Power shifts, my friends, power shifts

[Pep]

When Pep was a kid, our dad drove his family to away games in a Ford Escort van. The van had two seats, one for him, one for our mam. There were, however, six of us. My sister would sit on my mam’s knee, and we three brothers would crowd in the back on a corrugated subfloor behind a built-in grill that separated the driver’s cab from the power tools and hazardous materials crated in the back. As Dad cruised the M62 to Leeds at a speed approaching Mach 1, we lads would sit on boxes of toluene and gaze out longingly through that grill at the passing Lancastrian scenery like inmates on a prison ship. Of course, had my dad’s van ever been involved in a rear-end fender-bender, those Hazmats would have gone up faster than a Chinese rocket on Bonfire Night. We lads would then have been trapped in the back, and our mam and dad would have found out why a grill is called a grill. Their kids would have been toast.

Happily, we boys survived with nothing more serious than a lifetime dependence on paint thinner. Here’s a funny thing, though: if we looked though the grill, it became invisible. You only saw it if you focused on it. In this way the brain works. United fans can achieve the same effect by looking through their fingers every time their team takes on City at Old Trafford.

These days, Pep is a resident of rural Connecticut and, like 3 million other wretched souls, is back online after suffering an 8-day power outage meaning TV, wifi, phone, heat, drinking water, water to flush, or source of refrigeration to keep my beers chilled. I have, during this time, grown a Che Guevera-type mustache and can now declare myself ready to lead the flight against Connecticut Light and Power. Viva la Revolución!

Power lines over here drape from phone poles, crisscross rural lanes, and hang over communities. They cut through trees, droop over cornfields, and spit and hiss in the wind. When I first came to the US, I was struck by their proliferation and wondered why it was only I and the crows in this country seemed to realize they were as ugly as snot. Later on, though, maybe because of practice gazing through a van grill, or maybe because of my sponge-holed brain as caused by an excess of solvent sniffing, I found myself looking through the power lines to some of the prettiest towns in New England. The power lines had become invisible.

But you ask any Liverpool fan. What goes up must come down. For the second time in two months, CL&P customers have endured a week-long outage while the company, quite literally, keeps its customers in the dark. CL&P blames downed lines on unseasonal storms and – catch this – those trees of Connecticut that have the audacity in gale force winds to fall onto overhanging power lines. No matter that the state’s infrastructure is as old as bordellos, or that its power lines are as ugly as stripclub bouncers, or that said power lines come down as often as a hooker’s panties, Connecticut Light & Power clings to the misguided notion that there is no need for below-ground electricity feeds.

CL&P believes these last two storms have been aberrations. I guess the winds that took down our power for hours last night, that' was an aberration, too. An Act of God, if you will, like David Silva. CL&P plans on doing nothing for their future. Climate change, they say, the jury's out. Which begs the question: how many customers must they piss off, how many lawsuits must they fight, how many tens of millions of dollars must they blow on out-of-state repair crews, how many homes and cars must they damage, how many other poor bastards must get fried on a live wire, how much aesthetic pollution must we endure, how many more lines must come down before they realize only a fool makes the same mistake over and again yet expects different results?

Listen, let me prove it. When I came to the USA 12½ years ago, City’s star player was the direct cause of our relegation, the Blues were languishing in the third division, and our team captain was a barrel of a man prone to waking up in Scottish jails with his knuckles bleeding. Right now, City sit five points clear at the top of the best league in the world (Il Rossonero, take note), we have a manager who breathes fire into the bellies of the finest squad in the world, we hammer those teams that go toe-to-toe and whoop those teams that come to defend, we've scored 39 goals in 11 games, and we have the old establishment of Europe dreading our Blue Moon Rising. Not to mention we have last year’s Golden Boot winner throwing a monster snit yet we all, frankly, have moved on.

CL&P, are you listening? Climate change? Well, hello?

By the way, folks: Hart -–- Richards -–- Zaba –-- Clichy –-- Kolorov –-- Kolo –-- Kompany –-- Onouha --- Lescott –-- DeJong –-- Barry --- Milner –-- Yaya --- Johnson –-- Silva –-- Dzeko –-- Balotelli –-- Aguero –-- Nasri. See what I mean? Through the lines, Tevez has become invisible.

[jonesey]

My dearest Pep, this corner was designed for such ramblings and I applaud your latest contribution as possibly the best since Briz's Tour diaries. Great stuff mate and always funny. I may have to come out of retirement.

[Pep]

Thank you, Jonesey, and if my rant does bring you out of retirement, let's have another piece like "I really don't give a shit about the final..." which was and is, frankly, awesome.

[jonesey]

Soon my friend real soon..............