Those Old Playpenitentiary Blues (3/3) by The Silver Fox

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3)

Besides which, what child of three doesn't look like a criminal? Anyone who has seen a load of lumpish little toddlers running around will agree that it's a spectacle as red in tooth and claw as anything you'd hear Sir David Attenborough voicing. And why shouldn't it be? They're years away from mastering even the most basic rudiments of debate, patience in the face of deprivation is a concept as remote as quantum mechanics, and the territorial imperative is almost overwhelming.

Thus they stomp about thumping anything that gets in their way; if they want something, they snatch it; if they're not happy about something, they'll scream until something is done - thugs in miniature. And yet, in each piss-soaked, squalling, fist-flailing mass in every Soft Play Area in the world, are to be found the systems analysts, the artists, and the trainee sales managers of the future. It's impossible to tell who's who at that age, of course - and potentially dangerous to try. This new lunatic theory, which appears to owe its existence more to the outmoded cliche, the child is the father of the man than anything else is one that is far to open to abuse.

Pathologising normal infant behaviour is a dubious enough practice, but how soon will it be before some bright spark starts to see 'patterns' that prove 'conclusively' that children from certain ethnic or socio-economic groups are demonstrating more than the 'normal' amount of incipient criminality? Bad enough that a single child is written off as gallows-bait before they've even got their first adult teeth, but the thought of being able to isolate an entire 'criminal type' doesn't bear thinking about. Finally, should you need any further proof that this theory is socially irresponsible twaddle, look at this picture and ask yourself if this rosy-cheeked 3 year old shows any signs of developing into a sad-eyed country singer-cum-habitual-malcontent. Then keep the answer very much to yourselves.

Whatever Happened To... Cartoons with smug little morals at the end - e.g. He-Man And The Masters of The Universe - 'Today, Orko learnt an important lesson about learning to share'....? Music and Lies (A heaving mosh-pit wherein Actuality chokes to death on the dry ice machine of Rumour - or something very like that)

...CrackTown are playing The New Adelphi on Friday July 1st. It promises to be an evening of theatre, prog-rock, scatology, and fine, fine, songwriting - if you like it saucy and unique, drag yourselves down there - Christ! I feel so dirty...Ernest are set to send their collective body-weight in prawns to the newly-appointed Archbishop of York as a protest against the inferior quality of the plastic bags used by drycleaners...59 Violets have recruited a photocopy of a 2p coin as their new lead kazooist - good luck with that one, chaps....more next time...

Foxy's Final Fought My interest in tennis in general, and Wimbledon in particular, is minimal, on the whole. It's always struck me as an elitist, poncy sort of carry-on, and generally beneath the notice of anyone with anything more compelling to do with their time than wave a plastic Union Jack pennant around and get fucked over a punnet of wizened strawberries. Even this years hot new discovery - some over-tanned item of jailbait who'll be lad-mag fodder for the next six months - doesn't really get Foxy's engine running (too muscular, www.catsandkittens.com - there's enough men out there that could beat me shitless, as it is).

Let us spare a thought, however, for the die-hards gathered on Henman Hill as they cheer and frotter their beloved idol on. Perhaps this year, their hope will be vindicated, and with skill, determination, and a bit of British Luck, Tiger Tim will score another fucking soap powder advert.

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