Forgive me Father for I have sinned!
Desperate to avoid The Scruffy and an offer of membership from Nob ‘Ed Korner by way of qualifying hours since the end of the summer, I decided on a day-trip to Posh Bradford last Sunday.
You see I have a mate who now lives there as part of their migrant adoption policy for scruffy lads from Poor Bradford.
On Friday I’d been downtown to Poor Bradford and the bustling Independent Quarter with another who had fled the madness years ago. We’d ended the night drinking rhubarb and custard beer in the marvellous Al’s Dime Bar – go seek it out – so what could Posh Bradford offer?
Ilkley it was and an afternoon with JB who now considers himself gentrified. He was nipping across the border to come pick me up, an experience not for the faint-hearted.
Being driven by the little man is a hazardous business at the best of times but, late as ever and ticking like a bomb, I could barely look as he tail-gated the Sunday drivers, eyes bulging, gesticulating like an Italian.
The debris strewn Audi was a threat to my finest Sunday dress as the little man worked his way up and down the gears like Lewis Hamilton.
“If this speed limit wasn’t 40mph there would be no problem” he screamed over the roar of the Audi engine as we flew up Hollins Hill, oblivious to the numerous rebuilt sections of the wall where 40mph did look sound advice.
We eventually reached Ilkley allowing me to uncover my eyes and pop my ears. Dalesview is Lady Sally’s B&B and, sensibly, nowhere does it make any mention of the little man.
He kindly offered me a cup of tea as Lady Sally was out but I knew that he was banned from the kitchen and politely declined.
Eventually we strolled into the centre; it was nice to see the Bradford gentry flowing up and down the pavements, comforted by the same array of charity shops back in Poor Bradford, just selling posher stuff and conveniently in English.
In years gone by folk used to go to Bridlington for the weekend; now it’s Ilkley in the hope of being seen by someone who will assume you actually live there as long as you can pull off the accent.
Those that have moved across refuse to admit any connection with their sordid pasts and the Leftie Loons that run Poor Bradford. In Posh Bradford they even have an LS postcode and secretly long to be associated with Leeds…run by another bunch of Leftie Loons.
{For balance I will be having a pop at the Nasty Right later}
I’d broken the devastating news to Big Al and Patch that they would be bereft of my company later at The Scruffy and would have to entertain the feisty barmaid Norah alone. How would I cope with such a seismic change to my weekly routine?
Not too well as it turned out. Having managed to get off the train at the right spot – bonus – it was there that I faltered and shamed myself; the evil drink had cursed me once again.
I woke up the following day and could barely look myself in the mirror. At my age surely I should know better; contrition, shame and utter disgust flowed through my body.
If drink induced such recklessness it was time for a long hard look at myself. I could still taste the Zinger Burger and salty fries…I had been violated…again…by a KFC!
The Law Of Unintended Consequences.
Those clever boys at Private Eye (1403) have been quick to point out what can only be described as a good old-fashioned cock-up by the chancellor at his speech to the party faithful recently in Manchester.
Styling himself as George the Builder, whilst also promising to devolve business rates in full to local councils, presents a tricky conflict of interests.
As councils are urged to prioritise house building on brownfield sites – apart from in Bradford where any green field will do – surely they will seek to retain these as potential future commercial use to swell their coffers?
If that means a few more fields get torn up and communities blighted – see T&A piece from the weekend – then who can really stop the developers anyway?
Locally we await another Government decision on the still open spaces on Cote Farm. Don’t hold your breath for justice and localism.
Ghost Town
Being the natural breeding ground for a previously endangered species – Twats – London now has an abundance of supply and no better evidenced by Channel 4’s look at the madness of the UK property market, Million Pound Properties.
There was little new to discover here in Episode 1 (and one was enough of this rubbish) with the comparison of a lighthouse in Wales, a castle in Scotland and a shoebox in London all seeking price tags in excess of £1m.
No programme like this is complete without the obnoxious, self-centred, oily estate agent whose vocabulary consists entirely of superlatives – peppered with gasps, mainly at his commission – whether describing a luxury pad or a block of shithouses.
The Twat is alive and well and this programme has found a gem of the species.
The unctuous Toby even appears in his own promotional video – see if you can watch it without developing an instant desire to punch his lights out.
Incredibly he manages to sell the shoe box, with a balcony just about large enough for a couple of pigeons, for a staggering £995,000, despite his client even suggesting he was crooked.
He joyously describes the balcony as a sun-trap and wedged in you can snort the polluted air all day for your million quid.
Equally suited for television is Dwayne, a self-made bling addict with teeth like a piano. Dwayne wants to buy a castle and drag his family into the middle of nowhere. Why? Just because he can.
You suspect the poor soul just wants to be on television so he can show everybody how well he’s done and how many pairs of white trousers a middle-aged man can wear in a day. He was made for Hello!
According – again – to Private Eye – “one in six homes sold in Westminster and Kensington & Chelsea over the last three years…was bought by a company in an offshore tax haven.”
The ripple out effects here impact way beyond London as “for those with serious and often pretty dubious money, it’s offshore business as usual.” Who cares where the money comes from? Not the Government – see below.
The one island of common sense came from a man selling up in London, having bought his house way before the influx of dirty foreign money, crooked city boys, sleazy bankers, pitiful politicians and brainless footballers.
Making the case for Average Joe, he ponders just where normal people will live in the future in London? Even in downtown Bangladesh – Tower Hamlets – ex-council flats are now close to a million. It is madness and it cannot surely be sustainable.
Soon, hordes of Londoners will be cashing in and turning the leafy shires into Chav Land. Who will be left to drive the buses, nurse the ill, navigate the taxis and teach the kids not able to enjoy a private education?
And it’s not just happening in London.
This town, is coming like a ghost town
Why must the youth fight against themselves?
Government leaving the youth on the shelf
This place, is coming like a ghost town
Ghost Town – The Specials
Chinese Take Away
Kissing up to our new chums the Chinese this week reflected more depressing truths about our weak elite.
At the same time, politicians in the Commons were admitting to being helpless in relation to thousands of steel British workers losing their jobs, Chief Chinky was getting the London Tour, minus the Tower, which I am sure he would have admired for the odd dissenter back home.
In the land of free speech and human rights, protesters were corralled by police out of sight and ear-shot.
The fact that Chinese workers can produce steel cheaper on a bowl of rice a day, sod the carbon emissions or workers’ rights, was conveniently ignored. As have been areas key to the North here.
In the same breath they tell us that Europe can do little either – despite the fact few in Europe seem to be suffering the same fate or observing the “rules” – but also that Europe is really good for us. So please don’t vote to leave or there will be no plummy jobs for us.
The Northern Powerhouse once again looks a patronising fairy tale. It is a classic failure of ordinary people and was shameful and pathetic to see.
Ha so!
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