Cabin Pressure Website about Michael Wood The English Web Designer, Developer, Writer and Publisher

I would not think that I am the finest investigative journalist there has ever been but the more I watch coverage of Bradford City than more I must conclude that either that I am or, most probably, the other people who report on the club either professionally or as an amateur know what I discovered about the club and choose to ignore it,.

I struggle to think of valid reason that, assuming that these journalists know what I know, they would opt to not investigate. The amateurs one might forgive but the professionals sully the name “journalist” if they do ignore what they know.

Assuming they know it. They may not and I may indeed be the finest investigative journalist in the world. Somehow I doubt it.

The end of BfB, an subject I am oft asked about, is in turn the subject of an article for the website The Two Unfortunates.

The best written section, in my opinion, is the paragraph:

Having tolerated some early abuse, an increasingly upset Christie had been the subject of some very insulting and vulgar voicemails. One called him a Cockney C**t, which at least raised a booming North of the Border laugh, but really there was nothing funny.

I’ll tell you all a story and it might make me seem a bit wet behind the ears but so be it. I got that copy of London Calling when I was, I think, 17 from Wax Museum records in Bradford.

It was pretty beat up when I got it but that was part of the charm I think, that and it was pretty cheap. I am not sure now what attracted me to it. I had heard of The Clash and maybe it was the Beats International baseline on Guns of Brixton that got me in. I read Melody Maker a lot and I’m sure they must have talked about it.

Its a pretty dense album, lot to chew over, but I really got a lot out of Rudie Can’t Fail (although not at the time, had to wait until I was unemployed for that to ring true) and right now I’m listening to Lost In The Supermarket and “feeling it”

Anyway when I got the album home, down the spine of it, I discovered what I now know to be a Joss Stick but at the time I had no idea of. Something told me though that is was contraband and needed to be kept secret. So the next time the house was alone I furtively opened by album, dropped the needle and started to try find a use for this item.

It did not smell, it could not be crushed, but perhaps it could be lit and it could. It gave out a not pleasant smell but perhaps it needed to be inhaled more closely. I surrounded my mouth around it but it felt like it would burn, I put it under my nose and smelt the burning of my nasal hairs. It fizzled out.

“Drugs,” I murmured, “are overrated.”

(Photo of Mr Josh Wynne taken by Miss F r itton at one of the No Hands nights I DJ.)