God help us!

Is Frank Spencer the only hope left for the Labour movement? If so, I’m resigning my post forthwith and buggering off to live on some distant uninhabitable island, where I’ll be only too happy to take my chances amongst the nests of poisonous spiders and malignant coconuts. It beats chavs and treacherous politicians any day.

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And so this prolonged car crash that is Gordon Brown and his treacherous band of thieves ploughs relentlessly onward as he makes not just one, but two policy U-turns in the space of a few days.

First off - in what’s up there with the quickest of embarrassing public U-turns to have been perpetuated by useless governments - there’s the decision to scrap one of the key elements of the plans to tackle what seems to have become a small-scale epidemic of knife crime.

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Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.
- The Rolling Stones, ‘Time Waits For No One’

Indeed. Apparently we don’t buy Oranges anymore. Well not big ones, anyway. You know the ones the size of a small beach ball that you need an ice-pick or similarly fashioned tool to remove the rhinoceros-like hide from. Nobody has time for that anymore. It’s now just the wee fellas. The ‘easy-peelers’. Rip the skin off with your thumb and consume in two bites. Nice and easy. Gives us all more time to rush around like headless chickens. More time to getting nothing done. More time to hurtle without focus along the narrow, unswerving highway to kingdom come.

No matter how hard I wish it to happen, time won’t stand still. I’ve tried every trick in the book in an attempt to get a grip on the passage of time, but to no avail. This includes such desperate measures as counting the minutes, counting the seconds… I even read back through this blog once… *shudder* Never again. But nothing can stop the momentum that has picked up around the life of Jeffman and is sending him hurtling ever closer to the only real certainty in this life.

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What the hell ever happened to ambition?

That’s a question that always fails to keep me awake at night.

I’ll tell you where ambitions gone. It’s gone south, along with every other hope and dream we might once have nurtured. Just look at today’s young. There’s little ambition there, and why would there be?

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In 1965 the Who sang the ‘The Kids are Alright’. 43 years down the line and I beg to differ with Mr. Townshend. The kids aren’t alright. They seem very wrong indeed.

After berating the youth of today (or ‘yoots’, as I believe the collective term now to be) last week, it would seem that fair lady fate was to play its often cruel hand, and Jeffman and these same said youth of today were destined to collide head on; which we did. Saturday night, in fact.

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By design, the youth of today have always been a feckless bunch. A clamour of ill-garbed, sweaty ne’er-do-wells, who seem unable to communicate in anything approaching a semblance of the Queen’s English. That’s to be expected; it’s their job. A job funded by dads across the land and rewarded with a modest stipend referred to as ‘pocket money’.

This current lot though, they seem to be taking their remit far too seriously.

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Yesterday I had the pleasure of searching through the spare cupboard, amongst the toolboxes and assorted knick-knacks that see fit to gather there as though awaiting the second coming of the toolshed messiah; looking for a Phillips screwdriver with which to perform one of the mundane tasks that crop up every so often and make this life so rewarding, when I came across something that A) I hadn’t expected to find; and B) hadn’t seen such a sterling example of in a good long while.

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