3rd Blog From The Sun

Well, this entry has been a long time coming but the six weeks worth of raw material Ive been able to sift through for ideas has been nothing short of sensational. Firstly, of course, the dashing Steve Eling retained his council seat on May 3rd with what I believe was the largest Labour majority in Sandwell (this despite an energetic Liberal campaign; Ewart, for his part, just couldn't be arsed with it) which was very satisfying for everybody involved - but particularly Pam. Equally pleasing was the BNP's singular lack of progress and indeed watching their roundly defeated candidates slink away from the count, clad in suits almost certainly left over from their last court appearance, was a heartening sight. And strangely hilarious too. Then of course our ignoble leader decided to throw in the towel ( delivering a gibbering final address that was, to me at least, just on the vomit inducing side of trite) and allow poor old Gordon his well deserved shot at the big time. Although he seemingly has many critics from both within and without the party, and even worse is on friendly terms with Paul Dacre, I quite like him; his committment to social justice and eradicating poverty seems sincere and despite his toadying to big business I would venture to suggest that hes been a little bit bolder in terms of redistributing wealth than some of his detractors might claim. Theres lots to be said on the Deputy Leadership race, but not by me; Ill just take this opportunity to say that I will be voting for Jon Cruddas, mainly because he launched his campaign in Wednesbury, which I think is kind of cute. Finally, and most importantly of all, the mighty West Bromwich Albion were denied their rightful place in the Premiership by a frustratingly amateurish Derby Country 'smash and grab' performance in which they were aided and abetted at every turn by Graham 'Could I conceivably be more of a twat?' Poll. As we did at times play the silken flowing football we are famous as far away as Leek for and Derby's sole tactic was, as I say, kicking the crap out of our players and then hitting us on the break as they lay dazed and twitching and bleeding from the ears, I think we can justifiably say there is dignity in defeat. However the image of Tony Mowbray, who during the game resembled a curiously inert proboscis monkey, sitting on the pavement outside the hallowed Astle Gates and muttering to himself like Marlon Brando in 'On the Waterfront' is truly a haunting one

My second post

Firstly, many thanks for all the words of support I have received from my fellow bloggers these past few days. Secondly, there seems to have been a paucity of interesting political stories this week - sure the French held a general election but, ultimately, who cares? - so like a mother sparrow I'm going to regurgitate something I found elsewhere. Sort of. I noticed John the Teacher posts occasional reviews of local hostelries and I found this appealing for some reason, so here are my first 3 offerings:
The Old Chapel, Smethwick - A venerable old pub, about the size of the average shoebox, with a friendly but frayed looking clientele. One Sunday afternoon when I was sitting in the bar generally drowning my many sorrows I overheard the following snippet of conversation - 'E's missed his dinner now; e'll ave to go ome to ginger snaps and arrowroot biscuits'. This made a pleasant change from drinking in Birmingham, where for some reason everybody seems to be having a competition to see whos chin is receding the fastest, and Dudley, where normal conversation is of course impossible due to their slow sonorous twist on the Black Country accent which causes me to drift off to sleep in about 7 seconds.
Any pub on the high street in Oldbury - Best avoided unless its 2:15 am on a Saturday night, you have only £3.83 to your name and are nursing a desperate longing for a whisky chaser and some Class B drugs, in which case the Bulls Head should be your first port of call. And probably your last too.
The Sunflower Lounge, Birmingham - Situated close to the towering eyesore that is New Street Station, this is the pub of choice for the city's 17-25 indie crowd. Assymetrical haircuts and aged jeans abound but the atmosphere is welcoming and in deference to John the Teacher Im sure I once heard the walls reverberating to the strains of 'The Freed Pig'

Having libelled several well loved establishments, I now remember one thing I did find interesting about the French general election. I read on Sky News that apparently part of Royal's socialist platform was shipping off young offenders to boot camps. The wisdom of letting John Reid help out with your manifesto escapes me.

My long anticipated first blog

I would like to begin by acknowledging the work of two well established bloggers who have inspired me to put fingertip to keyboard. I refer of course to Bob Piper, a much loved and consistently insightful councillor and theatre aficionado here in the Abbey ward and also Brummie Tory, who is a Tory from Birmingham. I think. Cheers lads. Anyway, on the long and achingly tedious bus journey from the social democratic citadel that is my house to Dudley College (where I am, among other things, a student) I have noticed a number of BNP signs affixed to lamposts - a remarkable feat when you consider the average British National Party activist's lack of opposable digits - bearing the snappily inane slogan 'People like you, voting BNP'. Firstly I would suggest that most people like me would require a significant incentive ( a gun to the head/testicles springs to mind) to mark their cross next to an incompetent gaggle of fascists; secondly, I notice it is St George's Day on Monday and, as uncomfortable as some creatures of the left are with the concept of patriotism, I think it's important that everybody who shares a vision of Englishness that denies nobody the right to belong are prepared to come out to celebrate and present a positive alternative to the BNP's unrelenting diet of poisonous lies, childlike perversions of logic and crap folk tunes. We owe it to our communities and to ourselves.