerri Franks, will be scouring the papers and other news sources in order to find the stories we’ve listed on the Christmas News Bingo card, with the ultimate aim of completing the full house by the time the big day rolls along.

We launched the card on Monday and already we’ve managed to cross off two boxes, courtesy of Andy Abraham and thick supermarket buyers.

Of course, many hands make light work, so we need your help! If you spot anything, email us on tomandkerri@rhubarbradio.com, tell us on our Facebook page, or just leave a comment here.

Eyes down…