Internet Anonymity

Another blogger has today hung up her keyboard. Looking at the virtual firepower that are upset to see her go, I am ashamed to say that I had never read her blog.

I don’t know enough of what happened, or anything about the content of her blog, but from what I can actually see it looks similar to what happened to Night Jack. Someone had decided to unmask her.

Well that just plain sucks.

I use the pen name Carter Magna. No it’s true. Carter Magna isn’t my real name. It is a play on the term Magna Carta and it’s not a spelling mistake either. The Carter aspect belies my Somerset roots, despite the fact I’ve only ever driven a tractor once in my life and I nearly ran over the dance tent at Scry’ Ti’ Di’ 96*. Much to the horror of the lads erecting said tent.

When I started this blog I wanted to remain anonymous because I believed I was going to make a big noise and upset the establishment man. Well. That clearly hasn’t, or will ever, come to pass! Instead I write because I enjoy it and hope that others enjoy what I write. This is a place I can vent my frustrations at the day-to-day goings on, have a pop at people in the news and just generally spout a load of nonsense. I also don’t talk about my job in any detail on here.

If anybody actually gets upset by anything I say then I fully encourage them to let me know what or why in the comments. I will then give it a damn good ignoring because I am never, EVER wrong.

I also haven’t exactly hidden my identity very well! It wouldn’t take NJ himself less than 10 minutes digging to find out who this mysterious Carter Magna fellow is. There are videos of me playing the guitar (badly) and playing cricket (also badly) on here. I reference the teams I play for, the pubs I drink in, the small town I grew up in and the city I live in.

Here goes...

My name is Rob Marris. I’m actually 42, I live in Wolves, I come from a privileged background and I'm a Labour MP. I will stand by everything I say.

I have absolutely nothing to hide. But spare a thought for those brave souls such as Frank Chalk, Ellie Bloggs, Inspector Gadget and other public sector bloggers who have very real reprisals to fear if they are ever stripped of their anonymity.

They do a real public service and long may that continue.

Subrosa, I also wish you the very best of luck.

*Scry’ Ti’ Di’ was a party in a field and stood for Scry Till You Die, scry being to drink cider. Much fun!

Carter's On The Road Again, Wearing Smelly Clothes Again

After a very long week of travelling with the hoi polloi I once again have my car back. The bill was absolutely monstrous, it’s monstrosity was such that I am inclined to compare it to this red headed woman I woke up next to in Devizes some years back. Disco lighting and alcohol served in small measures are not my friend...

As detailed many times on this here blog, I have had massive amounts of bad luck with cars and whatnot, so much so that I began to wonder if I didn't actually deserve such poor karma. If I were the type of mentalist to believe in previous lives, which I most certainly am bloody not, then I would have to conclude I was Hitler, Caligula, Fred West and the bloke who invented the Comic Sans MS font.

However, such maudlin, miserable solipsism is unseemly. You don't want to read it and I don't want to write it.

I shall instead dwell upon the positive things to come out of this last week. My car now has a shiny new clutch and gearbox for one. I managed to finally finish Knees Up Mother Earth by Robert Rankin, which is almost as off the wall as The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies Of The Apocalypse.

I have also spent a lot of time in the pub.

Despite this governments best efforts (I promise to try and not turn this into a rant) there are still some decent boozers out there. Places that provide working men and women with a convivial atmosphere to wind down in after a hard days toil. Places that have jukeboxes containing more than just NOW That’s What I Call Music, volumes 37 to 94.

This particular establishment suited me down to the ground. It had all these things and more; good Guinness, a pool table, a dart board, excellent and friendly bar staff and an eclectic mix of regulars ranging from the young to the old and all topics of conversation to engage in.

In fact last night, after I had postponed my fourth train of the evening, I may have mused that I was going to miss going in for a few pints after work once my car was fixed. As I drove home this evening I did feel kind of sad.

I shall make an effort to get the train in to work every once in a while purely so I can stop for several jars on the way home.

So to all the regulars and staff of The Bakery in Malvern; Thank you. You turned a hellish week into one that I’ve enjoyed immensely.

Cheers!

Sledgehammers To Crack Nuts

Wolves are playing Birmingham at home today at 12 o clock. As with most local derbies in Wolverhampton the police have advised the pubs in the city centre to close for the afternoon.

That's not advice, that's an order.

It doesn't matter that pubs are going out of business at a rate of knots, the extra revenue brought in by match day drinkers can be forfeited on a whim.

Wolves or Blues fans that can't get to the match would like to watch the match on Sky, be this in the pub or at home. Wolves aren't having a great season so any chance to see them on the big screen would be gratefully snapped up while they're still in the Prem.

The match is not being televised though. Why is this? Derby matches are a massive draw. The Liverpool vs Everton games are shown as are Man United vs Man City and Spurs vs Arsenal.

What's the difference? Wolves vs Brum is a lower profile game, to be sure, but if the pubs within a 3 mile radius of the ground have been shut then what's the harm in showing the match on Sky Sports? It is still a Premier League match.

According to my good friend Griggles, and I have no reason to doubt him, this is also down to West Midlands Police Force advising Sky not to show the match.

Nothing to see here, or on the Telly. Move along.

I'm sure that I'll get some grief for this but I can assure you this is not a post slagging off the police.

Obo has given me a telling off in the past for having a rose tinted view of the police and it was very hard to argue with the examples he provided. With this in mind I won't start a fight with him even if it is a tried and tested method of getting more traffic to your blog ;0)

As I said to the Sweary Clown back then "The examples you've highlighted here are lamentable in many, many ways and cannot be defended. I do, however, think they are classic examples of the police being pushed in direct opposition to the Peel principles, which I'd say were very Libertarian, upon which they were founded."

It's about remit and the straying beyond that remit. The police have a duty to prevent and solve crime. That's it. If they shut the pubs in a city centre because of possible trouble between rival football fans then, well, I don't agree with it.

I concede that there are some absolute idiots out there who just go to the football purely to have a ruck with people in different polyester shirts to theirs. These people ARE in the minority and when they kick off they should be arrested and dealt with.

We are still innocent until proven guilty, are we not?

Shutting the pubs in the city centre and telling Sky not to televise the match is not only using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, it's punishing the majority of fans who aren't a bunch of violent savages.

Go on then. Tell me how wrong I am.

So Tell Me Again, What Is The Difference?

I'm not even going to attempt any humour in this post because it just isn't funny at all.

A woman from the Black Country claimed, or stole if you will, 32 grand in benefits she wasn't entitled to. It doesn't say in the article what her sentence will be only that it will be custodial and she'll have to pay back the money she claimed with a fine on top.

Fair enough.

Judge Martin Walsh said it was clear Davies had “accumulated a significant amount of money which was kept hidden”.

“You were dishonest for a considerable period of time and only immediate custody is justified,” he said.

Again, fair comment Mr Judge bloke. She diddled the tax payer out of cash and should be dealt with by the law.

[...]Davies accepted that she deserved to go to prison.

Davies pleaded guilty to five charges of making a false claim for benefits and another of failing to notify a change in her circumstances.

She will face confiscation proceedings on her ill-gotten gains on a date to be fixed.

Well I'll give the woman her due; she got caught, pleaded guilty and will do the time for her crime.

I don't suppose there's any chance Judge Walsh would care to take a trip down Westminster way and have a word with a few people? Tony McNulty, Jacqui Smith, Hazel Blears, Tessa Jowell to name but a few people.

However I'd recommend that he don the black handkerchief for sentencing that shower.

So tell me again, what is the difference? From where I'm standing there is absolutely none.

Cock A Snook At Sir Sam At Your Peril...

Regular readers of this bilge will be sick to death of hearing about the Sir Samuel Vimes Boots Theory of Socio Economic Unfairness. Yeah? Well I'm sick of being living proof of the damn thing so just shut your gob and listen.

Not long ago I bought a new (12 year old) car after many mishaps with my old banger. Last week it went in for it's MoT and after the first retest I was clutching a green certificate for another twelve months of motoring. At just shy of 150 quid it was the smallest bill I'd ever received for an MoT. My good chums Daphers and Hotdog57 were hoping for some entertainment at my, literal, expense after I inadvertently sent them to a gay bar a fortnight ago.

Sorry boys, not this time! Your humble Carter had made his first ever decent purchase in the second-hand motor world and was feeling pretty damn chipper. Hubristic as ever, my Facebook status that day read "CarterMagna has just had his cheapest MoT ever. In your face Sir Samuel Vimes Boots Theory! IN YOUR FACE!!" Serial Carter commentator and pain in my ass, Annette, berated me for taunting the car gods and warned of a karma-esque result.

Pah! What does she know?

Well it turns out the reason there are so many ugly and thick people out there is that Annie got all their brains and beauty. The fat ankled cow.

Daphers, Hotdog57 and I were having a fag* outside yesterday morning when we noticed the unmistakable smell of "Garage." That mechanical, tinny and slightly nauseating odour that you can actually taste.

We were stood by my car...

My blood turned to ice and my bowels to water as the spreading petrochemical sheen underneath my car became visible on the tarmac. I've used the same parking spot for 3 and a half years now so it can be difficult to spot new stains. My last three heaps have bled oil, radiator water, brake fluid and power steering juice but this new assault on the asphalt could not be ignored. The gearbox had dropped it's payload in a magnificent fashion.

There was also a rather large nail in the back tyre which I could no longer ignore as the slow puncture was getting much quicker. I put the spare on, limped the damn thing to the garage round the corner and awaited the diagnosis.

Luckily for me Daphers and Hotdog57 had been sent off on another detachment so I was spared their cruel barbs. I seriously have to get myself some new friends.

The man from the garage rang later in the afternoon with the news that I wouldn't get my car back until Thursday. It would need a new clutch, a thingume seal, a dooberiewhatsit and possibly, possibly a new gearbox. Best case scenario would set me back £300 and I don't even want to know the details of the worst case.

Dejected, down at heel and spirit I finished work for the day and set off for the train station. There was at least half an hour before my train so I thought I'd treat myself to a pint of the black stuff. It was obviously the first pint of Guinness that had been poured that day so it didn't taste very nice. No man should have the taste of a bad pint in his mouth so I graciously gave the pub another chance and let the barmaid pour me a second. That was much better.

What with partaking in a second beer I'd missed the 4:15 but all was not lost as the trains from Malvern to Brum run hourly. I would get the 5:15. This particular hostelry does do a rather a good pint, the staff are friendly and the patrons are also a good bunch. The topics of conversation ranged from the off colour text messages that Dave had on his mobile to Why do Tie Fighters have wings when there's no air in space? to the relative merits of shooting Jordan with a shotgun or beating her and that no mark Andre to death with baseball bats.

I would also like to add in no uncertain terms that Sailors Jerrys should not be drunk with coke. It's far too sickly in that particular configuration and there's a girl back home in Chard who has a lot to answer for for putting the idea of drinking that in my head. You know who you are...

At around half ten I was ordering sweet and sour chicken balls, egg-fried rice and beef and tomato with my new pal who was putting me up for the night. We lurched back to his, ate the food and guzzled some Scrumpy Jack. I may have passed out soon after.

The good news is that I was on time for work and didn't have to suffer the horror of public transport. I won't be so lucky tonight though. As much fun as last night was, I really must resist the temptation to have a quick pint before getting on the train.

Maybe just the one then.

Someone did say to me “You’re 32, maybe you ought to start acting like it?”
I crossed my arms, stamped my foot and said “I’m 32 and a half!”


*Just to reiterate for our American chums; having a fag means smoking a cigarette not... Well. You ought to know what I mean it doesn't mean. Know what I mean?

The Perils Of Google and Trusting Your Friends

During yet another quality evening at the flat, the non stop action was interrupted by my phone. The tinny strains of "I'm a Barbie Girl" signalled that I had received a text. It was from my boss.

My boss, Hotdog57, and another work colleague, Daphers, were on detachment in Pompey and were keen to torment me by sending me pictures of the beer and Mexican food they were consuming. They know how I love a trip out.

For the fourth time that evening, Aqua informed me that she was indeed a Barbie Girl In A Barbie World.

Hotdog57: "Daphers needs a woman so we need to know where the grab a granny nites r in southsea 2nite"
Carter: "I think for the good of all the women and menfolk in Southsea I shall refrain. A cold shower is free but another restraining order will cost him dear"
Hotdog57: "wrong answer carter - get on google"

Well, he is the boss so I entered Portsmouth grab a granny into google and clicked on this link.

Carter: "Apparently Flares is the place to go but look out for the Royal Navy Boxing team along with the grannies. Zebra pattern carpet, cheesy music and a multi-coloured light up dance floor. Make me proud lads."
Hotdog57: "we're on our way, u should see the grin on Dapher's face, or is that his arse, he fell over in a rush to get there. By the way where exactly is this joint?"
Carter: King Henry I Street. He had better have an embarrassing rash to show off tomorrow.

With that our two inebriated Lotharios ventured out into the night.

Apparently when Hotdog57 asked the doorman whether grab a granny night was in full swing, the beaming smile should have been their first major clue.

I arrived at work this morning looking forward to hearing the war stories from Casanovas Hotdog57 and Daphers. My phone started to vibrate and the opening bars of If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher issued forth from the crappy little speakers. A phone call!

"Hello Daphers! How's your belly off for spots?"
"I want a word with you."
"What's up?"
"That place you sent us to..."
"Ye-ess?"
"It was a gay bar."

I nearly dropped my recently fixed phone. Daphers may have had more to say on the subject but I couldn't hear him through my gales of laughter.

The first thing I did was tell the entire office. I spent the rest of the morning in the garage taking the plugs off of all the power tools, hiding the sharp and blunt instruments and wishing to Christ I'd got up on time during the week so I could finish early today.

I swear to Lucifer that I sent them out in good faith and that it wasn't revenge for them laughing at my car...

We've all done it...

It's Sixty For A Reason

Everyday I travel forty miles to work and forty miles home. It takes me an hour in the morning, if I've managed to drag my carcass out of my pit at quarter to six, and at least an hour and a half to get home. I've been doing this journey now for three and a half years and I've gotten used to it.

Despite the ultimate destination I prefer the journey in to work. I get a chance to wake up a bit before nearly electrocuting myself, there's less traffic and those that are on the road are less inclined to get in my way. Generally it's a pleasant ride in because the number of Nissan Micras, Volvos, Rover 216s and other blue rinse preferred vehicles aren't clogging up the roads.

You can tell them by the, for want of a better word, speed they are doing. If it's a 30 zone then the needle wont push past 27. If it's a 40 then 35mph will be the order of the day.

The kicker is that lovely stretch of road between conurbations which is governed by a circular white sign with a black stripe running through it at an angle. If you remember back to your L-plate days you'll know that particular sign represents the national speed limit for your vehicle and that type of road. A car on an A-road single carriageway should be doing 60mph without a problem. Lorries are limited to 40, vans to 50 and I don't have (much) of a problem with this. They are bigger, load bearing vehicles after all. Essentially, if you're holding up a queue of traffic including lorries then you're going far too slow.

Our Werthers Original addled OAPs have obviously forgotten this or are deliberately winding me up. I suspect the latter.

On the first speed awareness course I attended (don't act surprised) I was chastised for being age-ist when I mentioned this. It was pointed out to me that old people don't have the reactions required to travel at speed and so should be given some leeway. With another 3 points and a £60 fine on the line I decided not to react to this tripe. I very nearly bit through my tongue. If they can't drive at the required speed then they shouldn't be on the bloody road.

I have been agonising about this post for a little while now yet I can't really think of much more to say on the matter. I get the feeling I've missed something but I can't for the life of me think what. Is it that slow driving on perfectly quick roads makes me so angry I think there must be more to it? It really does get my blood boiling too. I howl with rage, beat at the steering wheel and all the while there go Mildred and George pootling along in a car with twice the horsepower and handling than mine, completely oblivious to the rest of the world that need to get to work.

They refuse to get out of the middle lane on motorways.

They can't park.

They stop on busy roads to let people out.

They ride the brake.

Every trip to the petrol station appears to be their first visit.

Roundabouts are treated as junctions.

Do yourself a favour; if you have put a tartan blanket and trilby hat on the parcel shelf then it's a sure sign that it's time to make good use of that bus pass.

Before you ask, yes, I am the sort of person who sits in a 5 mile tailback moaning "Why me?"