At last! The “big society” defined

Helping DC with the #BS.

Prime Minister David Cameron delivered a speech to social entrepreneurs today setting out how his Big Society Bank will help fund voluntary projects underpinning his "big society".

Today we learned – for those who have not as yet understood – that the "big society" is Cameron's "mission", an initiative that will get all his "passion".

Still confused? We certainly were, so we asked for help from our 19,500 followers on Twitter. Here are our favourite replies (so far):

 

quizeye (Quizzical Eyebrow)

.@NewStatesman Hmmm, @krishgm has some useful info on this subject! But actually you've summed it up quite well in your hashtag. #BS

 

stevconor (Steve Connor)

@NewStatesman #bigsociety The less well off help each other and the super rich help themselves. #bs

 

MarkDowe2011 (Mark Dowe)

@NewStatesman Shrinking state, self-responsibility and duty. #bs

 

vivslack (Viv Slack)

@NewStatesman Big society = let the weak fend for themselves, if it gets bad enough hopefully someone will volunteer to help. #bs

 

nicktheowl (Nick Drew)

@NewStatesman Citizen activity expands to fill gap left by shrinking state; we're still not sure quite how. Maybe if we wish hard enough #bs

 

Pattisoapbox (Patricia Walker)

@NewStatesman Osbourne to Cameron 'sack the plebs get working for nothing & we'll laugh all the way to the bank' #bs

 

BillyGottaJob (Stephen)

#bs: An illusion in which voluntary groups are dismembered, but arise Phoenix-like to take on government responsibilities. @NewStatesman

 

ByRICHaRD (Rarrowing)

@NewStatesman Big Society is someone else taking the credit for your life. I woke up today, congratulations to David Cameron. #BS

 

PatsRants (Patrick Osgood)

@NewStatesman The Big Society: 'these aren't cuts! They are negative-value self-enablement grants' #BS

 

Knox_Harrington (Neil Atkinson)

@NewStatesman #bs Fur coat, no knickers. No money for knickers. And that's my fur coat you're wearing.

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If there’s no booze or naked women, what’s the point of being a footballer?

Peter Crouch came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

At a professional league ground near you, the following conversation will be taking place. After an excellent morning training session, in which the players all worked hard, and didn’t wind up the assistant coach they all hate, or cut the crotch out of the new trousers belonging to the reserve goalie, the captain or some senior player will go into the manager’s office.

“Hi, gaffer. Just thought I’d let you know that we’ve booked the Salvation Hall. They’ll leave the table-tennis tables in place, so we’ll probably have a few games, as it’s the players’ Christmas party, OK?”

“FECKING CHRISTMAS PARTY!? I TOLD YOU NO CHRISTMAS PARTIES THIS YEAR. NOT AFTER LAST YEAR. GERROUT . . .”

So the captain has to cancel the booking – which was actually at the Salvation Go Go Gentlemen’s Club on the high street, plus the Saucy Sporty Strippers, who specialise in naked table tennis.

One of the attractions for youths, when they dream of being a footballer or a pop star, is not just imagining themselves number one in the Prem or number one in the hit parade, but all the girls who’ll be clambering for them. Young, thrusting politicians have similar fantasies. Alas, it doesn’t always work out.

Today, we have all these foreign managers and foreign players coming here, not pinching our women (they’re too busy for that), but bringing foreign customs about diet and drink and no sex at half-time. Rotters, ruining the simple pleasures of our brave British lads which they’ve enjoyed for over a century.

The tabloids recently went all pious when poor old Wayne Rooney was seen standing around drinking till the early hours at the England team hotel after their win over Scotland. He’d apparently been invited to a wedding that happened to be going on there. What I can’t understand is: why join a wedding party for total strangers? Nothing more boring than someone else’s wedding. Why didn’t he stay in the bar and get smashed?

Even odder was the behaviour of two other England stars, Adam Lallana and Jordan Henderson. They made a 220-mile round trip from their hotel in Hertfordshire to visit a strip club, For Your Eyes Only, in Bournemouth. Bournemouth! Don’t they have naked women in Herts? I thought one of the points of having all these millions – and a vast office staff employed by your agent – is that anything you want gets fixed for you. Why couldn’t dancing girls have been shuttled into another hotel down the road? Or even to the lads’ own hotel, dressed as French maids?

In the years when I travelled with the Spurs team, it was quite common in provincial towns, after a Saturday game, for players to pick up girls at a local club and share them out.

Like top pop stars, top clubs have fixers who can sort out most problems, and pleasures, as well as smart solicitors and willing police superintendents to clear up the mess afterwards.

The England players had a night off, so they weren’t breaking any rules, even though they were going to play Spain 48 hours later. It sounds like off-the-cuff, spontaneous, home-made fun. In Wayne’s case, he probably thought he was doing good, being approachable, as England captain.

Quite why the other two went to Bournemouth was eventually revealed by one of the tabloids. It is Lallana’s home town. He obviously said to Jordan Henderson, “Hey Hendo, I know a cool club. They always look after me. Quick, jump into my Bentley . . .”

They spent only two hours at the club. Henderson drank water. Lallana had a beer. Don’t call that much of a night out.

In the days of Jimmy Greaves, Tony Adams, Roy Keane, or Gazza in his pomp, they’d have been paralytic. It was common for players to arrive for training still drunk, not having been to bed.

Peter Crouch, the former England player, 6ft 7in, now on the fringes at Stoke, came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage