The YKTD Honours List

Jimmy Savile


For services to child-minding – Sir Jimmy Savile

For services to cover ups – Sir Norman Bettison

For services to cycling – Sir Lance Armstrong

For services to the media – Kelvin MacKenzie OBE/Rebecca Wade OBE

For services to toothless tiger care – Lord Leveson

For services to Tory Propaganda – Danny Boyle OBE/Frank Cottrell-Boyce CBE

For services to rats fleeing a sinking ship  – Sir Mark Thompson

For services to taking the rap for nonces – Sir George Entwistle

For services to spelling – Harry Redknapp OBE

For services to killing ragheads – Prince Harry VC

For services to smiling ragheads – Mo Farah OBE

For services to being black (round some of the usual suspects up please)

For services to the banking industry – Lord Fred Goodwin

For services to playing the queen and repenting publically of republicanism – Dame Helen Mirren

For services to killing kids to feather her own nest – Dame Cherie Blair

For services to the Bahrain government in putting down democratic protests – Lord William Hague

For services to the providing arms to islamist anti-democracy protestors in Libya, Egypt and Syria – Lord William Hague

For services to the abortion industry – Jeremy Hunt MBE

For services to cosy 70s light comedy – Dame Miranda Hart

For services to fat lasses being loud and proud (except when they’re on diets) – Dawn French OBE

For services to diving worse than Tom Daley – Luis Suarez OBE

For services to Anglo French relations –  Joey Barton MBE

For services to serial fuck ups – Lord Chris Patten Order Of Merit

For services to spreading privilege – Sir David Cameron

For services to shitting on his own – Sir Ed Miliband

For services to international comedy – Silvio Berlusconi OBE/Mario Balotelli CBE

For services to the pie industry – Lord Joe Anderson

For services to Panto Fascism – Lord Boris Johnson

For services to turning a blind eye – Dame Esther Rantzen

For services to scraping the barrel – Lord Ant and Lord Dec

For services to thinking up stupid populist services to hand out gongs in a tawdry display of In It Together One Nation PR – everyone

Special Needs?


The worst thing about Christmas telly are the so-called Christmas ‘Specials’ usually well loved comedy classics either stretching their format to breaking point or old favourites returning for a one-off Yuletide spot of self-indulgence. Only Fools & Horses and The Royle Family are two cases in point, one an insulting parody of working class ducking and diving and the other an insulting parody of working class sloth and idiocy.

Yesterday’s Royle Family will hopefully be the last Christmas special this once touching comedy ever does. When it began Caroline Ahearne’s and Craig Cash’s portrait of mundane working class lives was a breath of fresh air in a comedy world populated by prole grotesques. Jim was a man down on his luck, unable to find work, Barbara was a grafting mum, trying to hold the family together, Denise was a scatty if loveable dope and Dave was also a bit thick but a good lad at heart. Little brother, Anthony was ambitious and put upon and the neighbours were drawn with warmth.

The Royle family hit home with families who grew up in similar houses with it’s jokes about the immersion heating, northern teas and council estate characters. It was obviously set in the early 80s and no doubt written when Caroline and Craig were in their teens or early 20s and living at home. By the time it got to screen, they were a decade or more too old to play their parts and the times had changed but still, it managed to be both very funny and warm.

As so often happens with ratings successes, the series became formulaic, the plots more ludicrous and the characters became ever more extreme, Jim became a work avoiding bum, Barb a stupid drudge, Denise a useless, neglectful mum and Dave a total retard. The Christmas specials became ever more appalling as this once tight knit family descended into ugly stereotypes of Tory ‘sink estate’ scroungers and halfwits. Denise cooking a frozen turkey? Hilarity ensues!

By yesterday’s ‘special’ the whole shameful farce was complete, as widowed neighbour Joe was ‘helped’ to find a new woman by the Royle’s dressed as waiters, ho fucking ho! Not only was the ‘plot’ such as it was entirely predictable – Barb loses her wedding ring, Jim wins a ton on a scratch card found behind the settee along with Anthony’s dummy and Jim’s power drill (working class people are like that y’see, they never clean their filthy hovels). Guess what he spends it on? My arse!

No opportunity to mock the proles is wasted, scrounging women with tatts and children of many ethnic backgrounds – check! Christmas shopping at PouyndLand? Check! Single entendres about male impotence? Check x 20! Pubs, shitting, tits, telly? You got it!

From Til Death Do Us Part to Bread , from Only Fools & Horses to Shameless, from Little Britain to Harry Enfield, the same working class stereotypes persist and people who should know better, people like Caroline Ahearne and Craig Cash for example should hang their heads in shame by turning their comedy into a revolting attack upon the families of their youth.

Peel Holdings


Billy Bragg’s ‘Peel Lecture’ was a decent stab at addressing the social and cultural imbalances that have resulted in the current state of both political and musical mediocrity in Britain. Bragg’s argument was that the 60s art schools encouraged working class lads (and lasses) to pick up guitars and emulate their American musical heroes or their European artistic icons.

There’s a certain truth to this but the vast majority of the early 60s ‘beat’ musicians never went to art school, never mind public school. It wasn’t really until the onset of ‘psychedelia’ that so-called cerebral rock bands such as Floyd and their ilk began to take over from the prole foot stomping hordes. That’s why the proles became northern soulies or suedeheads. Head v feet. No contest!

The class issue of music and culture is naturally tied up in education but to imagine there was a golden age of egalitarianism in the 60s is a dangerous myth. Peel himself was just another by-product of Beatlemania, a public school chancer who blagged a job playing records he liked because he had a put on Wirral accent. He’s up there with Cilla and Tarby in the ranks of untalented twats who gegged in ‘showbiz’ off the back of truly gifted individuals.

Unfair? Well, what did Peel actually accomplish during his 40 odd years at the BBC? Yes, he played records by thousands of bands and musicians other mainstream stations would never have played. So what? His show was an oasis of eclecticism in an a desert of MOR/chart shite. Big deal! In reality all Peel was was a gentleman enthusiast, indulging himself yet making out he was doing us a favour. And the cat had a massive ego to boot, always whining about his show being moved about the schedule and going on about his missus and his kids like an indie DLT. From Top Of The Pops to Home Truths, Peely played the game.

Peel is exactly the type of person who embodies the meritocratic myth of the Tory’s/Labour’s One Nation wonderland. Miliband, Cameron, Clegg and their rows of professional political careerists are overwhelmingly the product of a state education apartheid that only allows those with wealth and/or connections to get a foothold in the establishment. This is the same as it ever was in the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s. Johnny was just another privileged kid who could trade on daddy’s connections and afford to turn on, tune in and drop off.

Peel’s own son, Tom Ravenscroft now has his own programme on the BBC in an act of nepotism that symbolises the way in which the BBC especially embodies the old school tie attitude of cronyism and closing ranks when the shit hits the fan, as it has this year with the revelations about Jimmy Savile and other wunnderful Radio 1 presenters including Saint John himself.

Bragg’s ‘lecture’ tried to broaden the debate about how the arts are taught (or not taught) in today’s league table obsessed education system. He made some valid points but using Jake Bugg as a lone example of working class success in a pop world populated by Brit school automatons and phoney Etonian folk bands ignores the impact that grime has had in articulating inner city rage.

Plan B has rediscovered his grime roots this year and made some stunning records about the living conditions on the London estates exposing the hypocrisy of the media and the politician’s response to the riots of last summer, Now Mr B may not be a true Hackney high rise kid but his anger is as sincere as say, Strummer’s and his music is miles away from the twee, Jools friendly ‘authenticity’ of yer Eds and yer Florences and yer Mumfords.

X-Factor winner James Arthur, the Michael McDonald of Middlesboro made a great play on his working class roots and three finalists all represented the state of modern British working class confusion and stasis; a gay scouser from Scotty Road, a mixed race shelf packing Christian from Swindon and a tattooed bruiser from Boro.

They didn’t have the connections to get their talent recognised, they didn’t have the money to set themselves up and take a year out playing the kind of places where lazy A&R people hang out. Like it or not the X Factor is a far better litmus test for working class creativity and talent than The Brits or LIPA.

Ah. LIPA – Paul McCartney’s ‘Fame School’ the place that brought you er, Sandi Thom and er, The Wombats. Having worked at this place a decade ago on the New Deal for Musicians course, the chasm between the talented if unruly local kids and the studious if conventional posh kids was as wide as Macca’s ego.

The New Deal ideal was doomed to failure for kids who never wanted to return to a classroom environment with text books and homework, they just wanted to do what say the Las or the Beatles had done, fuck about, smoke weed, play tunes, sign on but that’s not allowed today.

Today’s creative kids have to have CVs and a career plan, they have to work for free and hope their talent will see them through but it won’t for the vast majority of them, it never has done, because the system is rigged in favour of those like Mumford & Son, like Florence Welch, like Ed Sheeran, like Tom Ravenscroft, like David Cameron, like Boris Johnson, like Ed Miliband, like Tony Blair and that’s why Jools Holland has assumed some kind of kingmaker role just as Chris Evans did in the 90s and Peel did in the 80s.

Billy Bragg’s music is as one dimensional as his politics. He’s re-positioned himself as a kind of left wing patriot, one of the reclaim the union jack brigade who no doubt loved the Olympics Opening Ceremony and clamor for black OBEs and Knighthoods, as if these tokens excuse the past 400 years of economic slavery and oppression of both black and white workers.

The John Peel Lecture is a bit like the man himself, a little bit irreverent, a little bit self-effacing, a little bit funny but at heart, a part of the same institution that ghettoises its music as it does it politics, a place where Tory grandees and clipboard management gonks call the shots.

Ten Bob Bucket List


I’d never even heard of the so-called ‘Bucket List’ until last year when there seemed to be a rash of features devoted to this type of 1001 Things To Do Before You Die type excuses for self-indulgence camouflaged as ‘experiences.’ It ties neatly with the pseudo-spirituality of the post-consumerist advertising myth. Banks sell themselves not as places where they take your money and invest in the arms trade or rip off starving nation. No they’re the kindly, fluffy, choir singing joints that will fund that trip to the jungles of Indonesia you’ve always dreamed of where you can meet orangutans in their un-natural habitat and crack on that this has brought you a deep understanding of the ecological damage done to the enviornment by er, western banks mostly.

Anyway, as a response to these preposterously expensive global jaunts for city kids, rich kids, kids of city kids, kids of rich kids, kids of kids of, y’get the drfit here are ten, ten bob things to do before you make your tea.


Go For A Brisk Walk In The Forest – any forest or if you don’t live near a forest, a wood or even a park will do. Anywhere with trees basically. Trees are boss, they were here before you and they’ll be here after you so who’s the real dickhead eh?


Visit a shite theme park – Guillver’s World in Warrington’s a good place to start or failing that Camelot (if it’s still open – I can’t pay a researcher) or The U-Boat Experience in Wallasey or local shite attrctions of your own. If it costs more than 20 quid jib it!


Ride A Donkey On A Beach – reconnect with your inner fuckwit, it may seem cruel but donkey’s actually enjoy having 20 stone whoppers from Rotherham on their backs shouting cowboy shite they’ve heard a billion times.


Have A Picnic – we don’t mean a pre-prepared Mark’s picnic that costs 60 quid but an old skool picky, with egg, ham and tuna butties, Mr Kipling cakes, cheese and onion crisps, a flask of instant coffee, a few scotch eggs or mini pork pies and a few Kit Kats for afters. You can have this picnic anywhere, even in your own house if it’s pissing down or you can’t be arsed.


Play Scrabble/Monopoly/Cluedo/Pop-O-Matic/Trivial Pursuits – any board game will do but preferably one that goes on for hours because they’re the ones that really bring you together or to blows. Either way, it’ll be interesting.


Get Lost – go somewhere you’ve never been before either on the train or by foot or car, whatever and deliberately get lost. Ask locals for directions, identify landmarks, consult a map if necessary. Don’t be half arsed about it, get to the point where you’re almost crying and the world takes on a sinsiter hue.


Go the baths – not a big fuck off water park with wave machines and slides n’ stuff just an old skool rectangular shallow end, deep end kinda baths with freezing changing rooms and too much hypo in the water, sanitary towels floating miserably on the surface and pervy arl fellars sat on the bench…..just like we remember.


Have a Fancy Dress Party – an obvious one perhaps, but I’ve never not had a boss time at a fancy dress party but not one of those ones where everyone hires outfits or spunks thousands on hiring a fancy room and djs but a house party in your front room with a karaoke and a bowl of ‘punch.’


Take a loved one to the seaside – your ma, nan, Uncle Tommy or whatever, old folks love the seaside, buy em a icey, have a game of bingo, moan about foreigners etc – doesn’t have to be old folks, kids, nephews, neices, love the beach too – no fair grounds or any of that stuff, bucket and spade, sandcastles, collecting shells, crabbing at the most exotic. Get your feet wet, shiver in the shade and feel the Irish sea on your cynical cheeks.


Put an old Black & White film on the DVD and pour yourself a stiff drink – sentimental films about kids dying or femme fatales are not allowed, got to be an uplifting piece of shit starring a young Alec Guinness or Cary Grant.

The Old Lie

jamie reed

I walked down the new Open Eye Gallery on Mann Island to see Dave Jacques’s new exhibition but when I got there, it was closed. Seeing as I’d trecked all the way down from Rodney Street, I decided to visit the nearby Liverpool Museum for the first time since it opened last year and had a mooch around the various exhibitions, all very inter-active and all that but seemingly aimed at junior school kids, before finding myself in the Wondrous Place section, y’know footy, music, boxing, pop culture n’ shit.

Nostalgia is a prison and Liverpool seems to be doing life. There is no escape from the Disneyfication of Liverpool’s history, the Fab Four theme park fantasy world, as false and tacky as any other lowest common denominator tourist money making venture. This is the vision of Liverpool that the city sells to those who they feel they need to attract in order to sustain their own positions, their own lifestyles. Tourists and students, out of towners and shoppers, money coming into the city over counters, into tills, creating new employment, paying rents and rates, bringing ‘culture’ in whatever sanitised, commercialised form can only be good can’t it? Wealth will trickle down, we will all benefit, the myth of the capitalist hard sell for centuries.

There are real reasons to celebrate aspects of any city’s culture but this banal, bells and whistles approach is a wasted opportunity to tell the many and varied stories of how political and economic policies created the city of Liverpool. History is not just a tale of wealthy aristocrats and sports legends but a combination of collective imagination and memory.

I walk back up to (Admiral) Rodney Street, past the so-called ‘Three Graces’, up James Street, past Victoria House, the Queen Victoria Monument in (Lord) Derby Square that houses the Queen Elizabeth Law Courts, down Lord Street. Here is the western European lie of democracy that sustains the rich, the powerful, the greedy, the cruel and celebrates them in stone and brick and bronze.

The lie of nationhood, the myth of both mono and multi-culturalism whether it’s Andrew Marr, Niall Ferguson, Alan Titchmarsh or David Starkey spewing up the same old litany of imperial revisionism and regal dynasties or Frank Cottrell-Boyce and Danny Boyle presenting a Lionel Bart meets Luis Bunuel tap dancing festival of Great British Mavericks, the same lie is presented in different ways.

‘We’re all in it together’

‘We are One Nation’

The collective ‘we’ the use of ‘us’ and ‘our’ in almost every single broadcast or report is applied not only to those who accept this lie because they need to cling to something, anything to give their lives meaning but also to disparate and dissident individuals who refuse to define themselves by artificial tribal identities. There is only one narrative allowed; one version of history repeated and repeated and repeated until it becomes fact.

The relentless use of ‘mad parades’ especially anniversaries and commemorations of military victories cements the trinity of monarchical roles as head of state, head of the armed services and head of the church. War can therefore be justified either in terms of economic necessity, moral conviction or religious duty. If we invest the sacrifice of the young to the cause of Queen/King and Country then those thousands who have died in deserts and jungles, mountains and cities on behalf of their deity deserve better than the odd token wreath and cheap platitudes. The people they kill in order to protect the wealth of the rich deserve honesty above all else.

As this ‘momentous’ year draws to a close the media will do their propagandist duty for their paymasters, the political elite and the shadowy ‘advisers’ who direct this despicable puppet show for their own selfish ends. What’s in it for them? Continuity, secrecy, money. Always money. Continuity, secrecy, power. Always power. It doesn’t matter who is in government, who the prime minister is, which inbred imbecile in on the throne, the show must go on. The lie must be sustained at all costs; we’re all in it together. ‘We’ and ‘Our’ and ‘Us.’

History is written in blood and shit and tears but that’s not really gonna sell it to the schoolies and the retirees who seemed to be the only people in the Museum of Liverpool when I was there.

Get the London Looks

The Breaks: Stylin' and Profilin' 1982-1990 by Janette Beckman,  published by powerHouse Books


You’ve seen em sat there in posh eateries tapping away at their i-Twats wearing dishcloths on their swedes, talking in that generic gravelly posh bird voice to their pals on their 5G phones as they pick at a plate of foraged dandelion with dog piss dressing. Looking like Hilda ogden or your nanna’s cleaner back in the 70s is just soooooo now y’get me? Bleieve me girls you don’t look like a Cath Kidson 50s glammed up hausfrau or a Burlesque on her brew break but someone with too much time and money on their hands.

>Coronation Street portraits

Casey Jones Clones

These cats are big on very expensive denim workwear items imported direct from small labels in the Catskills or the Appalichian mountains where Hillbilly Chic is a way of life. They will work in one of two areas; the media or ‘the creative industries’ and sit flicking nonchalently through the pages of Monocle or The Creative Review whislt pretending not to notice people laughing at them in their welder’s gloves.

>george v

George V Wannabes

A well trimmed full beard, a smart, aristocratic aloofness and a overbearing sense of entitlement are only three of the things that earmark a jumped up fuckwit from a three bedroom suburban semi into believing that he’s somehow tapping into the traiditional values of classic Jimmy Savile Row tailoring and etiquette. He’s not, he’s just posturing for the sake of a monumental ego.


Dayglo Daisy Age B-Folk

Like Three Feet & Rising Never Went Away, da yoot have gone back to Native Tongues style dayglo and proto-B Boy fashions because well, everything’s up for a revival isn’t it? No doubt the Salt n’ Pepa look will come back along with Security of the First World camp paramilitary dance steps (Strictly Come Black Power Squarebashing?), African pendants and ‘conscious’ lyrics about the Nation of 5% and er, Potholes In Their Lawns.

An Open Letter To God


Dear God,

I know you read my blog cos I’ve traced your ‘secret’ coded addy back to God, Heaven, The Sky so don’t try and crack on you’ve never even heard of Yer Know The Dance lad. Anyway, seeing as you so obsessed what what we’ve got to say on former Brooky actors and Maoist guerilla organisations, we thought we’d put you straight about a few things.

1 Those Yanks

Seeing as they’re always banging on about you, why not sort the cunts out? If they’re not going round bombing the Muslims (have a word with yer pal, Allah) then they’re shooting eachother and blaming you. You wanna send em some plagues or summat cos they’ve never really been in a real war so they go around trying to kick off on the spaz kids to prove how hard they are. Fuck know where it’s gonna end, probably in a big fuck off queue outside the Pearly Gates if you don’t get involved.

2 Santa

I know he’s not technically your repsonsibility but the fat cunt’s doing my swede in, showing off how many prezzies he can box off in one night and then the gaffers get onto us saying we should follow his example and put more hours in for no more dough. Just cos he’s got a magic fucking sleigh and some YTS reindeers on minimum wage, the bastard thinks he’s it, delivering billions of Kerplunks and Crossfires in one night. Can’t you move Christmas to the summer lad, when it’s a bit warmer and the sun stays out till past 4 a fucking clock?

3 The Pope

I don’t wanna tell you who to run your graft mate but this kid’s bad PR lad. The cunt’s a Nazi for a start and now he’s gone and opened up a fuckin Twitter account. He’ll be out in the arcade on the Galaxians next, showing you up. Get a grip before he goes and spews it for the P2 firm and their dealings with the Rusky oil and gas crew.

4 Suarez

OK, he scores but he misses loads too and to be honest, I hate his teeth, he makes Ken Dodd look like Joey fucking Essex lad. Sort his mush out and magic up a new stadium and about 300 million for about 6 or 7 decent players for Brendan eh? Don’t want him going the same way as Roy do we? Maybe throw a few thunderbolts Mancways eh?

5 The Boiler

it’s packed in again and the lad who fitted it has fucked off to New Zealand. I think it only need s a quick service, maybe a new pressure valve so I know you’re busy this time of year lad but if you’ve got a spare angel or whatever who’s handy with the arl pipes, that’d be boss.

Steely Dan?


Danny Boyle is perhaps the most patronised man in ‘showbiz’ apart from his fellow Lancastrian, Guy Garvey that is. Both of them, like Wayne Hemingway appear with monotonous regularity as token media ‘proles.’ Dig those charming eeh-bah-gum accents, guys! But Danny and Guy-y and Wayney sure can direct popular Hollywood fillums, sing maudlin songs about love n’ shit and er, design clogs.

Don’t let them kerrazy accents fool you, these cats can cut it with the very best public school educated mediocrities. And when push comes to shove ha’penny, they can be relied upon to do the right thing and support the posh boys at the top in their schemes to make us all feel like one big, union jack waving, TeamGB UKPLC Paralympic 007 Help For Heroes Kate n’ Wills happy family.

So, when Danny Boy kb’s a knighthood as a just reward for his Nuremburg style Olympics opening ceremony, does that send out a signal that he’s ‘still one of us?’ Well the right wing press will make sure that everyone from Gary Barlow to Mo Farah will get their imperialist honours for towing the line, so Danny’s rebuf will be glossed over by the new year’s awards. Sir Ant and Sir Dec maybe?

Boyle is a very fine director, no question about it. As a stylist he manages to straddle both art house and Hollywood with a knack that few can copy. So, let’s have it right, Boyle isn’t being ’honoured’ by kneeling before an unelected, unaccountable aristocrat and having her tap him on the shoulder with a sword for his services to film.

No, he was nominated for this pathetic political prie for helping Cameron and Coe and the Windsors and the city of London fat cats keep the Regal Three Card Trick on the road. He may look like a cross between Sean Locke and Morrissey and be one of the best directors to come from Bury since er, that other fellar but his surreal, pseudo-maverick propaganda put back working class rights fifty years.

Jesus v Fit For Work Assessor


Jesus is sat in the waiting room of a nondescript office block with several other people on zimmer frames, walking sticks, wheelchairs etc. Jesus is sat uncomfortably still attached to his cross. He nods at the others and looks up at the receptionist. No-one seems fazed by his appearance. A woman in a wheelchair sat next to him whispers “don’t overdo it love, they’ll still sign you off, cross or no cross.”

The receptionist shouts out :

“Mr Christ to room 23 please”

The others moan and mutter as Jesus struggles to his feet. He eventually gets up helped by a man wearing shades and carrying a white stick.

“Cheers lad” Jesus says and then tries to negotiate the tight corridor with his cross. He knocks on the door of Room 23.

“Come in.”

Jesus walks in and a strict looking woman is sat behind the desk. She seems to take no notice of his cross as Jesus has to duck and manoeuvre his cross through the door.

“Take a seat please Mr. Christ.”

“I’d rather stand if you don’t mind love, it’s difficult to sit down with this thing on me back.”

The woman looks disdainfully at him and takes her pen out.

“Suit yourself. So you understand the purpose of this Back To Work interview do you?”

“All I know this they’ve stopped me incapacity love and want to get me on Jobseekers.”

The lady looks down to her pad and writes something down.

“I mean, I’m not saying I’m totally incapable of doing certain jobs, I used to be a chippy, did a bit of catering and even volunteered at A&E but then y’know…” (nods at hands nailed to cross).

“So you have worked in the past?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying love but then the fucking Romans did this to me”

She looks up as Jesus turns around to show her cross.

“Does that restrict you in any way?”

“Just a bit love, plays fucking havoc with me back like.”

“So you have back problems”

“Er, that’s an understatement, I’m on all kinds of painkillers for it.”

“So you have a medical prescription I can check?”

“Well, I mean I don’t like to trouble the quacks with it y’know so I just twat the Co-codamols and the Trammys when it’s really bad.”

She writes more things in her pad and ticks some boxes.

“And what’s the cause of your back problem?”

Jesus laughs.

“Something funny sir?”

“I’d have thought that was pretty fucking obvious”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t swear Mr Christ, and I’m afraid it’s not entirely obvious why you would be suffering with your back.”

“Well you try walking round nailed to this thing and carrying the sins of all mankind on your shoulders for two thousand fucking years and see how you like it.”

The woman looks up from her pad and angrily gets to her feet.

“I won’t tell you again about your language Mr Christ, I will terminate this interview immediately if you swear once more and phone security.”

“Yeah sorry love it’s just, y’know, I’m a bit agitated to be honest, I mean what about all these illegal immigrants eh, selling the Big Issue and living in five star hotels? I haven’t been sleeping well since I got your letter through the door.”

She sits back down.

“I understand that Mr Christ but my job is to assess you and judge if your right to welfare benefits is necessary or whether you are capable of doing some jobs, for example have you ever done office work, filing, typing, cold calling, supermarket check out et cetera.”

“Are you taking the piss girl? My hands are nailed to a big fuck off cross you soft bitch, how the fuck am I supposed to type or phone some cunt up to sell them PP fucking I?”

The woman picks up the phone immediately and dials a number.

“Right, that’s it, I warned you, this interview is now terminated and security will escort you out of the building. I’ve made my assessment and will forward this to Jobcentre Plus who will decide whether you are entitled to your current benefits. Personally, I think you carry that cross around to gain public sympathy and are quite capable of undertaking a range of different occupations, if you put your mind to it. It’s people like you who abuse the system that give all benefit claimants a bad name, the world doesn’t owe you a living you know.”

Two security guards come through the door and grab hold of Jesus who tries to kick them.

“Come on, dickhead.”

“Get off me, yer pair of pricks!”

“Grab his cross Billy”

They manage to steer him through the door and Jesus bangs his head as he goes through.

“Owww! Watch it lad, feel hard do yer?  Two onto one, a fellar nailed to a fucking cross against a pair of stedheads? I’ll come after yer, grassing bastards!”

They throw him onto the floor outside. Jesus gets up puts the middle fingers of his nailed hands up and walks away disconsolately muttering swear words. The security guards return inside and the other people in the room look down. The receptionist shouts “Mrs. Nightingale”. The woman in the wheelchair  struggles as she wheels herself slowly along the corridor.