My opening theme this week follows a tour of some of the newly opened bars in what is known now as Bradford’s Independent Quarter.
Prompted by the newly elected Head of PR – one Mr Galloway – I decided to see what all the brew ha ha was (groan?) and chose local tour guide, Mr Molyneux to lead me by the nose.
I called early on Sunday morning to assess whether Molly would be free to “guide” me. He opened the door in his comely towelling dressing gown, revealing far too much breast for me at this particular point, and with a nod over his shoulder, he said.
“Have to check with the missus but got her like putty in me ‘and these days lad…see you at four!”
Way back in the 1980s – before faded politicians saw my hometown as an easy few quid – Bradford’s nightlife outshone any around.
We had Cloud Nine, JB’s, Ely McFly’s, Blue Lace and the legendary last chance hotel – VIPs – where no matter how pissed you were, the sticky carpet would hold you upright long enough to survey the “talent”.
Weighing up your choices – one more beer and a tilt at Roxanne from Ravenscliffe or a Keema – the food always won the day.
Then came the dark days and Manor Row, the centre of our adolescent universes, died on it’s feet as did most of the city centre.
For the best part of two decades, many people like myself have had no reason to spend – time and money, night or day – in the city of our birth.
Whisper it quietly though and things may well be on the up. The Westfield shopping centre opens this year and people will flock there as they do to all such venues; if the nearby White Rose is regularly rammed then no reason why Westfield should not be either.
Leading the way to revive the city as a night time venue are a raft of small bars on North Parade and Molly led his flock earnestly to the first; The Sparrow.
Furnished with my Gran’s old cast-offs, this is simplicity in itself. A wonderful atmosphere in pared down surroundings, it’s the sort of place you could drink all day; fortunately we didn’t as Molly had more to show us.
Next we were off to a cocktail bar, surely not to Leeds already, but no, Bradford has a cocktail bar too. Admittedly, it’s nowhere near as opulent as the flashy bars in Leeds but who was drinking cocktails anyway? Another simple, laid-back format that seems to work well.
We were off again as our tour guide caught the mood and the grip of the Missus loosened with every vodka she downed. We passed a very nice looking bar called The Brew Haus which was a bit posh for the tour guide as we headed for The Record Cafe.
“‘Ee” said Molly “tha’ll like this. They do posh bacon from a big leg!”
I swear my eyes moistened slightly at memories of Saturday nights and the Kebab Caravan outside the old Registry Office. Sundays at the Salmonella Clinic were always well attended.
I have to admit this was my favourite – if only marginally – with a great format serving anti pasti ; bloody hell we were in Leeds!
It was so chilled not even the thought of a half-naked Molly only a few hours ago could shake me nor Marsy, who managed to find the most expensive can of beer on the planet here; be careful who you drink with!
At this point I have to confess that I had been taking notes all evening but these appear to become somewhat unreadable at this point.
Reliant on my memory only, we made the final push to the Bradford Brewery to visit those naughty boys and girls who, following a series of jolly japes with a certain local parliamentary candidate, had attracted some 3,000 new Twitter followers over the weekend.
In terms of publicity this was their Saatchi and Saatchi moment; why thank you dear George at last you’ve done something good for Bradford!
Another simple format, where the quality of the product on offer matters far more than upholstery fabric, I wish I could tell you more.
However, I began to hear heavenly voices – a church service in a pub…how novel – it was time to head back to my own church and the Reverends Michael and Sarah for evening prayers in my local parish.
Great bars, good people and a long overdue sign that Bradford may once again be somewhere special. Who knows, we may even get some half-decent MPs representing the views of the long-suffering majority?
Risible?
Everything Changes…That’s A Fact
On Sky News the other day was a feature that mercilessly did not contain one politician; the subject was how we are changing our recreational pursuits.
Focusing on the growth of weekend park runs and an apparent surge in participants, the piece contrasted the declining numbers in team sports such as football (down 6%) and cricket (quoted at down 14%). If you talk to those engaged in other sports, such as rugby, the picture is much the same.
The stark reality is that activities such as fun runs are “bite size” and require little commitment; plus they are crammed into a relatively short space of time. Entering a team in a league is altogether different.
Look at the surge in gyms too; okay so we are still a nation of fatties but we kid ourselves that going to the gym once a week is keeping us in trim. We live in a take-away society.
As the new cricket season approaches, clubs’ up and down the country will be coaxing young and old to make up the numbers at some point during the season. Selectors will have phones glued to heads as geriatrics search out the Deep Heat.
Administrators continue to fail to see that we have a product that has lost mass appeal in a much changed society. It matters not what we enjoyed if it is not relevant now.
Instead, they muck around at the fringes with internet scoring, fielding circles and bloody Twitter which is woeful stuff, hacks off the few remaining volunteers and does little to attack the real issues.
For many, this is recreational sport and has become too long for all but the better players. For us at the “neck end” of our playing careers (you mean past it? Ed) three hours in the field under a baking sun is the equivalent of a desert march.
Contrast the young though and two anecdotal comments from the weekend – that I amazingly remembered – reflecting why so few kids make the transition from junior to senior cricket.
This from a mum of a ten year-old: “At his school they have no competitive sport so when he comes to the club and tries to adapt to a team environment he’s lost.”
And from a fellow junior coach: “We’ve 120 juniors and can’t get any of them to play Saturdays!”
The dressing room is still the main reason us oldies keep rolling up for it’s unrivalled camaraderie, less than PC observations on all manner of topics and the friendships that endure way beyond sport. That many of today’s kids will never experience this is pitiful.
There is no cure-all but anything is better than this slow death, so apparent for the best part of the last decade. Shorter formats, family friendly structures, greater inclusiveness for players and a drastic reduction in pointless administration may help.
Can we keep a few oldies in the game longer? Would a shorter format encourage more kids? What is certain is that doing nothing cannot be the answer.
Dear Administrators – I know you read this – wake up please.
Hammer Time – The Last Time?
I had her pinned against the wall, sunshine on our backs, out on the patio for a bit of springtime alfresco. Pounding away furiously, I slipped in quickly but then, suddenly and unaccountably, my little tool stopped wiggling.
I pulled out, wiped it clean, blew a bit of debris off and then plunged back in; a quick thrash about and then, dead again. Not to be defeated, one more clean-off and back in again; a whine, a phut followed by a limp whir before the final groan.
Lifeless, stuck in place, nothing left to offer; I was spent. Back to Herr Aldi and, whilst the meatballs may be great, the drills are shit.
RIP Richie Benaud
I woke up this morning to the sad news of a true great’s passing; the word “great” is tossed around these days like confetti but this man truly was. Whilst I never saw him play, I’ve spent decades listening to his unrivalled commentaries on the game of cricket.
Today feels like one of those childhood days when I woke up, turned down the blinds, ordered breakfast (from my Mother) and turned on BBC1 only to see the covers on and Richie – apologetic almost for the weather – informing us of no cricket today.
Greatest ever Aussie? Surely a contender.
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