Christian

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

scripturejournal — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:56:39 GMT

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Keyboards: Bob

Vocals: Jon

Who Am I

gypsysinger1 — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 03:27:11 GMT

I wanted something a little heavier than some of my other songs. This was written by: Cory Barker, Corey Miller, and myself(Ray Whitlock).

Hope you like it

Ray

He's Coming Soon

Adoram08 — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 21:47:42 GMT

Holy Is The Lamb

Adoram08 — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 21:38:26 GMT

Are You Ready

Adoram08 — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 21:33:34 GMT

"Shine"

EmCee S.O.H.O. — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 14:43:02 GMT

http://www.myspace.com/mcsoho

Runaway

pattherat71 — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 22:43:11 GMT

Another on of my songs to on the Realization cd. let me know what you think. I will take any support I can get, so that everyone can hear my music and enjoy it.

I see myself in you

pattherat71 — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 22:40:43 GMT

Another song from the Realization CD. Let me know what you think of it.

Set me free

pattherat71 — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 22:37:18 GMT

This is one of my best songs from my cd which is to be released sometime this Fall. If you want to read the lyrics. Got to my EPK @ www.sonicbids.com/pathyland

PK Gone Bad

niccicanada — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 12:04:30 GMT

This is a melodic story that speaks of the life of Nicci Canada and growing up as a Preachers Kid.

Expressions

niccicanada — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 20:31:36 GMT

Controversial new publication, now available

David Backhim — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 10:28:26 GMT

More bits from 'Garry Potter And The Same Old Nonsense'

THE ALL BLACKS

A dear friend of mine once participated in a rugby tour of South Africa and recalled how on one occasion his team played against an opposition that was composed entirely of coloured men. “Were they the All Blacks?” I quipped. Well folks, at least I think it was funny. Actually, the purpose of this item is not to pay tribute to the fearsome also-rans of rugby union that hail from New Zealand, but to draw attention to the multitude of young women who frustratingly choose to adorn themselves in all black outfits.

From bitter personal experience, it seems that many women all too predictably opt to wear all black on a date. What’s that all about? I have been reliably informed by my dearest sibling that black is worn by females who are insecure about their figure. I recently dated a woman who wore a black top and black trousers, and lo and behold three weeks later I met another female who wore an uncannily similar drab-coloured outfit. Is it my imagination or does the same black clothes get circulated on demand from one woman to another? It’s hugely ironic that after years of complaining about school uniform, young adult females find themselves dressed in another uniform. In fact there is scarcely anything more uniform in the real sense of the word than scores of young women in black clothes. Sorry ladies, but black clothes are not gothic chic, or symbolic of cool and glamour. They are funeral wear and represent a lack of creative thinking or individuality. At best, black suits can be confined to dressing formally for the office or black dresses for a formal, but black tops and trousers are otherwise run-of-the-mill. Worse still, what greater indictment is there for the lack of fashion sense in modern young women than to find more men dressed in a variety of colours than women who all wear the same dreadful colour.

Call me old-fashioned but shouldn’t one expect women to wear brighter colour clothes than men? I want women to be women and look like women. All black outfits are either intended to mask a poor figure or are half-baked macho chic, as one might expect in a spaghetti western. I would like to see women wearing skirts and flip-flops in the summer and skirts with boots in colder weather. Women wearing black trousers is the equivalent of a man wearing a pink skirt. Let women be women and men remain as men, instead of the revisionist thinking that straddles the accepted norms of what constitutes fashion. Oh how sexist you are, I can hear the bra-burners scream. Well, when I see a woman dressed in the ritual black, I exclaim “Oh no, not again.” Sorry folks, but a lady in a black outfit is just Johnny Cash with tits.

THE FRUSTRATIONS OF FLIRTING WITH FLOOZY FEMME FATALES

I do so loathe the F-words. No not fornication, but in particular the words ‘fun’ and ‘friendship’. If you have been foolish enough like me to waste many hours trawling through internet dating, you will find many young women and men who seek ‘fun’. Well, ultimately we all want to have fun, and even the most boring people are capable of engaging in fun. However in the context of dating adverts, ‘fun’ is just a euphemism for another three-letter word. Yes folks, you’ve guessed it. Anyone seeking fun is merely desiring sex. I find this contemptible because a person requesting ‘fun’ is really stating that ‘I am not equipped to cope with the fluctuating fortunes of an adult relationship, but I am a cheap whore.’ Sorry ladies, but anyone looking for ‘fun’ might as well wear a tee-shirt with the words ‘I am an irresponsible slag’. Speaking of which, apparently the Islamic extremists choose to bomb night clubs because they are appalled at young female women degrading themselves by dancing around drunk and scantily clad like glorified prostitutes. Do you know what? The Islamic extremists have my sympathies.

Then there is an even more frightening F-word. It’s called ‘friendship’. For me, friendship with a female is just a relationship without the intimacy or a pretend relationship where I am subjected to my female friend pouring out her heart about her boyfriend troubles while I am confined to the role of a eunuch. I personally find a female’s request for a friendship to be deeply insulting. It is akin to declaring that ‘I like you, but in a non-sexual way, because I don’t find you physically attractive, although I would dearly like to use you as someone whom I can burden my problems on.’ Oh yes, I need that situation like I need a hole in the head. It is quite true that young women and men cannot be friends because one tends to desire the other. A friendship is just a virtual relationship which has ‘virtually’ no appeal to this friendless fool. I do actually subscribe to the lyrics of that personable John Lydon who once sang about friendship ‘rearing its ugly head’. As I said, I cannot stand the F-words, and perhaps the most frightening F-word of all is females!

HALF A PERSON

It was no accident that God gave Adam a female companion to assist him. Call me old-fashioned but I think that we all need a partner to support us through the struggles of life. In a relationship each partner has different qualities which can complement one another’s needs. It makes perfect sense. Against this background of widely-acknowledged common sense, you can imagine my own frustration at having to negotiate the pitfalls of life on my own. There have been many times when my flawed thinking would have benefited from the wisdom of a partner who could positively impact upon my decision-making. Instead of which, I find myself exasperated at my solo journey. Consider the following:

Have you ever watched the Grand National? It is a gruelling marathon, even for big powerful horses and accomplished jockeys who collectively are expected to overcome thirty obstacles in a four and a half mile race. By the second circuit, even with more than sixteen fences safely behind them, jockeys start to pull up their horses while as the race nears its conclusion, some animals simply refuse to jump another fence. Well folks, this big animal is in the same mode. I have leapt, with varying results, more than my share of obstacles, and now I am reaching the point where I will refuse the next jump. I guess it’s what one would call losing the will to live, and no amount of counselling, medication, therapy, or bible stories will persuade me otherwise, like some persistent jockey who knows that the winning post is merely a few fences away.

Have you ever imagined what it would be like to live in a house with half of it missing, or to drive a car with half of it taken away? It would be miserable, not to mention impractical. In the continued absence of my other half, I remain half a person, to quote a Smiths’ track. When people see me or think of me, the expression must spring to their mind, ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ God’s grace is a free gift. I look forward to the day when He bestows the blessing of a pretty woman on this half a person. Until such time, I remain hopelessly incomplete, and no happy ending is in sight.

OH LONESOME ME

I have to chuckle at those dreadful pop songs where the vocalist is pining about “I’m lonely without you, baby.” Do me a favour. Most people haven’t the first notion what loneliness really is. What is loneliness then? Loneliness is when your telephone doesn’t ring for about ten days. Loneliness is when the only person you speak to each day is the check-out assistant at the local supermarket. Loneliness is when you are alone with your thoughts 24/7 from Monday through Sunday, week after week, month by month, year in year out. Loneliness ultimately is when you could die and nobody would find your decaying body for more than a week. That’s loneliness.

It sounds truly terrible, but what exactly is the alternative? I don’t care much for Liverpool or Manchester United football supporters, nor followers of Glasgow Celtic, not even of Glasgow Rangers either. Ulster loyalists bore me and Irish republicans are equally tedious. Foul-mouthed men and women are tiresome. Big-headed, self-important types are a drag. Aficionados of violent action movies, of horrible pop music, reality tv watchers, not to mention trashy tabloid readers all fail to impress me. Self-righteous, holier-than-thou, disapproving ‘good living’ people are a turn-off too. Suddenly, perhaps the ghastly likelihood of lying, decomposing for more than 100 hours with flies buzzing around my corpse is quite appealing after all.

THE AFFLICTION OF FICTION

Why why why (and one more why) do people bury themselves in books about events that never happened, people who never lived, and places that don’t exist? Where is the modicum of sense in fiction when the rich tapestry of history has so much more to offer us concerning events that did happen, people who have lived, and places that do exist. Fiction should be confined to nine or ten-year-olds who are learning the art of essay writing. Adults should try living in the real world and stop trying to escape from both the glory and pain of past times. We shouldn’t dwell on the past, I hear you say. Fair enough, but we shouldn’t flee in the direction of never never land either. Besides, so many pieces of fiction are a fiction in themselves. How often does one find that a novel is based on the author’s personal experiences, with the character and place names merely altered? Well folks, such an exercise is not my idea of ‘creative writing’.

THE MYTH OF THE TITANIC

No I’m not about to suggest that ‘the unsinkable’ never sank at all, but here follows my humble attempt at what I would like to call historic revisionism. We have been frequently informed that the Titanic sank on its maiden voyage. Really? Where was it built? Let me remind you: Belfast. Where did the ship sail from en route to the United States? Let me remind you: Southampton. Unless the Titanic also made history by being the first ship to be transported by aeroplane, hovercraft, or hot air balloon, I would venture to suggest that its first voyage was indeed from Belfast to Southampton. Sorry to split hairs folks, but as anybody in the legal profession would confirm, it is absolutely crucial that we get our facts right, instead of perpetuating half-truths. Now who dares to sink this unsinkable argument?

REMEMBRANCE DAY

Throughout the United Kingdom and elsewhere in the world, people assemble at Cenotaphs to lay wreaths for the poor wretches who gave their young lives away so that our dearly beloved monarchy could continue to prosper – in all senses of the word. However, perhaps the real Remembrance Day isn’t November the eleventh. I would instead argue that either Good Friday or Easter Sunday ought to be regarded as Remembrance Day when the young Saviour of the World laid down His life so that we might have eternal life. Now that supreme, selfless sacrifice should be worthy of crowds gathering at Cenotaphs to lay wreaths in loving memory and respect for mankind’s greatest hero, who fought and won the greatest battle of all – over death. His resurrection proved this!

JEALOUSY

Whilst wee Northern Ireland’s football team were narrowly succumbing to another heroic defeat, this time in Spain, I and most folk from Norn Iron consoled ourselves with the fact that our dearly beloved neighbours in humble England had suffered a far greater humiliation at the hands of the ‘mighty’ Croatia. I’m certainly not anti-English, given that I am an armchair supporter of the cricket team and I even desired an England triumph in the rugby world cup final, if only because this was one tournament where the English emerged like a phoenix from the ashes to challenge for glory whereas normally they regard themselves as near-certainties before any sporting tournament even begins. I was after all born in England and I have lived a considerable chunk of my adult life in its green and pleasant land.

Most people from the Celtic nations nevertheless have distinct trouble warming to English sports stars when the ‘British’ Broadcasting Corporation, its radio stations, Sky Sports, and most irritatingly of all Blokesport, collectively prioritise coverage of English teams, relegating the seemingly less significant Celtic teams. This is painfully the case during the rugby union Six Nations, when one might be forgiven for thinking it’s a One Nation rugby tournament. Yes, over-exposure of England in the British sporting media only serves to antagonise the Celtic peoples, although one could counter that English success at the 1966 and 2003 football and rugby world cups has engendered a substantial amount of begrudging from the non-English members of the British Isles. However, putting the emotive issues of sport to one side, I have identified two groups of people who are particularly jealous of the English, for very different reasons.

Firstly, Irish republicans just loathe the English. They can dress their sectarian hatred in a multitude of ways, citing the predictable moan about centuries of English exploitation and oppression. There may be much historical evidence to validate this belief, but I would maintain that Irish republicans are jealous of the English. After all, while the English (and the rest of Britain) fought their way through the torment of the Second World War, the Irish republicans decided to sit out the conflict against fascist tyranny, probably hoping that the nation that contributed to the liberation of occupied Europe and the end of the Holocaust would actually be defeated. While England holds her head up at her resistance to the Nazis, the Oirish can hang their heads in shame. Similarly, while one finds many English soldiers contributing to the efforts of the United Nations peace-keeping forces, one will struggle to find a single citizen from Andersonstown or Ardoyne employed in such a role. Maybe that’s because Irish republicans don’t do peace-keeping.

The second group who are overcome with jealousy towards the English are Muslim immigrants. Of course many Muslim immigrants themselves become English, but frequently their loyalties are diverted towards Pakistan and the Islamic nations of the Middle East. A sizeable portion of British Muslims complain of an apparent police state in Britain, though few people (apart from Channel Four and Guardian readers) take their victim complex too seriously. The reality is that Muslim immigrants chose to come to England to avail themselves of what it has to offer, having fled from the brutal, unstable Islamic regimes that they continue to have an irrational sentimental attachment to. It must clearly rankle with British Muslims that Islamic countries have a shocking record on human rights and where personal advancement and prosperity is limited, while infidel Britain has (for all its flaws) an infinitely superior record on human rights, and a system of social security and meritocracy which collectively enables all newcomers the opportunities to cultivate a better existence for them and their families. If Islam is so truly wonderful, then why do Muslims have to migrate to ‘Christian’ (or secular) Britain?

Yes many Muslims are jealous of British democracy, and yet like the Irish republican hate mob, they detest the English so much that they come and live among them and claim state benefits!

LOYALIST BAND PARADE

The Shankill Young Pipe-Bombers Flute Band is holding its annual band parade this Friday night. Among the other bands expected to participate are the following:

The Tiger’s Bay Under-age Drinkers Flute Band

The Sandy Row White Trash Sons of Ulster

The Harryville Broad-Minded Sons of William

The Village People Band, South Belfast

The Rathcoole Teenage Thugs Loyalist Band

The East Belfast Uneducated Low-Life Flute Band

The Loyalist Terrorists’ Fan Club Flute Band

The Seymour Hill Foul-Mouthed Pride Of Ulster

The Macho Kick The Pope Flute Band, Larne

The Dundonald Dole-Scroungers Flute Band

The Coleraine Pride Of The Gutter Flute Band

The Ulster Refuse Collectors Flute Band

All Loyalist bands welcome. God Save The Queen……………………. (the fascist regime)

POOF PRIDE

I am considering the possibility of participating in next year’s gay pride parade. As a Northern Irishman, from a Protestant background, I do after all have a proven track record in parades. Besides, as I am ashamed to be a heterosexual, that ought to grant me an affinity with people who are proud to be homosexual. It’s hard not to be repulsed by heterosexuality when it seems that most men view young women as potential conquests and most young women apparently want to be with such men.

Nevertheless, why do gays have to flaunt their sense of self-pride? Clearly, it’s because after decades and even centuries of repressed feelings resulting from the ostracism and even persecution of homosexuality, gays and lesbians wish to celebrate their sexuality for all to see. I can only assume that in future years, traffic wardens will be holding a pride parade to signify their freedom from the understandable contempt that we all express towards these ‘jobsworths’. Why, even a pride parade for the employees of the Inland Revenue probably cannot be ruled out either.

There is however a suggestion in the word ‘pride’ that homosexuals want to boast of their sexuality, as if it is an enviable and much sought-after status symbol. A fine dividing line after all separates pride and boastfulness. I can only surmise that homosexuality is a quality that mere mortals like myself should strive to attain. I can now start to imagine a job interview where the applicant is asked to detail his achievements, and while his sporting prowess and various acts of heroism don’t register with the interview panel, his admission of being in a same sex relationship arouses the admiration of the interviewers. I now anticipate job application rejection letters in the post where I am informed that I wasn’t sufficiently homosexual to meet the exalted criteria.

Christians in particular are faced with an enormous moral dilemma over the issue of homosexuality. By refusing to tolerate same sex relationships, followers of Christ are labelled as bigots, but surely if the word of God decrees that homosexuality is unacceptable to our Creator, then who are we as His creation to defy His wishes. For a Christian to tolerate the unacceptable, is akin to someone tolerating drink drivers. I know that gay people will not enjoy this comparison, but it is important for them to understand that Christians and Muslims too regard homosexuality as wrong. How in the last analysis can they be expected to accept anything that they regard as wrong.

Meanwhile, one could argue that as William of Orange was almost certainly a homosexual, and the Orange Order are proud of him, there is a logic in arguing that Orange parades are further demonstrations of gay pride. Oh I do so envy these people who are so proud of their sexuality that they feel the need to parade it in front of everyone. Ultimately, I’m not gay…..just sad.

Food For Thought from Garry Potter And The Same Old Nonsense

David Backhim — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 10:26:53 GMT

WALL OF SHAME

In Norn Iron, there are calls for a memorial to commemorate the terrorist dead and for a monument to celebrate peace. What is it with politicians and monuments? When it comes to a plaque, slab, tower, or wall officially opened by self-important public officials, self-seeking politicians would miss their daughter’s graduation to attend such an ego ceremony. Call me old-fashioned, but would funds for a peace memorial not be better diverted to healthcare instead of a bricks and mortar piece of Lego, designed to remind one and all of the greatness of various ‘statesmen’? As if this is not ludicrous enough, Irish republicans (and loyalists) are desiring a monument that fondly remembers their dead. I suggest a wall be erected, more for urinating against than wailing at, for such a purpose. After all, Belfast is renowned for its ironically-titled ‘peace walls’ while there is a tradition of urinating against walls that runs in parallel with the ‘marching season’. The inscription on the wall of shame should read as follows:

This memorial commemorates all those brave men and women who shot policemen and soldiers in the back, and then ran away hiding, as well as all those volunteers who planted bombs in hotels, bars, and shopping centres, with no regard for the safety of women and children. Also on this monument are listed the names of those courageous freedom fighters who fought to take away other people’s freedom of existence by killing unarmed Roman Catholics. This mural is a tribute to all those working-class heroes who created orphans, took husbands from their wives, wives from their husbands, and left grieving parents and children to pick up the pieces.

FOOTBALL IDOLS

I frequently hear how impressive it is to see the Anfield contingent as well as the copycats of Celtic Park with their scarves held aloft in unison, as they sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. I find this whole scene, and similar slightly less passionate displays at other sporting arenas quite disturbing. There is quite clearly a religious fervour about the support that is offered by football followers to their respective clubs, while you won’t find any such demonstration of passion amongst the few football fans who go to God’s house to worship Him. It is all so reminiscent of the idolaters of the Old Testament. Excuse me for preaching, but could someone kindly remind football supporters that the Creator tolerates no rivals, yet it is abundantly obvious that many men (and women too) place their faith and trust ludicrously in flawed, inconsistent young men, barely out of school. It is quite clear where a lot of people’s worshipping priorities lie. It is frightening to think that God who created the whole world and everyone in it and then sent his Son to save all us sinners is less worthy of attention and praise than a young guy who sticks a ball in the net once every three or four matches. To add insult to injury, some of these young idols live an existence of questionable morals off the football pitch. Recurring stories of rape allegations and wild nights out do nothing to convince this writer that football ‘stars’ are worth worshipping for a second.

I also read with interest recently in a Sunday viewspaper about Harry Redknapp’s fury at the abuse he had been subjected to in a match against Aston Villa, whilst recounting a bad experience at Chelsea too. Redknapp was appalled that grown men were hurling obscenities at him in front of their children. Similarly, in the week-end after England’s Wembley debacle against Croatia, the Chelsea English contingent and Steven Gerrard were on the receiving end of verbal abuse. Commenting on Radio Five Live, Alan Green and Graham Taylor were equally horrified that adults were setting a terrible example to their youngsters with their shocking language and vitriol. Harry Redknapp suggested that football (or at least its supporters) was becoming ‘sick’. Quite frankly, if this is what constitutes being passionate about your club, then count me out! Some people, I believe, need to step back and come to their collective senses.

THE END OF A LOVE STORY

Get your tissues out folks, because this does not have a happy ending. Pathetic, sad, contemptible creature that I am, I have been ‘married’ to Chelsea Football Club for the best (or worst) part of twenty-two years. However, this battered housewife is belatedly filing for divorce on the grounds of the irretrievable breakdown in marriage relations. After years of abuse, as well as occasional good times, a painful experience on Tuesday May 1^st 2007 has been the final straw.

On that evening of torment, Chelsea proceeded to lose their fourth semi-final in four successive years, their third consecutive Champions League semi-final knockout, and their third consecutive semi-final reverse to Liverpool. There is now an inevitability about Chelsea Champions League semi-final exits, reminiscent of Leeds United’s reputation as bridesmaids in the late sixties and early seventies when Don Revie’s outfit won less silverware than seemed frequently likely. Mind you, comparisons with that Leeds team and Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea hardly end there. Both teams have been short of admirers, at least amongst the Arsenal and Liverpool media luvvies, borne out of their uncompromising brand of no-nonsense football. However, the trouble with Chelsea in the Abramovich era is that the manager has had a ‘dare not lose’ mentality which on Anfield’s hallowed turf on the night in question produced a dreadful display in which the desire to avoid defeat stifled any attempt to win. The Blues failed time and again to stretch their hosts, resorting without exception to hoofing long balls to Drogba. There was no creativity, flair, or imagination, and if there was a Plan B, namely the introduction of Shaun Wright-Phillips, it was allocated a mere ten minutes to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

Of course Liverpool’s defence and goal-keeper excelled themselves, but failing to score once in three hours of football back in 2005, followed by a repeat performance in 2007 was simply too much to bear. Mourinho’s Chelsea were not attack-minded enough and yes I am belatedly waking up to the fact that Chelsea are boring. Mourinho fluffed his lines. Shevchenko’s goal return of four in his first Premiership season is a monumental embarrassment, but more significantly, while the manager had only two recognised central defenders in Carvalho and Terry, he had no fewer than four players for the lone holding role position. ‘Maureen’ was so possessed it seems with the need for defensive midfielders that any attacking impetus was clearly undermined. The greatest indictment was that while ‘the Special One’ refused to entertain Boulahrouz as a centre half, he played Michael Essien ( arguably his best player) out of position for a large proportion of the season. This re-shuffle was so outrageous that it was the equivalent of Ronaldinho playing centre-half for Barcelona, Gerrard playing in goal for Liverpool, or Ronaldo playing at right-back for Manchester United.

Chelsea and their manager have crossed the line as far as I am concerned. They have been boring and pragmatic, with a tendency to fluff their lines and shoot themselves in the foot in semi-finals. I am not a bad loser, I can assure you, although I have had plenty of practice. This is not a manifestation of sour grapes or a fickle football follower who quits when times are hard. Chelsea’s fortunes have been infinitely worse many times in my painful memory. However, there comes a time in any relationship where assessment is required. I have expended so much time, thought, expense, and emotional energy to a club that is no longer a pleasant distraction. Chelsea no longer make me feel good. Mind you, bragging rights based on the success of your football team is vastly over-rated. When all is said and done, you cannot take the silverware to bed with you or on holiday.

I was neither angry, tearful, nor sad at Chelsea’s routine Champions League exit. I felt nothing for a team who could not deliver a solitary goal in two hours of shambolic endeavour. Watching the stone-faced Steve Clarke and impassive Jose Mourinho perfectly encapsulated the proceedings. Sitting immobile on the bench, they had nothing to offer, pretty much like their hapless team. John Terry and Petr Cech deserve so much better, and so do the fans. This ex-fan could not even complain that Liverpool were lucky. Their penalty success was emphatic and merited. Chelsea no longer command my sympathy and respect. When one has reached this state of mind, it means that the spark has gone, the love affair is over, and it is time to move on.

‘THE DOC’: ANOTHER SPECIAL ONE

Long before the advent of the so-called ‘Special One’, there roamed another unique character in football management. His name was Tommy Docherty. Docherty had been an excellent servant of Arsenal, Glasgow Celtic, and Preston North End before he succeeded the admirable Ted Drake as a 33-year-old manager of an under-achieving Chelsea football team. By his own admission, Docherty (with no managerial record) was thrown in at the deep end and it was a case of sink or swim. Chelsea went backwards (via relegation) before Docherty getting into his stride advanced his ‘diamonds’ not only back to the top flight of English football, but the charismatic Scotsman launched a decade-long golden era at Stamford Bridge which his coach and successor Dave Sexton reaped the rewards from.

Docherty was hard work. He confessed to being a strict disciplinarian and like any good sergeant-major, he didn’t suffer fools. In the 1960s, long before football clubs recruited nutritionists, there was a drinking culture amongst the playing staff at Chelsea and other teams elsewhere. Docherty, no stranger to raising a glass or two himself, once infamously sent most of his team home to London from Blackpool on account of an alleged late night drinking session. Consequently, a patched-up Chelsea team were trounced 6-2 in their next fixture. The 1960s was a rollercoaster ride at Chelsea as Docherty and his young team quarrelled one moment and came close to success the next. The favourite story of ‘The Doc’ is undoubtedly his summoning of the local fire brigade to flood the Stamford Bridge pitch in order to oblige a postponement of a Fairs Cup semi-final with the mighty Barcelona, enabling one or two injured Chelsea players to recover in time for the re-arranged fixture. The Catalans were a trifle bemused that a bout of light rain should result in a waterlogged pitch!

Docherty left west London in October 1967 whereupon in his own words, he would accumulate “more clubs than Jack Nicklaus”. The Doc even managed his national team and I was startled to hear that Alex McLeish’s recent debut win as a Scotland manager was the first since Tommy Docherty in the early 1970s. Docherty, never far from the headlines, was appointed as a trouble-shooter at the ailing, post-Busby Manchester United where again the club went backwards (via relegation) only to advance back to Division One instantly, with glory in the 1977 FA Cup final thrown in to the mix. However, Docherty’s uncompromising attitude meant that the unreliable genius of George Best was dropped, transfer-listed, and eventually obliged to depart Old Trafford. Docherty’s own tenure characteristically was short-lived as his hero status was tarnished by tabloid revelations of an affair with the club physio’s wife. Never short of job offers or invitations for ‘after dinner speaking engagements’, ‘the Doc’ may or may not have been special, but he was certainly a one-off.

DO I NOT LIKE THAT

In my humble opinion, one of the greatest-ever television documentaries featured Graham Taylor’s ill-fated attempts to ensure that the England football team would qualify for the 1994 World Cup finals. The cameras followed Taylor around to observe at close quarters his foul-mouthed frustration at his team’s apparent under-achievement. It might have been shocking for the nation to hear what Graham Taylor referred to as “industrial language” but his vocabulary was the norm rather than the exception among the practitioners of soccer management.

Back in 1990 Bobby Robson bowed out as England manager after the national team had recovered from their failure at the 1988 European Championships and a sluggish start to Italia ’90 to reach the semi-finals for only the second time ever in the World Cup. Only penalty heartache (a recurring theme) prevented the English from playing in the final. The question was could the new appointment Graham Taylor build upon England’s quarter-finals and semi-finals appearances in successive World Cups? Taylor’s own reputation was based on outstanding service at Watford allied with taking Aston Villa to second place in Division One in 1990, their highest place since their championship-winning year of 1981.

The omens however were not encouraging when England yet again flopped in a European Championships, this time in Sweden in 1992. Prolific striker Gary Lineker bowed out prematurely from the England set-up after this tournament, vowing never to return. Nevertheless, with promising new striker Alan Shearer emerging to assist the likes of Paul Gascoigne and David Platt, England’s chances of appearing at the World Cup finals in the United States ought to have been reasonably good. However, the only concern was being drawn in a group that included the dangerous Holland and Poland, but it was Norway, not for the first time, who turned the form book on its head – at England’s expense.

By the early summer of 1993, the wheels were starting to come off the England World Cup campaign. Back in the spring, the Dutch had escaped from Wembley with a draw when Des Walker had conceded a penalty to Dennis Bergkamp. Worse was to happen when England first failed to score in Poland and then were soundly beaten 2-0 in Norway. Poor old Taylor lamented in the dug-out to his assistant Phil Neal about how his team were seemingly paying no attention to his pre-match instructions. On top of this major setback, England failed to impress on a brief visit to the United States. It was becoming increasingly likely that the national team would not be returning there in a year’s time.

On to the autumn and a resounding 3-0 home victory against Poland gave rise to hope that England would still be travelling across the Atlantic Ocean the following summer. Everything now rested on a trip to Holland, with Paul Gascoigne crucially suspended. On the fateful night in question, dubious refereeing decisions conspired against the visitors en route to a 2-0 defeat and as a tabloid headline subsequently suggested, it was ‘End Of the World’ for the England team – and not least the despised Taylor who had been slaughtered in the press as a turnip head whose strategy was exclusively one of ‘route one’ football. Taylor in a moment of supreme farce approached the official on the touchline and told him to relay to his colleague on the field the fact that his decisions had got him the sack. He wasn’t wrong. England had the remaining formality of overcoming San Marino in their last qualifying match but contrived to concede an early lead to compound Graham Taylor’s embarrassment.

I for one have much sympathy and respect for the much-maligned Taylor. He called it ‘the impossible job’ and claimed that Princess Diana thanked him for taking her off the newspaper headlines. Compared with Ericsson and McLaren’s under-achievement with a considerably more talented squad of players, the Taylor era doesn’t seem quite such a dismal failure. Furthermore, as a Radio Five Live expert analyst, Taylor talks an enormous amount of sense, though like many an English football observer, Taylor talks a good game, but then of course delivering it is not so straight-forward when confronted with the poisoned chalice of the impossible job. I’m sure this wise owl was relieved to be sat safely in the commentary box instead of charged with the task of justifying his team selections to a sceptical press conference or sitting in a dugout, cringing his way through a 0-0 with Israel or a 2-0 defeat in Croatia.

FOOTBALL CRAZY

Is it my imagination or is there a lot of stupidity in the world of football? Take football players first. How often do we read about soccer stars filling sports pages in newspapers in which they talk up their chances before a match while disrespectfully dismissing the possibility that their imminent opponents might actually play well and even win? Can there be anything more counter-productive than motivating your opponents by almost ridiculing the other team’s chances? If they had a modicum of sense, football players would pay tribute to the team that they are about to play, almost as a shrewd attempt to cultivate complacency. Unfortunately this level-headed approach is either conspicuously absent amongst soccer stars or else is frowned upon by newspapers that thrive upon gloating and provocative remarks from sneering sports competitors. Speaking of sneering soccer players, Ryan Giggs and his Manchester United buddies were less than generous when they narrowly succumbed to defeat by Chelsea in the FA Cup final. Bemoaning their luck and particularly a controversial refereeing decision merely confirmed them as bad losers who do benefit from the referee when they play at Old Trafford. Manchester United are certainly not alone in the predictable practise of paying tribute to the team they have just beaten but throwing their toys out of the pram when they have lost. It’s hard to respect soccer players who cannot admit that they lost to a better team and who instead resort to empty promises of revenge next time.

Let’s now examine the fans. Why do football supporters unleash a barrage of abuse on an opposing player on the premise that he used to play for their club but now has the cheek to play for the opposition? If a player has made a hundred appearances or scored dozens of goals for a club, why does its supporters single him out for vitriol during the course of a match, and not his colleagues who never played previously for that club? I’m sure that Leeds United fans would hurl abuse at Alan Smith for playing for Manchester United, but they fail to recognise that he gave more service to Leeds than all the other Red Devils put together, yet he is more likely to endure boos than say Ronaldo or Rooney from Leeds fans. It is as if football players are not permitted to change clubs.

Why also do so many men (and women) jump on the bandwagon and swear allegiance to the most successful football teams? Northern Irish people like to suggest that their support of Manchester United is based on the fact that George Best played for the Red Devils. However, there are dozens of excellent servants of the Northern Ireland team who played for other lesser clubs, so why not support them? Billy Bingham played for Luton Town but you will struggle to find many Belfast folk supporting the Hatters, while the late Derek Dougan’s service at Wolverhampton Wanderers did not prompt many Ulster folk to pay homage to Wolves.

It strikes me that people cling on to the bragging rights of their football team to camouflage the obvious lack of success in their own lives: “my team is better than your team”, “my club is bigger than your club”, “our home crowds are bigger than your home crowds”, “we have more history than you”, “we have a better manager than you”, “we have a better goalkeeper”, “ we have better goal-posts”, et cetera , et cetera, ad nauseam.It is a sad state of affairs when a person relies upon the fluctuating fortunes of their football club to ensure a sense of personal satisfaction. Following the biggest and best football teams is a strategy adopted by under-achievers whose own lack of qualifications, career progression and income necessitates the desire to look to successful clubs to compensate for their own sense of failure.

SNOOKER LOOPY

I remember my mother uncharacteristically writing me a note so that I could be excused from primary school one January afternoon, not because of a dental appointment, but because Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins was due to play in a Benson And Hedges match on television. Oh we all were bewitched by the remarkable Higgins whose style of play was ahead of its time, as his quick fire potting procedure was eminently more watchable than the deliberations of his contemporaries. In a snooker landscape of Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon, Cliff Thorburn, and Eddie Charlton, the Hurricane was the speed freak, who sent balls into oblivion in the blink of an eye. It was such a pity that ‘Hurricocaine Higgins’ (to quote Jimmy Greaves) failed to build on his World Championships of 1972 and 1982, as yet another Belfast prodigy started to make newspaper headlines, but not for sporting heroics.

If you liked Alex Higgins, you loathed Steve Davis, his nemesis. I too was initially swept along on the anti-‘Ginger Magician’ tide of emotion. However, whether or not Davis was Higgins’s polar opposite is questionable. In fact, to quote the old cliché, the Hurricane’s worst enemy or the person who most threatened his status among the snooker elite was the face staring back through his mirror. As for Steve Davis, he went from success to success in the 1980s, apart from unexpected reverses in the 1985 and 1986 world championship finals. As time marched on, my admiration for Davis increased. I myself was growing up and symptomatic of my increasing maturity was a respect for the prowess and apparent decency of likeable Steve. Mr. Davis found himself lampooned by Spitting Image as ‘Interesting’, but old ‘Interesting’ went on to star in ‘They Think It’s All Over’ as well as lend his considerable knowledge to the BBC snooker experts, so he did indeed prove to be very interesting. Only Stephen Hendry has probably eclipsed Steve Davis as the greatest snooker player of the television era.

It’s kind of weird how we all swear allegiance to one or two snooker or darts players while feeling distinctly cold about the other competitors. For example, I always had an irrational liking for Eric Bristow at the expense of his darts rival, John Lowe. Similarly, Stephen Hendry was one snooker player whom I never warmed to, for no apparent reason, yet like Davis before him, this Hearts football fan was a model professional and an outstanding player. Instead, I grew to like Jimmy White whom I initially ‘disliked’ again during my early ‘Higgins years’. Has there ever been a greater hard luck story in the whole of sport than the Whirlwind’s consistently spectacular near misses at Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre each spring? I can still remember Higgins embracing young White in a 1982 world championship semi-final after the Ulsterman had come from behind to sneak home 16-15 with the help of one of the greatest-ever clearance breaks in the history of snooker. Most people of course still recall the pain of Jimmy’s ritual defeats at the hands of Stephen Hendry. What is all the more remarkable was that Jimmy idolised Alex and then eclipsed the Hurricane as world snooker’s most eye-catching competitor, while Stephen idolised Jimmy, only to prevent his hero from ever seizing the world crown. Jimmy White is unquestionably the greatest snooker player never to become world champion, and I think we can all relate to his heroic misfortune.

Fast-forwarding to the 21^st century and I peculiarly like both the unflappable Mark Williams and the show-stopping Ronnie O’Sullivan which is all the more remarkable, considering that these two snooker greats have little warmth for one another. Oh all the memories: ‘the grinder’ Cliff Thorburn collapsing in unbounded delight at recording the world championship’s first-ever maximum break; the farcical 35^th and final frame between the likeable Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis in 1985: the John Virgo impersonations of his fellow professionals; the personal feuds and mutual admiration, they all confirm that the game of snooker isn’t a load of balls after all.

SPIN

The art of spin extends far beyond the cricket pitch or Downing Street nowadays. Take a look for instance at the world of employment to see how both employers and employees, not to mention the self-employed, put a spin on their job title. No longer are factory fodder the factory workers of bygone days of yore. Now they are termed as operatives. Gosh I loathe that word ‘operative’ – it’s just a euphemism for ‘dog’s body’. Can you imagine a new episode of Blackadder in these apparently self-conscious times: “Please allow me to introduce Baldrick. He’s my operative.”

As if this stupidity isn’t bad enough, one finds that shop assistants are now designated as ‘customer service advisers’. Do me a favour. Worse still are the job vacancies that advertise for ‘telesales executives’. Executives? Are you having a laugh? They’re just a bunch of gobby, pushy twenty-somethings fresh from university. Most ludicrous of all however are the silly contestants on The Weakest Link who describe themselves as ‘a company director’. Fortunately that nice Anne Robinson quizzes them about their job title: “So tell me. This company of yours; how many employees does it have?” “Er, two.” “Two?” “Yeah, me and me brother.” “What, and you call yourself a company director?” “Yeah, well we still have a company and I help to direct it!”

Dear oh dear oh dear. Britain is overflowing with a growing army of people who have an exaggerated sense of self-importance who blag their way through job interviews and pub conversations with their inflated nonsense. As far as I am concerned (and I am concerned), there is a fine dividing line between spin and bullshit.

FRIENDLY FIRE

It must be doubly upsetting for grieving relatives of British military personnel to discover that their loved one was killed by that most outrageous of phrases: ‘friendly fire’. What is it with American armed forces and friendly fire? It’s bad enough that their airport security was not particularly secure back in September 2001 and that their intelligence before and after has not been especially noteworthy for its intelligence. Therefore, I think that I will pay a state visit to George Dubya Bush at the White House. I will probably be stopped en route by airport security who will demand to know what the hell I am doing in possession of an automatic Kalashnikov-47 – to which I will reply, “Oh don’t worry, I’m only being ‘friendly’.”

REGIME CHANGE

It became oh so fashionable in the final months of the Blair premiership to pour scorn on the Prime Minister for his counter-productive pursuit of war in Iraq. Of course Britain went to war on a false premise – namely the need to seek out and destroy Iraq’s imaginary weapons of mass destruction. Mr Blair and his neo-conservative buddies across the big pond were however effectively engaged in a struggle to effect a regime change, and in this objective, they have hardly departed from the conventional approach to almost any war. Take for example the two world wars.

When Germany invaded Belgium in August 1914, British statesmen and people alike were not tossing and turning in bed at night, worried about the neutrality of Belgium. No, Britain went to war against the Kaiser to topple him and end his expansionist ambitions which had frayed the nerves of Europe for more than a decade. The First World War, like the conflict in Iraq, was fought to achieve regime change.

Even more peculiarly in the Second World War, Britain began hostilities against Nazi Germany in response to its invasion of Poland. Britain in fact was so upset by the territorial violation of Poland that it acquiesced in the Soviet Union’s acquisition of the Polish state at the end of the conflict. So much for concern about Poland. Yes the Second World War too was fought not for the stated reason. It was another attempt at regime change.

Tony Blair, for all his flaws, has only put into practice the much-used formula of going to war for false reasons. Every conflict, almost without exception, is designed to achieve regime change, irrespective of what excuse any politician offers.