Anyone who has taken the time to read my previous posts and comments, will know by now that I am a cynical bastard, completely disenchanted and out of step with modern life, in this country at least. This is something I freely admit, although it doesn't make me in the least bit happier or more contented, far from it.

Recently I've had to take a self imposed break from blogging. I originally started putting my thoughts out on this site, in the hope it might be a cathartic experience, however, if anything it's made me more bitter. The trouble is in searching for suitable subject matter, I find I'm reading more newspapers, visiting the BBC news website and watching television news far more than normal and as a result I now spend my days in a permanent state of moral outrage.

This week knife crime seems to be high on the agenda of every news outlet. I'm not sure whether things have suddenly got a whole lot worse over the last seven days, or whether this is just the media's current hobby horse, although there has been a particularly disturbing case reported this morning about a four and a five year old who have died from stab wounds in Surrey. Of course this isn't a typical knife crime story, which generally involves a teenager being stabbed to death in some grossly disproportionate response to a trivial dispute with one of his peer group. I guess another couple of weeks and the papers will have reverted back to stories of uncontrolled immigration and falling house prices.

One thing that did stick in my mind, was a quote (not misquote I hope) from a spokesperson for the Prison Reform Trust, who stated that they felt the imposition of lengthy prison terms for those "that only carry knives, as apposed to actually use them" might be counter productive amongst young people. I can't catch my breath....Firstly I'm starting to really dislike the use of the term "young people". It's almost as if calling someone a child or even teenager, when they fall into the relevant age group is somehow derogatory. Unfortunately it's slipped into common usage amongst the liberal elite. Secondly, the whole point of banning the carrying of knives and punishing people if they transgress, is as a preventative measure, so that we don't have to deal with the ensuing serious assaults and murders, when every dispute and minor fall out becomes a life or death struggle. Unfortunately, the handing out of reprimands, warnings, final warnings etc, has very little if any effect in addressing offending behaviour, in my experience. I'm sure the Home Office could supply statistics proving otherwise, but frankly I'm always deeply sceptical about the torrent of lies, damn lies and yet more statistics with regards to crime levels and offender behaviour. The facts are just too easy to manipulate.

For example, when is a robbery not a robbery? Easy, when there is no realistic likelihood of anyone ever being charged with the offence. When it comes to recording of crime, robbery is treated very seriously and pressure is heaped on police forces to clear up their undetected crimes which fall into this category. Remember, most of the time, we're not talking about a Sweeney style "over the pavement" blag, armed to the teeth with sawn off shooters. So what to do when a fifteen year old has had their mobile nicked after being punched to the ground by a group of other "young people"? Simply record it as a theft from person and a separate assault. You can have any number of these offences recorded and they won't impact in the slightest on your robbery figures.

Going back to the knife crime situation and crime in general, what society is crying out for is a proper deterrent. One fact is crystal clear, the only means of dealing with offenders, which gives a cast iron guarantee that they will not offend against vulnerable, innocent, law abiding members of society, for the duration of the sentence, is prison. We also need to be clear and unambiguous in the messages we give out to potential offenders i.e if you do x,y or z, this is what's going to happen to you and you won't like it one bit. Nothing deters people better than the thought that if they transgress they will get their just deserts. This should hold true regardless of any attempt at mitigation put forward by the defence e.g drug "issues" (another phrase I despise), the lack of a father figure etc. Isn't it amazing that everyone who is about to get sentenced has just started a new job and has turned over a new leaf since the birth of their child. Offenders by nature tend to be excessively egotistical. Thus they offend because the likely impact of their actions on others doesn't even enter into their heads. They should therefore have the facts spelt out to them repeatedly; that if you choose to offend, the consequences for them personally will be deeply unpalatable and they should be reminded of this throughout the length of their sentence. Unfortunately, this isn't going to happen. Anyone who has had the misfortune to walk across the public concourse of their local magistrates court recently will know what I mean. The whole place resembles an offenders' social gathering, a chance to catch up with old friends. You won't see anyone with furrowed brow pondering on what led them there, or worrying about the coming sentence. Any fear of consequences or personal responsibilty has been removed from the equation.

Over the past thirty to forty years the prison system has been stood on its' head. Powerful elements within the Probation Service, HM Prison Service, the judiciary and the media have compaigned to convince us that prison is there to reform. It therefore has to serve the interests of the offender in leading him or her onto the righteous path. The time was, not too long ago, when such a notion would have been laughed out of court. Judges knew that prisons were there to incarcerate the rotten two percent and protect the law abiding citizens of the nation from such elements. The trouble is the rehabilitation lobby has now become something of an industry.

I've just finished reading John McVicar's book "McVicar by himself." This is a person who knows a thing or who about the prison system. Since his release in 1978, he has turned his back on his life of crime and worked in publishing. I expected him to be an enthusiastic proponent of rehabilitation. Not a bit of it. He states quite clearly that when he chose to stop offending, as when he engaged in armed robberies, he exercised free will. He did not consider himself to be an inmate or trainee, he was a convict and was there because of his own actions and this in time lead him to reassess his life and redirect his intellect and abilities in a more positive direction.

This morning, I walked through a nearby estate made up of lowrise blocks of flats and maisonettes. It's been years since I ventured into the place. I used to play there when I was in primary school, as there was an adventure playground there. Needless to say the adventure playground is now gone, grassed over in the name of health and safety, no doubt. As I enter the estate, I spy two young teenage mums, babies on their laps, sat on the doorstep in their dressing gowns (it's only 1 pm) smoking away, their children acquiring a taste for Benson and Hedges as they are forced to passively inhale. A bit further and a baseball capped youth walks past, pushing a youngster in a pram. As he passed I'm assaulted by the aroma of cannabis from the kingsize reefer between his lips. I suppose I should be pleased he is not an absent father. A bit further and I witness another young lad taking delivery of his latest fix as the van pulls up and the deal takes place through the open driver's window. However, the most striking thing is that the whole estate has now been surrounded by high, oppressive looking security fencing and CCTV cameras, giving it the appearance of Crossmaglen RUC station, circa 1985. So it would appear that because the judiciary refuse to give offenders any meaningful jail time, we all now have to live in our own private prisons.

When I think about it though it's not just offenders that are highly egotistical, we're all starting to behave in the same selfish way. We live in times where the cult of the self reigns supreme.

I recently went to a friend's son's first birthday party. I'm not up to speed with children's party games these days, so I was a bit surprised to find that pass the parcel had changed somewhat in the intervening years since I last participated. Apparently it's not the done thing now to leave one child with a prize at the end and the others all feeling disappointed. Each layer has to conceal an individual prize, so that no one feels rejected. I know the game isn't designed to teach kids a fundamental truth about life, but it appears to me that children are missing out on a valuable lesson, namely that sometimes you don't get what you want, shit happens and learning to take life's setbacks is what really forges character, the ability to lose gracefully and to show good sportmanship.

I would have pointed this out at the time, but to be honest, I was frightened that one of the toddlers was going to stick a knife in me.

Strange things have been happening recently. My short term memory seems to gone for a walk. What neurologists refer to as "doing an Oates".

I had a conversation some years back with my dad. The old man was complaining that he couldn't find his car keys which he'd only had five minutes before. He couldn't understand how he'd misplaced them, since when he was at school and involved in amateur dramatics he had once memorised the scripts to three separate plays, which were all in production at the same time. Needless to say, with the arrogance of youth, I scoffed. I'm not scoffing anymore.

I simply don't understand how I can remember in detail, events that happened in 1975 or the minutiae of 1970's television programmes, when I can't recall what I had for breakfast this morning.

For example, I recently went to my partner's daughter's 21st birthday party. A week in advance, my partner reminds me that we will need the digital camera, then underlines the importance of this by saying how upset she would be if I forgot it. I immediately go home and place the camera box in my suitcase, just to get ahead of the game. Imagine my surprise when we arrive at the Travelodge, I open the box and find nothing more than a charger in there. Trouble is, if she'd held a gun to my head, at that point, I couldn't have told her where I last saw the bloody thing. She'd have had more luck asking me who Steve Austin's boss was in the Six Million Dollar Man, circa 1977 (Oscar Goldman).

Fast forward a couple of days, I come downstairs, I'm carrying a change of clothing, as I'm going straight out after work. I eat my breakfast, then go to find the keys, so I can load the car up. Where are they? Nowhere to be found. Ten minutes of frantic searching eventually reveal them to be hooked over the hanger on which I've placed my shirt, but I have absolutely no recollection of placing them there. The only good thing, is that as I'm ransacking the house, I find the camera under a cushion on the sofa. Now when did I put it there and more importantly why?

More sinister still the other night I opened my mail to find a pair of my pants had been posted back to me. Now this really did worry me, because I can certainly not remember leaving a pair of my briefs, soiled or otherwise, at anyone's house recently. In fact I wasn't even sure if they were mine, but I haven't done any washing this week and was forced to wear them to work the day after. The investigation continues but at the moment Smudger is firmly in the frame for that particular stunt.

Then I realised with horror. Jesus Christ, I'm approaching middle age. The gut wrenching feeling in the pit of my stomach. All the pieces fit. The prematurely greyed hair, the laughter lines appearing on my face. The rampant cynicism. The growing obsession with house prices and an uncontrollable urge to read the Daily Mail.

I reckon if my memory continues to fade at such an alarming rate, by the end of next month, I'll be wandering off to the shops, for the third time that day, minus my trousers. The only good thing is that by that stage I won't be able to remember writing this blog.

Be Lucky

I've recently signed up for Sky Plus and must admit it's been a bit of a revelation. I should have done it years ago. It appears that no matter what time I stagger in from a long shift, there's at least one programme on the box about the Second World War. No longer do I have to kill time by watching the latest lacklustre sitcom. I can now wile away the hours with such gems as "Sink the Tirpitz", "Tank Overhaul" and "SS - Death Panzer Bastard Battalion - The Sven Hassel story". No longer do I have to suffer the sight of the ubiquitous Graham Norton, doing his Irish Kenneth Williams, Carry on Matron routine, whilst surfing websites full of pink dildos, in front of a live studio audience (is that what passes for comedy these days?)

I must confess at this stage to being somewhat pedantic. In fact, anyone who's known me for more than about a week, would probably describe me as downright anally retentive. My only real complaint, with the televisual feast I've now gained access to, is that some of the more cheaply produced documentaries tend to use stock World War film footage. For example, the narrator will be talking about the invasion of France, whilst we're viewing shots of a Stuka formation over north Africa, circa 1941. I really wish the producers would take more time over their output. The other day I was informed the Fallschirmjaeger assault on the Low Countries heralded the dawn of a new era of mobile warfare, the opening up of the so called vertical flank. Well undoubtedly it did, but the chap I was watching at the time wasn't taking part in that operation. Not unless he'd managed to time travel into the future and get his hands on a Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifle, that is.

Amongst all this, however, one series stands out, like a shining beacon of light. Put simply, "The World at War" is an absolute landmark series. First broadcast in 1973, the programme still sets the gold standard for historical documentaries. I first watched it when it was rebroadcast on Channel Four in the early 80's. Many of the veterans being interviewed about their experiences were, when filmed, only in their forties and early fifties. For some reason, this made their reminiscences far more accessible for me. Now I'm watching the series again (three episodes yesterday) I find they have even more impact. Perhaps it's because I am now almost the same age as they were when they were filmed. This is not some old man, eyes watering, talking in a thin reedy voice about some bygone age, it is someone just like me. Someone who may have shared the same hopes and aspirations, but found himself transported to the other side of the globe to kill someone he had never met before.

Sadly I wonder where the future World at War type programmes are going to come from, since television seems to have embraced the "reality TV" format to its' busom. There have been a few notable high points in the last few years, "The Nazis, a Warning from History", "Auschwitz, the Nazis and the Final Solution" and "People's Century" spring to mind, all BBC productions. Unfortunately, they are the exceptions that prove the rule. The rot really started at the turn of the millenium with such series as "Airport", "Driving School" and "Big Brother". Good grief. I paraphrase slightly, but as Tommy Saxondale once said if there was any justice, the TV executives would be defending their output from behind bullet proof glass in the Hague.

It's hard to imagine such a series as The World at War being made today in the same format. When I'm feeling particularly cynical I try to imagine such a monstrosity. From the heart rending opening lines, delivered with such gravitas by Olivier, "Down this road, on a summer's day in 1944, the soldiers came. Nobody lives here now." Of course, if produced today, we'd have to have the Talking Heads track "Road to Nowhere" playing in the background.

Interviews with veterans would be interspersed with shots of various z-list celebrities trying to recreate the second Chindits raid. I can just see it now, the voice over in a geordie accent, "Day 15 and Michael Barrymore has caught deng fever whilst field stripping a Bren gun and Shakin Stevens will need a steady hand to defuse that butterfly mine."

Then there'd be the obligatory interview with Davina McCall for the "celebs" once they had been voted out of the combat zone -

Davina - "So Chico, what was it like in there?"

Chico - "Awful, just awful. Insects, crotch rot, you name it."

Davina - "You weren't Mr Popular when you shouted, "It's Chico time" and gave away your position to that Japanese patrol."

Chico - "Yeah that's when we took our first casualty. Roger De Coursey was manning the mortar, when Nookie Bear took a high velocity round to the head. Interestingly, as Nookie uttered his last words, you could still see Roger's bloody lips moving. We had to use Michelle McManus and Rick Waller to sure up the front of the sanger."

And on and on.

Ten years ago I watched "I'm Alan Partridge" and laughed as he pitched ideas to get himself back on TV, such as "Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank" and "A Partridge amongst the Pidgeons". The trouble is, you can't parody it anymore. It has come to pass and if you doubt me, try tuning into "Celebrity Rehab".

It's always useful to establish some fundamental ground rules at the beginning of the relationship. Having said that I tried to and failed abysmally.

In my single days any shopping trips were planned with the precision of a Second World War commando raid. Short, sharp attacks. In, get what you want and then out again, before Fritz has even managed to stagger out of his bunk, in the Befehlslager. All tightly timetabled. I've lost count of the number of times I went in looking for a pair of jeans and came out with an ill-fitting pair of Farrah stay-crease action slacks, just so I didn't miss the rendezvous with the Royal Navy torpedo boat, over by the recycling bins, in the corner of the car park at the Alhambra Centre.

I've tried to carry over this philosophy now I'm in a relationship. The trouble is my other half does like to dawdle. We pop into Asda "for a few bits" which usually translates into a couple of trolley loads. Gerry's rushed a couple of battalions of Fallschirmjaeger into the breach to cut off our escape, before we get anywhere near the check outs. I join the ranks of the thousands of brave young lads cut down needlessly in the frozen food section by pinpoint mortar fire. When asked by the staff member (happy to help) whether I'd like to try a sample of the latest cheese, she might as well be saying, "For you Tommy, ze war is over"....

The only positive development has been the advent of internet shopping. Oh, the joy of being able to order from the comfort of ones' own home. Freed from the hassle of having to enter the bear pit, which is the average shopping centre. The sweating stress of the supermarket replaced by the click of a mouse. If you play it right, you’ll never have to express an opinion about women’s clothing again, whilst waiting bored and disinterested outside a changing room in Dorothy Perkins. The only downside being that inevitably when your purchases are delivered, you will have nipped out for five minutes, meaning you then have a 45 minute drive to another county to pick them up from the "local" distribution centre.

The great thing is it's all done from the privacy of ones' own home. I must admit to deriving a certain warped pleasure from bidding on ebay, whilst sat bollock naked, save for a pair of union jack flip flops. Strangely this mirrors a recurrent dream I've been having recently where I'm bidding enthusiastically on a house at auction on the BBC1 programme "Homes under the Hammer", when I suddenly notice I'm not wearing any clothes. Some time later, after I've clinched the sale, the presenter, Lucy Alexander comes round to admire my medium sized semi. Strange days...

Whoever coined the term "retail therapy" could only have been referring to the type of treatment dished out to Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. Frankly a run in with the Gestapo would have been more palatable than your average trip down to Morrisons.

Anyway must go, I'm minutes away from owning a new Peter Werth shirt and this computer chair really is starting to chafe on my buttocks.

I read with interest last week that David Cameron had gone to some lengths to recreate the iconic 1980's photograph of The Smiths, by posing in front of the Salford Lad's Club.

It appears that Hazel Blears, the local MP and Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government had originally managed to disrupt Cameron's photo opportunity, by mobilising local Labour Party activists, who demonstrated outside the said club. It's heartening to know that everything's going so well in our communities and local government that she now has time to rush around her constituency like an eighteen year old student, during rag week.

It appears that big D, is a lifelong fan of Mozza and the boys, indeed he chose "This Charming Man" as one of his songs on Desert Island Discs.

Call me cynical, but is this just another case of an out of touch politician trying to appear cool? When I spied the picture of the Old Etonian in the Daily Mail, smirking in front of the club entrance, long buried memories of the awful "Cool Britannia" era and images of Uncle Tony, strumming his Fender leapt back into my mind, like the annoyingly flush resistant "floaters" one accasionally encounters in a railway carriage toilet pan.

Rumours that Gordon Brown is a closet Public Enemy fan and has taken to wearing an alarm clock around his neck, a la Flavor Flav, in cabinet meetings, have yet to be confirmed by number 10, although when asked recently by the BBC's Nick Robinson, to comment on the ongoing police pay dispute, the premier simply answered, "911 is a joke".

Politicians trying to look cool is nothing new of course. During the sixties, Harold Wilson was pictured with The Beatles.

Whilst still leader of the opposition, Margaret Thatcher was regularly pictured in the pages of NME, pogoing and hurling gob onto various punk bands. Indeed, if rumours are to be believed, she only gave up going to concerts, under pressure from the shadow cabinet, after a three day bender following a Stranglers gig. It's doubtful whether the Tories would have had such a landslide election victory in 1979, had Willy Whitelaw not been on hand to spirit her out of the fire doors of the Marquee Club and into Jim Prior's waiting Austin Allegro, to be driven away from the prying eyes of the world's media.

It's not just British politicians. Remember Bill Clinton playing the saxophone.

Even Adolf Hitler got in on the act, inviting Lancastrian songsmith and movie star, George Formby, to his mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden. In a charming but little known scene from Ava Braun's home movies, Adolf can be seen engaging enthusiastically in a jamming session with Formby, who he had earlier presented with a signed eukelele, whilst Goebbels accompanies them on drums.

The visit in early 1937 is said to have had a major effect on Formby's subsequent work, as can be seen in his 1938 German language film, "Zunachst Anschlag Moskau, Georg!" or "Next Stop Moscow, George!" which received a somewhat lukewarm reception in his home country.

I guess nothing much changes, like I said, stop me if you've heard this one before.

One question Guinness....how do I get a posting to Rivendell?

Spare a thought for your companeros a mere ten miles down the road, in the metropolis. A night spent with a ring side seat, watching the disintegration of civil society.

Two thirty in the a.m and I'm listening to Shaznee, or was it Charlene complaining about the "harassment" she's receiving from her ex-partner, the father of young Dylan and Kirk. I use the term father in its' loosest sense. Let's just say he was there at the conception, that much has been proved by the DNA tests, although he has no recollection of the event having been three sheets to the wind on Stella Artois at the time. More children's toys around my feet than you'd see in Toys 'R' Us. My boots millimetres away from the three day old remains of a chinese takeaway.

"Now Shazzer, just run this one by me again, how exactly is he harassing you?"

"Well, it's like, he keeps texting me, asking me about the fiver I owe him, you know, I swear darn, if you don't sort him out, I will."

Sigh....."Do you answer his texts then Shazzer?"

"Course I fuckin do (voice rising to a level only audible to the neighbourhood's resident Staffordshire Bull Terrier)."

And so on and so forth and on and on, until such time as I'm forced to take my pen out of my pocket, just so she thinks I'm going to do something about the "harassment", but really so I can get a breather from the incessant noise emanating from her overactive gob.

If you tolerate this, then your children will be next. Swept away on a tide of human detritus, as we all slide inexorably towards the nations plug hole, to a soundtrack of Simon Cowell and reality TV. Human rights, human wrongs, what does it matter?

All the time, that nagging voice in the back of my head. Is this what it's come to? Why exactly did I join this job? Why the fuck couldn't I have gone to university, lost myself in academia, detached myself from real life. Never had to meet Shazzer and her ilk. And all the time knowing that I will be dead by the age of fifty eight, having shortened my life working sodding night shifts, whilst Shazzer lives to a grand old age, with the staunch support of the National Health Service. God bless Clement Attlee, God bless Nye Bevan. Deliver us from evil, lead us not into temptation, let us move foward, into broad sunlit uplands. Makes you weep doesn't it boys and girls.

Bet when Jake Arnott wrote "He Kills Coppers" he wasn't referring to Bob in human resources who devised our current shift pattern.

Then all of a sudden it's 7 a.m and time to go home. After the drive up motorway one, meandering semi-conscious over all three lanes, car misfiring (I really must get that sorted). Home, home to a faulty boiler and a few hours of fitful sleep, with the sunlight streaming through my curtains, after a bowl of bran flakes and a bottle of Yakult.

That's the thing with nights, plays havoc with the metabolism. The things I could tell you about my bowels.......