I dunno. I’m away for a month or so and Jade Goody dies. That’s all I wish to say about her in particular. I’m not here to dwell on what her motives were for the gaudy auctioneering of practically every aspect of the last seven years of her life. All for the good of public consumption.

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?

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It’s hard to convey with words the wanton despair or complete lack of enthusiasm Jeffman feels for anything in this world on an almost daily basis. So he won’t. But it seems that some folk have no trouble entering into the spirit of things, and indeed, taking it that one step too far.

Despite ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’ falling on Sept. 19th annually, and lasting for precisely 24 hours, the Somali leg of the organisation appear to have gotten the wrong end of the stick and are under the misapprehension that it is in fact a yearlong event. What’s more, they’ve thrown themselves into the festivities with a little too much gusto and started swiping ships across the high seas, as if it’s going out of fashion.

However, from the photographs of captured pirates I’ve seen over the past few years, it is evident that when it comes to the dressing up part they must try harder.

Of all the pirates that have been rounded up and herded off of a Navy Gunship under the watchful eye of an AK-47 assault rifle, not one has been sporting a jaunty tri-corner hat; an eye-patch; a peg-leg; or a bloody parrot.

It would seem that these pirate characters’ absolute commitment to the cause has to be called into question. As will my judgement in writing this if any of the latest batch of hostages wind up riddled with bullets.

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When asked as to whether he thought Ringo Starr was the best drummer in the world, John Lennon famously replied: “He’s not even the best drummer in The Beatles.” Nor was he much of a singer, as anybody who’s given ‘Don’t Pass Me By’ on the White Album a quick listen, will attest to.

Following their self-destruction the other three members of The Beatles went on to forge successful solo careers, whereas Ringo went on to get royally pissed and narrate a kid’s TV show about a train with a face. Most recently he managed to upset the city of Liverpool (Not the trickiest of achievements, I admit) by saying there was absolutely ‘nothing’ about his hometown that he missed; except of course the opportunity to use it in the title of the latest solo flop he was promoting named Liverpool 8. An album that entered the charts at the heady heights of number 91.

And then last week he told his fan(s?) not to bother writing anymore letters to him, as any received after October 20th would be consigned to the bin with the utmost of urgency. Which beggars the question just why is anybody still writing to this evidently ungrateful and discourteous drummer?

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