The Last Will and Testament of John Patrick Holmes

Bleeding. My keyboard working feverishly before they submit to the dark crimson overcoat. I shouldn't die. At least not today. I have no need for this dear readers. An investigation that went sour. Politicians who know people. The story is simple - follow a local MP, see what he is up to. My bread and butter, I thought, an extra-marital affair. A corruption of the heart.

Deeper into the investigation things began to emerge. Said MP is big on recycling, an election promise if you will. As the weeks unfolded I began to realise why. This story is equally simple. Good natured home owners recycle their goods. Council collects the goods. Goods taken to recyling facility. Recycled goods emerge.

Glass. Aluminium. Steel. Far ranging uses.

Your elected MP recommended the company that handles recycling in the area. They provide a service. They get paid. Capitalism is a wonderful thing. As I began to delve deeper there appeared to be a large gap between recycled goods entering and leaving. I am not a recycling expert and I assume some is lost in the processes etc. This is a big city. One million tons of missing recycling? Damaging enough?

The plot thickens.

Of the one million there is approximately a legitimate loss of 200,000 tons due to contamination. Where is the other 800,000? Recycled. Packaged. Exported. Quetta, Pakistan. Zahedan, Iran.

Steel can be exported without much of a fuss. Steel is used for any number of things. The names of the recipients however throw a different light. A large proportion of recipients are known members of Jundullah. A large order was recieved in Zahedan in December 2006/January 2007. On the 14th - 17th of February several bombs were detonated in the city by Jundullah. Many of which were made, in part, from steel.

It would be unfair, to bring this issue back to its start point, to assume that our MP knew where the steel was going or even if he knows to this day. But his "no questions asked" approach has lined his pockets with blood money.

So maybe I will live. I have survived one beating. But a beating from the heavies of a recycling firm cannot compare to the acts of militant organisation. Which is why I am leaving you, the internet, with my story should you hear of me through the obituaries column in the Evening News.

The IRA

I am not a terrorist.

Being the son of Irish immigrants living in Manchester in the 1970s I got called Paddy quite a bit. My name is John so I'm guessing it was supposed to be an offensive term. Occasionally we'd go back home for our holidays.

My cousin was older than me and was heavily into the IRA. I loved the passion behind it all, it was a far cry from the dreariness of racist mancunians. It gave me a drive and a purpose. It was something to believe in. Every Christmas, Summer and Easter I would go back and join my cousin fighting for independence. There was something liberating about teenagers being able to chase the army off armed only with stones and bottles.

In 1972 all that changed.

We'd been in Derry for Christmas and New Year and had a relatively peaceful time. We went back to Manchester on the 20th. The last thing Mikey said to me was to never give up the fight, to always fight for what you believe is the right thing to do.

Ten days later he was shot, unarmed, in the face by the British paras.

I haven't been back since, and my interest in freedom faded. I am a coward, I can't even die for the things I believe in. I have betrayed Mikey. Sometimes I wish I still believed in things as fiercely as I once did. I don't believe in anything anymore. Nobody does.

Munich blah blah blah

This town is worse than Liverpool sometimes when it comes to moaning. It was bad, end of.

More importantly City beat United at their place. I wish every season was a Munich milestone.

Recently I have been doing the seedy work of following a couple. Not a proper couple, more an affair. I don't understand affairs, even less since I had one. At the end of the day most people realise they were much happier with the other person but, unfortunately, they have ruined it and end up settling for their bit on the side.

To my (dubious) credit it is the one thing that I regret above all.

The Faron Young Breakthrough

It was there. The answer. It was right in front of me. The very fact it took a Faron Young LP for me to realise it takes nothing away.

Hello Walls.

Or rather Hello Ceiling (hello, hello), I'm gonna stare at you a while.

It is not often that answers can be found up above, but it happens. The cracks in my ceiling reminded me of the crime scene. The cracks look just like the cracks in the floor. They didn't rob the safe, they replaced it. There is still time. They may not have cracked it open yet.

Broken Heart

Though I have a broken heart
I'm too busy to be heartbroken
There's a lot of things that need to be done
Lord I have a broken heart

Though I have a broken dream
I'm too busy to be dreaming of you
There's a lot of things that I've gotta do
Lord I have a broken dream

And I'm wasted all my time
I've gotta drink you right off of my mind
I've been told that this will heal given time
Lord I have a broken heart

And I'm crying all the time
I have to keep it covered up with a smile
And I'll keep on moving on for a while
Lord I have a broken heart

Ladies and Gentlemen we are Floating in Space

All I want in life's a little bit of love to take the pain away
Getting strong today, a giant step each day

I've been told only fools rush in, only fools rush in
But I don't believe, I don't believe- I could still fall in love with you

I will love you till I die, and I will love you all the time
So please put your sweet hand in mine, and float in space and drift in time

All my time until I die, we'll float in space just you and I
So please put your sweet hand in mine, and float in space and drift in time

I'll love you to death, I guess that's what you get
And I don't know where we are all going to
Love don't get stranger, it is what it is
And I don't know where we are all going to

Everything happens today, and that's what you get
And I don't know where we are all going to

The case for man destroying everything he loves

I have had a lot of messages from you. Many asking about me and my wife. It's ok, I don't mind talking about it. It's all I ever seem to talk about anyway. The story goes like this...

I first met Niamh when I was about 18 or 19, she was everything I wasn't. At least outwardly. In those days I had a really decent raincoat that I'd nicked off some pissed bloke on a night out. She complemented me on it just as it started to rain thereby ensuring I'd do the gentlemanly thing and let her borrow it. That was the last time I ever wore my raincoat. It looked better on Niamh anyway.

I remember when we bought a typewriter with the money we'd saved from doing whatever it was we did for money back then. We had just been to the cinema and seen a double bill of film noir classics. We were walking past a charity shop and they had one going cheap in the window. It needed a new ribbon but we could just about afford it. She bought me a hat too so that I could look like a detective. We used to stay up for hours just having snappy noir conversations and typing them onto the paper. "We'll make a film one day" she said.

We were married not long after. And with the typwriter being about the only thing we owned we settled down onto the floor of our house together. Money was tight but we kept ourselves amused with our noir fantasies and eventually my dad gave us his record player. We dreamed of dancing around the tiny bare floors of our house in time to the music in one long embrace.

We rarely had time for friends but we didn't need them whilst we had each other. It was around this time we both started to drink heavily. Eventually the drink started to turn things sour and we'd argue, Niamh would storm out and I'd just drink some more until we woke in each others arms blissfully unaware of the evenings animosity.

And then one day I just wanted the drinking to stop.

Niamh didn't and I quickly began to relate to her less and less and sought more selfish vices in the form of Anna. For the record, looking back I never was even close to loving Anna but at the time she seemed like the ray of light. I can't remember how long our sordid affair lasted but suddenly she tired of me and I began to see how much Niamh needed me.

So I started drinking again.

Niamh and I were briefly back to our old ways and old passions and although the guilt of Anna was always in my mind I knew that telling Niamh would only make things worse. Eventually we began to ween each other away from alcohol and were greeted with the blessed news of a baby on the way.

I still don't know who told Niamh about Anna, all I remember is the horrible, haunting silence. Our house was never silent, there was always a well worn LP spinning loudly or someone speaking quickly about "the train, damn it! She's on the train". This day there was no noise.

I found her slumped over the bath surrounded by vomit, gin and a bottle of sleeping tablets. She left no note but she'd scribbled the name Anna all over.

So I drink to be close to her again, the music doesn't stop and I still act out our movie - line by line.

So tell me dear readers - do any of you think that you have destroyed someone you love/once loved?

New Years Dissolution's

I don't do resolutions.

1. Either give the wife's ashes to her drug addled sister or spread them somewhere she would have liked.
2. Shave more often.
3. Move away from Manchester - I hate it here. There are too many ghosts.
4. Stop drinking.
5. Find someone to make me happy.
6. Get a real job rather than messing about with the PI business.

Of course none of these will happen. Mainly because I can't/don't want to do number 4 and the rest essentially rely on it.

Happy New Year, lets hope 2008 isn't as bad.