Friday, 30 March 2012

Potters Tale parts 1-8 , and another thing feller. Mick Potter has now added Part 8 to his ongoing saga

In the third, ongoing, instalment of End staff memories from the decade that some not so loveable scouse blokes fanzine took the world (well, Merseyside, and some small areas of Leeds, Cardiff, London, Aberdeen and a lone member of the Derby Lunatic Fringe) by storm, the legend that is Mick Potter recalls one of his favourite
End related memories
Part 1
Liverpoolv Spurs 82 non-alcoholic final, involved bags of said End a white van and a collection of weirdo’s of which I was possibly one. In true 80,s fashion the "trip" started on the Friday night before the game, disembarkment point the un palatial Park Hotel in the shadow of the Spion Kop district no 4 Anfield Liverpool. The ad hoc committee of one i.e. the van driver had decided where and when we’d move off ...1 His local ...2 after he’d had a few bevies and crucially depending on how long a run he had on the pool table. It should be pointed out the sausage dinner scenario of soaking up all the ale was simply the accepted wisdom of the day, van driver knowledge ,vast beyond reproach. Now in those naive days, when sted ead boutiques or gyms to honest folk were....well thin on the ground. (Oh for those glorious times) a couple of requirements help oil the cogs of good ship End. Strength and dependability. Now unless you had a muscular mucker who’d served his time with hod and brick in Liverpool’s legendary building firm Tyson’s to assist in the more physical aspects of plying ones trade so to speak (that’s helping carry the fuckin mags, thicko’s) which I didn’t the alternative, a true icon on a par with a pair of Lois cords was required step forward the Kwiky bag. If I may digress even further, football special trains, cans of double diamond and a toxic brew named McEwan’s Export (not forgetting those tea-less tea bags the Kwik save started knocking out) all lead me back to the strength and dependability of la bag Kwiky. The Park was a classic 80s boozer. Smokey, edgy, edgy, smokey, mysterious water running through it. ..Boats, a lake…….. or am thinking of Stanley park? Anyway our rag tag collection duly assembled ready for inspection. As was always the case you never knew everyone due to be entombed in the van. The Park was not my local nor the greater metropolis of Breck road my area. A mate was ?connected (tony soprano speak for “related” ) to numero Uno the van driver. The affable muzzied loon quaffing brown bitters, the driver was expanding on his theory I touched on earlier "once I’ve had me sausage dinner I’ll be sound. Piece of piss the M.. errr, is it the M62 or what ? Put a 2p down for me” .The night, my hazy recollection tells, me developed into a glorious piss-up. The original barmy, up anchor, start time of 9 o clock had been delayed. The van was needed to pick up and drop off a few bits, the cover of darkness deemed favourable. The offer of a late bevvie too good to refuse. Wembley seemed light years. The elaborate plans of, I’ll call him Frankie, the driver were revealed. “I’ll stop off in me mates in Walsall and get me ‘ead down for an hour. Sound he is! No one minds if he jumps on board do they”?
Part 2
The door slammed shut, and there we sat entombed in a crypt-esque dank gloom. (I am of course referring to the van).You had to find and fight for your spec. The unlucky bastard who ended up by the wheel and started to moan cos his back was killing him was brutally rebuffed in a “Scum” greenhouse scary scene sort of way. After all we hadn’t even made the chippie yet. The glow of ciggies and the obligatory three skinner doing the rounds provided a chink of light as cans and chips fought a muddled battle to hit the gullet first. Frankie at the wheel soon broke into a gruesome ditty about Spurs that some knob-ead had ( at his request ) sang over and over until his feeble brain had picked it up....... that knob-ead being moi. After a couple of piss stops and a couple of rows concerning both geography and driving prowess (mainly coming from the sensible no2 every van needed and possessed) we arrived in a god forsaken place on the outskirts of, the Vegas of the midlands, Walsall. A doomed gaff trading under the name of Willenhall. Frankie’s perceived bullshit about his mate and a boozer serving all night proved worryingly true. Let’s just say the cliental were the type of punters you never see on Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. A friendly bunch to boot. People soon started to sprawl over the alehouse or drift back to the van. The Columbian marching band hadn’t yet arrived to bolster sapping energy levels. The van crept into London town, Wembley. We swiftly moved on from this desolate outpost.. not a fuckin cafe/ alehouse in sight.. mind you it was only 8.30 in the morning. This didn’t stop Frankie’s homicidal spar (not long released from Winston Green H.M.P) screaming “cockney bastards”! at old, infirmed and especially non-white. This camouflaged jacketed loon who somehow had nabbed a premium spec at the front of the van, had to be given an extremely wide berth on exit! I could just picture a posse of yidddo’s giving his blotchy scouse kipper a pummelling! “I,m not backing that nugget up”, I reasonably thought .The dull hamlet of Watford still popular to this day for scouse ever decreasing visits to Wembley ( sorry I’ll withdraw that, the Watford labour club a fine establishment )was our next jump off point believe it or not. KWIK SAVE bags were produced and ready for action. 1300 End’s….Wembley stadium! So there I stood, Ends in arms trying to persuade a few Tottenham to buy The End. Of course, looking back I suppose they could have took me for some stanley striper playing the stereotype to the hilt, (‘scuse the pun).Things seemed to be progressing cordially with a ginger headed pringle’d Londoner when, to speak in the vernacular… it went off. P.C flathat had mistaken my genial sales patter as an evil attempt to wreek havoc on our nation’s capital. I begged to differ. Thankfully monsieur plod saw sense, briefly scanned “The End”, refusing my chirpy request for a sale.
Liverpool won 3-1 the trip home as the saying goes is another story. part3?


The usual kicks ensued after the game. With Tottenham, like most London clubs having a Chechen- like loathing for us Scouse types. The Met. as inept as ever, struggled to keep the warring factions apart. Arriving back at the van after hostilities had ceased we realised Frankie had somehow managed to position our Trojan horse in the very far corner of the sprawling Wembley car park (his re-assuring words " don’t worry boys I’ll sort a nice spec out so we can beat the traffic", doomed just like his big ketchup’d muzzie) Making ourselves as comfortable as possible in this mobile coffin /ship (the dik tac being more bodies kept the price of trip to a minimum) we excitedly re- run the game. Comfort wasn’t a premium requirement in the 80s. Many a urine soaked sleeve was as regular a feature as the sly door-hinge who was always cunningly asleep when the whip round came for the driver. We edged our way out of the car park taking, it seemed, an eternity. Suddenly alarm bells were raised from a seated person at the front, information point again for younger readers, 80s transit vans didn’t have the luxury of windows or seats, consequently messages were relayed to the illegal’s squatting in the back.
It transpired a delegation of spurs supporters had decided to bid us one more cheery adieu before the long trek up north. Situated at the top of the slip road leading out of the car park around 30 casual types; wedges earrings feather cuts donkey jackets (typical Tottenham really) were handing out grief to nervous northern folk in cars. A hastily conveyed meeting with leadership coming from the inner sanctum that was the back of the van decided on a plan of action .Only if provoked or other innocent parties were brutalised should we take affirmative and progressive measures. This sadly didn’t take long to occur. Now Frankie, with some degree or foresight, had taken on board a small sack of car tools, the base logic in the wise old sages inimitable words being;”any cockneys kick off and they’re getting it” (THANK YOU GANDI).
Events swiftly unfolded. A van further up the road from us was attacked. Our van also came under the spotlight. A nervous few seconds ensued ,before, Sweeney style we burst out! The combination of surprise, adrenaline, a few weapons and a few nutters enabled us to disperse this unkempt gang of prehistoric chav’s back into the now darkening Wembley dispora.The unmistakeable clip clop of London’s never there when you want one appeared. “Get back in your blinkin’ van”! or words to that affect echoed around the eerie concourse, by now it was virtually pitch black. ( statto’s check out weather conditions Feb 82 London.
It was a classic 80,s alleged hooligan confrontation i.e. over in less than a minute not a punch connecting, with trainees only treading the tarmac’d floor and no-one’s face. Lucky old, late again, plod didn’t spot the kwik Fit fitting equipment or yours truly may have been up before the beak down Clerkenwell way , phew !
Part 4………..(sort of,End Ed.)
Well the Wembley car park incident certainly got the adrenaline pumping as well as the tongues a wagging as we pointed the chariot north-ish. My not too crystal clear memory recalls the camouflaged jacketed johnny come lately friend of driver directing operations from the dizzy heights of the err higher ground..Taboot like previous historic leaders...... King Charles at Sedgemoor Napoleon at Waterloo this sartorially challenged " Mickey ", was holding the fuckin coats if i may be so blunt. Whilst an increasing minority of young Mersey match goers were going down the road of the Mcenroe/ Borg look minus the haircuts the lumpen prole proudly wore their Flemings supatuf jeans, oxblood airwair, topped off with a wiry, dare i say, woolly barnet. The sporty look outcrowd could run the risk of a good hiding. At the very least a chaps sexuality would be questioned by the brown bitter swilling hoardes. In pre Sky Sports days there was no clamour to stop and watch the game at the nearest watering hole. Yes the heady 80,s free from goons standing up behind the goal spreading arms wide more for telly recognition than to signal a wide of the mark shot conversations blessed, with no mention of someone playing in the hole uttered by twats who adore pundits and squeeze baseball hats onto fat heads, singing the same dirge every club does, fine-tuned courtesy of sky of course. My rose tinted 80s bins might well be increasing my dementia but i blame Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys for the current top of the knobead parade football tune plagiarism (get your thinking caps on) sung with gusto. “The atmosphere is electric”, the sky clone will inform us. ………………Still haven’t really got on to p.4 yet phil !(Mick)
part 4 contd;
Sky news keeping us informed with all the up to date crucial happenings; “breaking news, a consignment of paint has just arrived at Doncaster Rovers training ground we cannot yet confirm or deny the rumours that the goal posts are due touching up.We,ll go straight over to Doncaster as soon as jim’s found his sky sports jacket”. Breaking news first on sky/I.T.V has that dude who keeps telling us Ferguson is incandescent with rage or apperwhatever over something. Fergie like the rest of us poor souls thinks he,s a prick. The glory days of the 80,s,sunday afternoon the big match… Brian,(we all thought he was a Chelsea fan not knowing he adored Gillingham) Moores, his genuine affection for the beautiful game obvious.......especially when ossie’s curly perm deflected one in at the Shed. Actually this is a wee bit unfair Peter is that Rachel Welsh sitting behind the crown prince of Pomerania Osgood having one of those wiry barnet’s an old fashioned nit comb would struggle with.
I COULD GO ON ......
so i will.. Sheepie’s and mits win hands down any day sky’s mix n match of glamour and rugged ex pro undoubtedly contributing to the dumbing down and conversely the dumbing up of the ale house gobshite who signs up for everything sky.
Meat ‘eads sprawled in front of their Odeon sized screens drool as sycophantic always grinning reporters beg a re run of ........ Anything. A goal a shot an embarrassing witty celebration, all require in dept. analysis from the orgasmic Sky person. The hapless player with regimental efficiency obliges, with fore arms , cruel victims of a disgruntled dyslexic bookie pen attack or to said player : That bit means Harmony the other little fiddly bit means err Peace, or is the other way ,round , ,tell you what I’ll ask the gaffer he’s an expert on ancient Himalayan text, he had his back done in San Antonio years ago, look great don’t they: Sky goon carries on grinning,"back to you in the studio".It really is testament to how well clubs look after players these days balanced diet ,business studies and study of at least one mystical long forgotten eastern tongue being a basic requirement. So the van ( remember ? ) pulled into the bustling hood known as Aylesbury. Thrilling instalment to follow

Part ...errr (5) I think
Aylesbury a place teeming it seems with geezers in purple suits, a sort of homage perhaps to the worlds second poshest Geordie, Brian Ferry,. No 1 being that Sumner, feller responsible for questionable child unfriendly lyrics relating to standing to close to teachers. Popularising vests encouraging mates well into their 30,s to indulge in blonde hi-lights and simply being in a shite band are other charges one day the man who never in his life has said canny or why i man will have to answer. Dishevelled dehydrated scousers disembark from the smellmobile chippie and boozer on mind. Proper curry just wasn’t an option in the land of colour purple, only that weird sultana based variety which has roots me thinks in the delta basin of Llandudno, not like our authentic Liverpool Chinese chippie curry. Wallasey van hire emblazoned on the side of a light blue van indicates an advanced party are already in town. The pool table has already been commandeered by chirpy purple less sharks in a watering hole un accustomed to Liverpool rules relating to the green baize. A local lad after : breaking off hands the pool cue to his multi ear ringed mucker, much to the indignation of afore-mentioned advanced Wallasey van hire patron."Winner stays on " in a tone which possibly could have been misinterpreted as un friendly cuts across the smoky table. Now I’ve witnessed this happen a few times as well as many a kick off over the aptly named killer, a financial gain variety of pool fists a flying over a fiver left in the pot (now that is another story) Momentarily a Mexican stand-off en-sues ......stay tuned folks.
Common sense prevailed. this wasn’t the THROSTLES NEST, THE BLACK ANGUS, THE JOHNNY TODD,THE (cap fits ) NUT HOUSE,THE WIDOWS, MAR KENTS,THE BOX HOUSE, THE PONTACK ( which incidentally housed the finest fullest collection of Roxy/Ferry tunes this side of the Mason Dixon line ) . Nostalgia is getting the better of me, whist some of these alehouses survive ( The Throstle’s would withstand a direct drone attack ) in no way can they compare to the glorious heady 80,s... boo hoo, I’ll move on. A hand-shake and purple suit rules correctly won the day.

Potters Tale Part 6 (goes off on a tangent..not like Mick at all, and recalls scousers at Wembley in 1984)
The rest of the journey is eased only by the amount of ale taken on board in our collective gut/guts . After the first piss stop most of the merry men slumber and dream , except one dazed and confused sap relieving himself in the corner of the van .An indignant punter lets out a muffled sigh enough for dazed and confused to come to his senses. Wembley vans were often mobile latrines thankfully a major incident was averted this time although the pungent aroma told a different story. These vans should have been buried in a deep deep quarry after first being nuked, never for the health of the nation allowed back on the road. Instead carbolic soap and lukewarm water and at scabby brush was deemed appropriate. Dusted down ready for work the next day white van ( well not so white .awaited the call to arms, the next trip. By the way the sleep walking lagger was yours truly a habit I still haven’t managed to shake off.

The upcoming semi final at Wembley (red shite v blue shite) got me reaching again for my rose tinted bi focal’s. Jesus I never thought I’d see the day when that there London trains transporting scouse folk to our beloved capital would leave from separate stations?! I mean what the fuck is going on? is this fuckin Bosnia? Have we been twinned with Sarajevo by a disgruntled crack ‘ead Eurovision contest nil pointer with a Big Jim Holton tat on his dishevelled once hairy back? ……Sad times. lovable Scousers? .. More Mackem / Geordie nowadays I’d say. Let me drift if you don’t mind. 1984 was the year. Destination a set of twin towers somewhere south of Watford. The MILK CUP FINAL, LIVERPOOL V EVERTON not a mention of shite. A glorious assault, not so much as pistols at dawn, more a piss up until dawn, at the very least. Thatcher was well into her second term in office Merseysider’s benefitting from her caring policies couldn’t wait to show their gratitude! "Wouldn’t it be great if she stood atop of Wembley way to greet us " a roguish wag was heard to say. Anyway plans were hatched, Islington, Hackney, seedy hostelries in Bayswater, even seedier gaffs in Kings Cross all perused / discussed via a combination of the legions of scousers working in the smoke and the odd colour supplement lying in the doctors surgery (so old the head-line screamed, Penicillin!, The new wonder drug!) .Non of this had any bearing on my travel plans, the scenic route traversing all points even further south waved its hypnotic wand at me. Sunny BOURNEMOUTH home to a collection of Scouse n’er do wells including a good number of old chums cheerily welcomed my two car’d posse then disappeared into the night. Let me explain; An assortment of o,s ....... Gibbo and Ado being two of them sons of Scotland Road now harassed of Boscombe nr Bournemouth, had organised a coach to LONDON for the great LIVERPOOL/BOUREMOUTH un washed.Pre-mobile phone days guaranteed confusion. Was our proposed stay in jeopardy? Nahhh. After a couple of swift drinks the Bournemouth ex-pats hopped excitedly onto the "Charra" having graciously handed over their house keys! Our "colourless" collective bid adieu to the equally opaque mob, a tinge of regret mixed with a hearty dose of Scouse pride as the pioneers sped off...Surely my/our inverted snobbery at avoiding London wasn’t about to backfire? The "locals" really didn’t welcome us (as our comrades had warned us) with open arms. We ended up in an exclusive Scouse enclave "The Stage Door”. The doormen, as well as the bar-maids sons and daughters of The Mersey, ditto all of the punters. The pungent smell of Lebanese Hashish clung to the rafters (history lesson again pot-‘eads. Skunk was still a few million spliffs away) I instantly felt at home.....who needs cold un friendly London? We met the Scouse-bournions.. in my brothers North London boozer before the game which I swear was played on Sunday. The game, a drab affair, ended in a draw. Bizarrely yet fittingly the trophy was shared between the two teams. Undoubtedly (he says getting his Milo ‘ead on) other social factors came into play i.e. reaction to Thatcherism ,a fight back the gathering of the clans blah blah or am I just talking bullshit? Never the less, as I sit on my "ethnically cleansed" coach to Wembley I’ll raise a can to the class of 84……..Mind you the 86 F.A CUP was a blast as well!

PART 7- The Final Part

Well the red/blue shite fest at Wembley started off weirdly enough .Lots of Kopites embarking from the Liverpool supporters club lots of Toffee men one hundred yards down the road suitably aled up ( the tin variety ) waiting ,watching.One confused blue stumbling across no mans land attempted to board our coach it was dark and as stated previously he was confused.A polite word and he soon headed back across check point charlie to join like minded souls.This alienation continued in the first service station stop.Puffing strutting,talk of blond tipped Norwegians and North Waleian types un scouse folk apparently.All conducted in semi hushed tones and not a rozzer in sight , ( THATS A BIZZIE )A brief moment of bonhomie occcured when i spotted my birthday bro in law blue. . After shaking hands and exchanging bars of chocolate we went back to our respected trenches.The Torch public house Wembley got me thinking ...... maybe the Sally Army have got a point. A soul less place pumping out anomynous soft rock plastic glasses, too early over flowing bogs,even queues for the girlies, as i shamefully found out .One ray of light a plaque celebrating a son of Wembley one Keith Moon, i suspect not a patron of The Torch.So after the game it was back for more fizzy lager to watch horse death at AINTREE and the masses were not dissapointed .. So as the massive bin liners started to magically appear on the lovely ol course i became embroiled in conversation with a straw boated chirpy scouser who confessed he,d never done a bet on the national in his life then produced a key to the STONE ROSES secret lock up which had a liver bird skillfully wittled onto it.Now if he had asked for a bunce because he,d left his dough in this alledged secret rock location, i may have smelt a rat and you dear reader may accuse me of a peas and barley night-cap well not so.... if your still following

So as the horsies were  whipped around the canal turn for the second time ( those lucky nags ) rock n roll tales filled the air.Talk of  MANIC things , Weller ( not the fella who played for Leicester, great player ) and the Hilsborough music collective recently conquering Ireland became so animated that to this day i neither know or care who won the millionaires sport of Kings , fleecer of punter .....3.45 at LIVERPOOL.A couple of things spring to mind 1. FELLA. Now this word is much to popular for my liking. I suspect it,s origins lay on the lower east side of Caldy Wirral.Just about a half a mile from the members club( as in golf ) house.Bird-flu like it has spread i,ts wings through the Mersey delta infecting all who come into contact.I first became aware of it when a quite normal looking bus driver in Bootle,again we know how fuckin weird some of them are  but as usual i,m drifting".See ya later fella ", he chirped as i headed for the T.J HUGHES final really final sale, hankie in hand. "Nice one fella " the Big Issue seller mumbled as he blatantly held for grim life onto his last big issue .Theres that fuckin word ,again i really did swear to my-self .FELLA.What is going on ? Dear readers i have no answers except to say it is slightly more preferable to the absolute bastardisation of the once noble word....Lad. ." R, LADD, LAD PROPER LAD PROPER LAD A ONER LAD, LAD , LAD LATER......... lad.Hand normally down trousers or clutching of spliff is the nor for the new LAD. Take your choice FELLA or LAD. Polling starts soon.

You can still buy The END BOOK and see more stuff like this, as well as the lns & Outs, mad letters, good poems, shite poems ..and fuckin millions of spelling mistakes and bad grammar, as the book reviewers (poncy southern, ex student types) keep pointing out.
There’s a limited amount of signed copies in Waterstones on Bold Street and in the
Liverpool 1 shop. and of course you can still get it on line here.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Tales from the lids

TALES FROM THE LIDS fanzine, issue 1 (right there you have the collectabilty angle) is out now.
I have to admit I haven't read it all yet and will write a review when I get round to it (watching the blue shite on the tele tonight as I type this..good luck fellers..I'd love a semi final derby meself). It's £3 a pop and available in HMV, Liverpool and News From Nowhere. You can buy it via post by sending a cheque or postal order for £3 plus P&P to postal address is;- "TFTL's. flat 4, 23, sandon St toxteth, Liverpool L8 7NS"- don't know what the P&P is though The fanzine is around 40 pages in length, but seems absolutey crammed to the hilt...the word count must be in the 10.000's! At a glance I can see articles about the re birth of Eric's, 7 a side footy, "going the match vs watching it in the alehouse", The Lids guide to getting sacked, the curse of the total tit of a work colleague, murderball & the resident school bully and tons more..with a few nods to The END, including the LIDS own version of our ins & outs.....they have their Outs & favorite being, having a sly drunkin shite in the woods...
anyways, fuck my proposed review! who the fuck am I to tell you whether you might like this or a wise auld sage..and onion faced froup of wise arse's once said, "Buy it yer mingebag" and make yer own mind up. Good luck feller's

Friday, 23 March 2012

End writer, Tony McLlelland and shanks

..wonderful friend, Tony Mac, in his younger days got compared to Mick Jagger. Tony wrote, supported and contributed to The End cause for it's entirety. here's Tony in his much younger, pre jagger / End days on the pitch at Anfield with BILL SHANKLY
I was searching for an old Record Mirror article about THE END that I'm hoping to post along with my own END Memories (Following Peter Hooton's Kevin Sampson's and Mick Potter's- published exclusively here)- I haven't found the record mirror piece yet, but I found a load of old posters, flyers, autograghs and press releases etc - thought you might find them interesting;

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Open letter to the SCUM - Daisy Cutter

The Excellent Daisy Cutter online football magazine have printed this open letter to the s*n following Fabrice Muamba's horrific cardiac arrest, the post has since gone viral

Dear Scum,
At the time of writing this – 1am on Sunday morning – a 23 year old professional footballer is critically ill in intensive care at the London Chest Hospital. With every passing hour there is tentative hope although I have also read reports this evening stating that only a small percentage of individuals who require such resuscitation survive. I am fearful of the worst and fully expect to wake tomorrow to the news that Fabrice Muamba – an England Under-21 captain, father to a young boy, and someone widely said to be one of the nicest guys in football – has died.Even this awful situation however is preferable to earlier when people were understandably under the assumption that he already had. 41 minutes into Bolton’s FA Cup tie with Spurs the midfielder collapsed to the turf and he stopped breathing. On several further occasions his heart failed and it is only due to the incredible work of the medical staff on hand that there is still a chance he may yet recover.For such a terrible fate to befall a fit and healthy Premier League footballer during a match – and live on television no less – was obviously an extremely newsworthy circumstance. Those watching on ESPN looked on aghast, sharing the same sickening sense of helplessness that was evidently felt so acutely in the ground itself by both sets of supporters. Those without access to the channel hurriedly tuned into radio stations and clamoured onto social network sites and forums, to hear of developments and share their distress. As Rodney Marsh so succinctly put it on Twitter, the football family held its breath while up and down the country households discussed the horrifying events that were unfolding.Many people prayed – religious or not – and there was a desperate collective will for the player to be okay. The reports however were not encouraging.With the match rightfully abandoned and with no further visual aids the concerned public turned to other media sources to find out whatever we could, namely your own website, the BBC and Daily Mail websites, Sky Sports News and Radio 5.The BBC updated its coverage minute-by-minute and did so in the sensitive and mature manner you would expect from them. They ran these updates beneath an archived photograph of the player.The Mail’s piece contained pictures of the player receiving medical treatment – as did the Telegraph’s online news site – but crucially the stricken Muamba could not be seen through the huddle of doctors and medics. Additionally there were images of team-mates consoling each other and players praying on the pitch.You however….and why is it always you?…..decided to dispense with basic human decency and go down the sensationalistic route.Covering such an awful occurrence – where a man’s life hangs in the balance – is, I should imagine, a delicate balancing act between providing a comprehensive account of what has happened and displaying suitable tact and discretion.After all there will be many people who personally know the man. And with him being a famous footballer there will be many, many more who feel they know him. These individuals would be amongst the readers – his son perhaps, certainly his extended family and friends – desperately seeking out any news or statements, assurances or gut-wrenching confirmations from your sites.Seeing their father, son, cousin, childhood friend, the player who once signed your shirt outside the Reebok Stadium, prone and possibly dead would be horrifying.With this in mind I personally believe the BBC, the Mail and ESPN – who undoubtedly was under the most scrutiny of all – trod this delicate line of taste well all things considered.You however….and why is it always you?…..decided to dispense with basic human decency and go down the sensationalistic route. With Fabrice Muamba still en route to the hospital – and widely presumed deceased – you published a large clear photograph of the player prostrate on the floor. His eyes looked shocked and confused.I had no right to see that and you certainly had no right to publish it.So why did I click on the link after being told by a stranger online that you had indeed printed a photograph in the worst possible kind of distasteful intrusion?Because despite knowing for 37 years what a vile amoral publication you are – capable of the grossest acts of bullying, cruelty, lies and bile – I still couldn’t quite believe that you had the sheer gall to do so again.Because it is fair to say that you have form here.Your rag of sauce and hatred is still not bought in the Merseyside area twenty-three years after you ran with one of the most infamous and disgraceful untruths in the history of the British media. Four days after 96 football supporters were crushed to death at Hillsborough, and with a nation still numbed by shock and grief, you decided to splash ‘The Truth’ across your front page above sick and falsified claims that were anything but. Alleging in that sensationalistic way of yours that pertains to fact that fans picked the pockets of the dead, beat up a police constable who was attempting to give the kiss of life, and urinated on ‘brave cops’ you then vehemently stood by these surreal and outrageous falsehoods for many years. This caused not only intense pain and hurt to the bereaved and a city in need of comfort but also significantly derailed a fight for justice that continues to this day.It polluted minds and ruined lives, a signature move of yours that once again made a mockery of your self-built image of being the paper of the common man. It’s a dichotomy that never fails to amaze – that you place such stock in representing the very people you quite evidently view as worthless scum. Us. The British public.In human form would any of your readers befriend you? Or would they see you for the spiteful, evil, rotten-to-the-core entity you truly are?In 2005 your managing director Graham Dudman described it as ‘the worst mistake in our history’. This followed a front page apology that could well have been mumbled from a petulant teen. With no genuine remorse you intimated that the protracted ill-feeling in the north-west was orchestrated by the Trinity Mirror owned local press and pointed out that your editor – Rebekah Wade – was a 20 year old student at the time of the tragedy. ‘Time to move on’ you said. And with that Wade did move on. To resigning in the wake of the hacking scandal.We’re starting to see a pattern here irrespective of who sits behind the big chief’s desk. Whether its the odious McKenzie or the Satanic Murdoch, the common denominator is always you, the ‘super soaraway’ Sun.With your tits and lies and your cheeky facade hopelessly failing to mask a pious debasing rhetoric you have been a virulent disease in this country since 1963. In human form would any of your readers befriend you? Or would they see you for the spiteful, evil, rotten-to-the-core entity you truly are?Your half-arsed and insulting apology for your Hillsborough fabrications came soon after you had been the only newspaper to print a full and clear image of the stricken body of Marc-Vivien Foe as he lay dead on a pitch in Lyon, France. On international duty for Cameroon the 28 year old Manchester City midfielder suffered a sudden cardiac arrest and collapsed into the turf.City and West Ham fans – who thought the world of MVF – woke to see him deprived of dignity and splashed across your front page. His eyes looked shocked and confused.Again you received widespread condemnation for doing this.Was there any regret for your actions? Evidently not considering your decision today to once again prioritise numbers over decency by showing in graphic detail what might yet be the last moments of a young man’s life.Being embroiled at the centre of the hacking scandal and the consequent Levison Enquiry it was hoped that you might change your ways. Hangdog contriteness by your owner and others in light of the shocking revelations suggested you might at least pretend to have a shred of value if only for a short while.But we were idiots for even contemplating this weren’t we? Scum is scum and always will be. It is in your very DNA.There is no doubt in my mind however that the tide is turning and though you might still reside folded on the dashboard of a considerable number of white vans the people of this country now demand and expect something that you are innately incapable of supplying in our media: decency. Just that. Basic human decency.And should you ever fall – and please God make that day soon occur – and there is footage on the news of your HQ being emptied of boxes and staff I hope with every fibre of my being that I witness someone – whether it be a journalist or executive – walk down the steps into the evening light with a certain look on their face. For their eyes to look shocked and confused.

Yours Sincerely

Daisy Cutter

Friday, 9 March 2012

girls with deep voices
Metal Pubes
Buttoning up yer mates jacket in the alehouse
Bin dippers
Piss fights
Fanny packs
Knowing your place
Knowing your place is standing over the prone figure of the gobshite who thinks he’s above you.
End Undies
Blowbacks with the father in law
Hot cross beans
Selling meat to your workmates
Eating Humus in the bog
Horlicks Butties
Paddy Shenanigans
Jorgie Porter
Recreating Genesis Corner in the Big House
Living in the Pasta
Lessons to learn how to play the banjo string
Cautionary tales about impending dhioreha
Pints of Sausages
Telling yer mates ma her arse is looking particularly biteable that day
Breaking Bad
Jam on Toad
Bacon Face
Hiding Eggs in your father in laws suits
Filling your daughters Barbie slippers with chippy gravy
Nu Paul Doyer
Crystal meth omelettes
Smack the rich up
Kidnapping a hoodie
Spiking Prince Philip
Desmond Dickhead
Uptown top Wanking
Big Ben R.I.P. Canny Farm 2012
The “marshmallows up the arse” game

Biding your time
Gegging in
The End Fanzine
Jim Bean
The End Book
Uncle Joes meat free balls
Promoting The End Book
Selling The End Book
Signing The End Book
Aunties showing their legs in the party
Reading The End Book
Bleaching a beached whale
Talking about the end Book
Skinny dipping in the Leeds/ canal (Bootle strand branch)
Remembering The End
End Book T shirts
Beauts who continually make smart arse comments on your facebook/myspace etc
Wannabe scousers
Going for a meal with your old headmaster
Thinking that having a big dog makes you hard
Black clothing
Saying “lets have it”
Lecturers in skinny jeans
Saying “That's how I roll”
Gobby Cockneys
Assuming you represent the fans
Still asking people if they have the right time, at the match
Training your dog to do fuck all, ever.
Assuming yer mates are interested in yer Lads Sunday footy exploits
Trying to tackle serious political issues twitter/facebook updates
Paying £200 grand for a round of drinks (Knob)
Keeping a pigeon under your pillow
Andy Carrolls pony (it’s the curse of LFC..when it goes, all those woodwork attempts will go in, …..and we can all stop cringeing at his “do”)

You can still buy The END BOOK and see funnier ins & outs than these, that
although they are 30 years old, still make my mate Andy roar with laughter.
There’s a
limited amount of signed copies in Waterstones on Bold Street and in the
Liverpool 1 shop. and of course you can still get it on line here