Beestonia Makes a Lifestyle Choice / Curse Strikes Again/ Cats? Evil. Soon.

Yup, I’m still here. It’s a bit embarrassing cos loads of lovely people have sent me loads of lovely messages saying tarah, yet I’m still here. I feel like Shirley Bassey embarking on another comeback tour days after she finishes her Farewell tour. Sorry for that.


Sometimes though, one must write. I am presently in a rather weird position of working (albeit on a very short-term contract) while also being dragged through the Kafka-esque nightmare that is Going On The Dole. This is a process I don’t recommend, that involves ringing a number for half an hour, attending a meeting where a soul-sapped civil servant will do their best to not make you feel like dirt, filling in so many forms your wrist ends up feeling like a dodgy masseuse going for the happy-finish record, and then recieving 50 quid a week for your efforts. This will just about cover my phone/utility bills, and leave £1.60 for a trip to Nottingham to attend JobSeek meetings. Food? My garden  is still knocking out a few spuds, and a bit of beetroot, so I’ll be eating Irish/Polish fusion for the next few weeks. Anything else in life will have to be begged for, stolen, or donated. 

This is apparently ok though, and I should not only be humble, but overjoyed that I have made a lifestyle choice. According to our beloved Chancellor, Gideon Osborne, I am like this because I choose to be, and am purposely milking for the dole cos I am so slovenly I want to milk the state to fund my luxurious, idle lifestyle. A lifestyle choice.

Oh, Lord Beestonia, we’ve read the stories of those who milk the social for personal gain, feigning illness and injury, falsifying their details to grab more dough, working the system and thus playing it efficently and ruthlessly to drain the Treasury….yeah, me too, but  I must remind you that Gideon was not talking about these people.

 Nope. He was talking about people like myself who have to slip off the fraying tight-rope of employment into the safety-net they’ve spent their working lives threading, to feel little bounce. People who, like me don’t have savings (Gideon has around £4,000,000 , plus lots more in trusts he will get soon, I have an overdraft that costs three figures a month to service.) People, like me, who can’t rely on an Eton bought education  dropping  into any job you fancy. People like me who deeply hate their situation,people like me that have been working their scrawnt arses off for many years(age 12, paperround, age 15, Saturday boy, postman, cheesemaker, writer, holiday rep, barman, magazine salesman, an on, and on…) people like me who, if they do lounge in bed well after the working populace are  trundling, disgruntled down the commuter trails to work, do so because they’ve spent the night trying to work out what the fuck they are trying to do, staring at the dark ceiling trying to work out how they can escape, endlessly switching pillows and turning the duvet as if it might answer that nagging, biting anxiety that scratches at the mind and sweats the physique….thanks Gideon. Its a lifestyle choice. Come and try it, Beestonians. This Government might make that less a choice and more an inevitability for you soon.


 Curse of Beestonia strikes again: you must have known the moment I shook hands with Dan/ Dave Miliband he was cursed. At the time he was by a long way the front runner till I cursed him with a handshake. Now hes thrust, biblically, into the nether-lands of the Neo-New Labour Hinterlands.


Ah, Lord Beestonia, my liege, how about the fact you met Diane Abbot? Well, yes. She came last. Soz, Di.


Lots more to write about, including my long standing investigation provisionally entitled ‘CATS: ARE THEY TRULY EVIL?’ (yes) and a good story I got from Ryland’s hero Steve Barber. Coming soon, to a crap blog near you. Don’t go changing now….

Beestonia Regrets…




I wrote last on how an impending move to the North West might spell the end of Beestonia, and was rather touched, sadly only metaphorically, though I’m still open to more literal offers, by your words of condolence. I still am in a limbo somewhere over the equidistant Peak Village of New Mills (no thrills, handy for the hills) between Manchester and Beestonia as I plot my life. Handily, my laptop died recently. This, I hope, is a convincing excuse to add to the many thousands I’ve wrote before to explain my awfulness at updating this site. So right now I’m in a little Cheshire town that never had Ghandhi visit it, never was once home to Paul Smith openly weeps at the fact no actors from Porridge never hailed from it, tapping this piece of regionalistic guff out on a borrowed keyboard as my poor Beestonia lies leaderless under a leaden sky, many miles away. Regrets, Ive had a few……heres a few I must mention


INVENT VIN DU BEESTONIA: My love of wine is well known, especially amongst the good shopkeepers of Aras General Stores who can thank me for keeping them propped up with my purchases early on in their opening of the store. The regularity of my visits were such that there pricing structure is a result of slurred suggestions from myself. This is a legacy I am proud of, but sadly my ambition to make Beestonia Britain’s viti-culture hub failed when what I thought was grape seed turned out to be gooseberry. Thank you, Wilkos, thank you for your sloppiness inthe  basic adherance  to a strict alphabetical regime. Still, I had a go, and produced a wine of such incredible tartness, such cheek-sucking sourness, that its only stocked  by Aras General Stores. Two bottles for a fiver. Go on, try it. Its like Cystitis in a bottle.

CONTROL THE POLITICAL SHENANIGANS OF BEESTONIA: This has been possibly a mixed success. I managed to attend virtually every one of the Broxtowe hustings and comment thus, and met all the contenders except for Mick Shore, the BNP contender who got annoyed when I called him a ‘holocaust denier’ though that never happened. Nope. There was evidence to show that I did,  incredibly persuasive, undeniable evidence, that DEFINITELY shows it happened.  But it doesn’t really fit my agenda that I did, so it didn’t. And you’d be a commie or a foreign to think I did. I  did let Beestonia become a battleground for the parties to rip chunks out of each other, which they did with a healthy vigour. However, as much of this was to do with the statistical probability of how votes would fall, it had the readability of a fight between Marcus de Sautoy and Johnny Ball.  Actually, that sounds ace. I did manage to beat  The Nottingham ‘Evening’ Post to the result, however ( thanks to insiders at the count), but unfortunately the second recount fell against my backing: Ms Soubry got in and I suddenly realised I was now ruled by a representative who considered me a ‘sexist’ and ‘rude’. Awww, bless her *pats curly head*. Anyhow, I leave knowing that despite backing Palmer and Soubry getting in, I still came through the experience knowing  that politicians are actually quite lovely people, despite all the Machiavellian knockabouts . Except for Mick Shore. Who doesn’t exist.

INFLUENCE THE LEADERSHIP OF THE FORTHCOMING LABOUR LEADERSHIP BATTLE ELECTION: I didn’t get to meet Balls, was involved into a ruckus when  meeting Abbott, thought Milliband (Dan) was a bit robotic couldn’t be arsed to attend a meeting with Burnham and had a mole see Miliband ( Ed) have a poo on a train Allegedly.

DISPROVE THE CURSE OF BEESTONIA: Much talked about, yet it still goes on. When I mention my potential exodus of Beestonia, the VERY NEXT DAY I lose my job, rendering what was just a vague long term plan into a no-choice, no  option move to the wild reaches of the North West.  In mind of this weird supernatural phenomena, I would like to say I totally believe I will NOT get six numbers in Wednesday’s lotto, will NOT be taken on by the Guardian to be Charlie Brooker’s replacement, and DEFINATELY WILL NOT have Mariella Frostrup suddenly fall from the sky and land in my lap. Just saying.

PREVENT THE EAST MIDLANDS BEING THE FORGOTTEN PART OF ENGLAND: lofty, I know, but I read an article recently on how Metropolitan journalists ignore the rest of the country. It began, I kid ye not: ‘Wales, Ulster, Scotland, the North, the West Midlands, EastAnglia, the West Country…ever feel neglected?’ …. well, I was LIVID. The EastMidlands became thus not just a forgotten place, but a place  forgotten even by those who were self consciously trying to not forget what everyone  tries to forget but forgetting it anyway. I felt slapped, and all the Freudian flood-back-memory of being a second child out  of four gushed in like lit naplam, burning, furious, but igniting, igniting a FURY  unsurpassed in Nottinghamshire-based glib-blogging. I dedicated myself to redress this evident geographical  aberration, but then got side-tracked by a certain Malaysian Lady…

MEET TERI LOU, MY MALAYSIAN GODESS: Oh Terry, oh my beautiful teddy-hugging sweet, how could I forget you. Its maybe seen as uncouth that a writer throwing his mucky product over the face of his loving readership, as I did cheapening our relationship with my LOVE, my DARLING, the fire-engine permitting, cash-stuffed sofa purveyor Terry Lou. It was not to be. And if you have no idea what I’ m talking about, click here and revel in how I wasted Christmas….

INSTIGATE A WAR BETWEEN THE SOUTH AND NORTH: Its been a long fascination of mine that the North/ South divide is such an unfair open wound, seeping bad, pus-soaked blood over our daily affairs that the only hope of settling it is with violent warfare. Extreme, yes, but it worked with the USA where the North and South are in total harm0ny and never diss one another, no siree. My fantastical view on the future war bizarrely failed to attract the attention of the masses in the same way that the Dystopias of Orwell and Huxley.

Ah well, I tried. And I will continue to do so, even it is from the rainy side of the Pennine Ridge…..

Theres many, many more. Stay tuned…

Beestonia State of Mind.

Apologies for the sudden change of direction of the focus for this piece, because its a departure from the usual fodder of political shenanigans of Fair Beestonia/ unsober observations on Beeston life/ tales of Malaysian con-ladies and their promises of Fire Engines, away from all that, and down onto my protrusive belly, and its navel, where I shall be gazing for the next few hundred words. I will ignore the accumulated weirdly blue fluff and, with your permission dear reader, now go all introspective.

Heres a psychedelic optical illusion to illustrate my  TRIP INTO THE RECESSES OF MY MIND

In the mood? Cool. Maannnn…

I’ve been spending an awful lot of time away from the Epicentre of Wonderfulness of late, and thus not been posting with the frequency I would like. Yeah, stop cheering.

Spending so much time in other locations, generally stupendously leafy, pretty places that drip with perfect Englishness: Surrey, Suffolk, Cheshire, Derbyshire’s bucolic glory…..well, it leads me to think my Avalon may not be that special. Lit with the effortless summer sun, I have seen Non-Beestonian geographic glory

Yes, recoil. Yes, drop your cutlery as you see that your certainties that made you feel so special to be a Beestonian are questioned. Yes, look at me as Judas, accepting my silver bounty for the delights of  places that aren’t the Eldorado of the East Midlands.

I know, I feel like Lord Haw-Haw. But let me try and explain. You owe me that, yes? After all I’ve done for you?

I am not a true Beestonite by the correct classification system. I was born in a little town on the Clyde in Scotland, moved to St. Apleford a few years later , and never took residence in Beeston until I was well into my twenties. I only declared myself Lord Beestonia about five years ago, via an article in LeftLion (a great read, google it cos I can’t be arsed to link it, and avoid the such bloody awful poetry). My claim to be Benign Dictator of this Hallowed District? Merely a gap in the market, coupled with an ego impervious to even the sharpest of needles.

This enthusiasm has led me into trouble before. When living in Kent, I was once rang up by a London journalist on the grounds that I was a ‘Kentish Historian’, merely because I’d spent a few hours in Tonbridge Library reading up on local landmarks. In Portugal,during my two years impersonating Catweazel there, I wrote an article for a local English-Language newspaper which gave me the byline ‘Matt Goold, Portuguese Tourist Expert’, a title bestowed on me despite once getting sacked as a resort rep. for not correcting a couple when they told me they were going to ‘explore the north coast of the island of Algarve’, merely cos I was morbidly fascinated to see if they would end up on the northern shores of Norway before they checked a map.

So forgive me this wobble in confidence as your Divine Leader. Maybe this is just me being all coyly vulnerable in a cynical attempt for you  to accept me deeper.  I read Blair’s rather surreal auobiog. today and his use of such a conceit is sickeningly apparent-but no, thats not me, yet it made me think. Made me think why I love this place, love it that I miss it moments after I leave it, love it to the point I shed all dignity to promote it. Made me think how I convey this to you in a sincere manner.

There are two types of Beestonian. Those who live here and those who don’t. Those who do, you know how wonderful it is to live in a town that can be so diverse one point of its compass dips into West the Bohemian curiosity of Chilwell World and The Crown, another East into the calm of the riverside Rylands, then n North  into the  China Town .  I am fascinated by those who don’t: you live all over not only Britain, nay, the world, yet you tune in. You’ve never been to Beeston.

But you know Beestonia exists. If you adore where you live, if it fascinates you, if you look at it and can see crystals growing on the rocks others see as gathering moss, then you are Beestonian. If the dulling thud of regularity others hear is to you a pulse to cherish and check, never take for granted, you are Beestonian. If you look at a barren piece of grass, incongruous on a heartless, hateful housing estate yet still looks like a shining emerald spread….you are Beestonian. If you can see Venus rising, hair grubbily asunder, from the dankest of muddy puddles, you are Beestonian.

I am soon to leave Beeston, and thus, this blog may die. But if you are willing to accept Beestonia is not where you are,but where you’re at, then I shall never relinquish my self-appointed, self aggrandising title.

Beestonia. Its not just about the NG9.