Twenty-five years on the road and no more dangerous time of the year was when the sun came out. Concentration wavered and near misses were a plenty. So a trip down the garden centre should be safe?
There she was walking through the herb section, impossibly tight vest and curves to swap my tomato plants for. Doddery old men were being cast pitying glances from weary wives. I secretly hoped the sprinkler system would activate.
Of course, I paid scant attention and shall be suing as somebody must have put that plant pot there on purpose. Decorum out of the window and one broken plastic pot it was time to retreat.
Old Bradford
Almost on the very spot this photo was taken rises the new Westfield shopping centre in Bradford. Hope springs eternal that the mistakes so in evidence here from the 1960s are not repeated.
Judging from the picture, some people really don’t progress that much from those early days with the Lego set. Take a look on Facebook at “Old Photos of Bradford” and some wonderfully potent images.
The Not So Beautiful Game
Football’s back, then again, it never really goes away. The game is like a bad rash that you know may calm for a while but will eventually erupt in time as the poison at it’s very core has never been dealt with.
Old sleazy – Sepp Blatter, FIFA President and a man to rival Robert Mugabe in terms of how to do it by the book – must have his head stuck hopefully in a Swiss cuckoo clock with the current bribes scandal surrounding the award of the 2022 World Cup to Qatar.
Football has been dirty for as long as man has learnt to kick a ball and take a tumble shrieking “Ref!!!”. Blatter has just taken it to new lows.
With the “rewards” astronomical these days football has alienated many that used to enjoy it for the purity of the game alone. Perhaps we should not expect much when young men escape stacking shelves and are paid six figures a week.
There cannot be a man on the planet that was surprised something fishy appears to be behind the Qatar success, especially with their sterling record of contribution to the world football stage.
However, I will wager a bet with anyone that absolutely nothing happens here and Blatter’s world runs smoothly on; why? Simply because this gravy train is so big and so brimming to the rafters now, that nobody wants to upset it and risk losing their own little piece.
Sheikh Loadsamoney will get his World Cup and heads of state will flock despite the heat to watch the carnival, parking their human rights’ issues conveniently for just as long as is required to take a selfie.
The only realistic threat to expose this rotten charade is if the major sponsors – so normally protective of their squeaky clean brands – take the moral high ground for once.
Slave labour employed in their thousands by a filthy oil-rich state for less than the price of a Big Mac a day; just the kind of values you want your brand associated with.
Sadly, expecting anyone of the likes of Adidas, Budweiser, Sony, Visa and the rest to break from the pack is hopeful to the extreme. After all, the next world cup is being staged by that lovely chap Mr Putin.
Beautiful game?
Saturdays With Molly
There are days that are termed as slow news days; this was one of them. The opposition turned up with a clear desire not to spend too long this close to Bradford city centre. Get out they must and that is what their batters did.
Game over before the teas were ready and Molly sensing an avalanche of Saltaire Blonde with Carol preparing the shed for the night.
The only notable occurrence all day was Ripple’s arrival, dragging along Our Jordan, Big Geoff and Silent Barry; four generations of the Towers’ clan – if you count canines – as he sought out the donated new rose bush and promptly shat on it.
Clearly Ripple could not see the aesthetic appeal of a pink rose bush in Critics’ Corner; then again Chief Critic Granville, high on whisky as ever, thought we were now growing opium to alleviate the pain of watching the Villas.
Showing devotion way beyond duty, after manhandling his doings into the plastic bag, off sloped Geoff to take Ripple for a shower!
Most of the players don’t even shower and yet there was Ripple, soap suds flowing, tongue out as Big Geoff manhandled him roughly with Molly’s loofer and some Lynx gel.
Far too content with life, out came Ripple to bask in the sun and await tea which, as I said, came far too early.
The Bit in the Middle
There was fear in the committee room pre Christmas when Donald, our groundsman of many years, announced that he was stepping down.
Not that any of us were scared of a bit of work and did not secretly relish sitting astride the mower, but what did we really know about his secret garden and a garage brimming with weird contraptions.
Several months on, a group of us convene each Monday morning as if competing to charm a buxom blond with our efforts to create a cricketing heaven.
Weeds are greeted with the same shock as those early teenage pimples and grass is coaxed like Jennifer Anniston’s hair.
Those 500 square yards get more attention than our long suffering ladies as we brush and scarify, sweep and cut, finishing with white lines marked with as much care as a Picasso.
And at the end of the morning we gather for prayers – please no rain – cocooned in our garage with the kettle on and a chocolate mountain (meant for the juniors) there for our consumption.
Is this where it all ends and dementia finally takes root?
Pathetic Politics
Stuffed out of sight in the recent elections old hapless Cleggy plunged new depths the other day when he went on a blind date with his “chum” Vince “Judas” Cable.
Accidently meeting at a pub (conveniently in front of the British media) they shared tales of days gone by…when nobody knew who they were and nobody really cared, as is so clearly the case now.
The spin doctors will have decided that the UKIP surge is all because their leader likes a pint; cue our leaders doing the same. Utter bollocks!
Many more of us like a pint too but thanks to the limp and ineffective responses from Cable’s office, the pubcos continue to do as they please, shutting more pubs weekly, strangled by their financial mismanagement and sky-high prices.
Nauseating beyond belief, this stage managed photo shoot sums up the contempt modern day politicians have for the broad electorate. Bye bye lads you’ve been a right laugh.
Meanwhile, proving the disconnect between Westminster and local politics, the local Lib Dems were out in force at another series of green fields under threat from developers.
The reality is that my local MP, David Ward, will probably lose his seat next year despite many years served as a local councillor and the last four as an active MP for Bradford North.
I don’t share his politics but the man gets stuck in for the people he represents. It is depressing to think that, driven by promises of handouts from an empty purse, a Miliband stooge may be inserted to represent us.
Even more depressing it could be elevation time for Cllr Ear Ring, leader of t’Council; good God no! Time to evacuate!
And so I will make an offer to Dave to become his campaign manager; we shall start by drinking pints served by Our Jackie at the Scruffy and seek a full spread photo shoot in The Thackley Trumpit.
How about it Dave as your road to salvation?
The School Run
The godson is back in town and school is not quite out forever. Off the hook this week, I know the call is coming soon to collect the little cherub, disrupting my prized siesta.
I stand there outside the school doors awaiting a deluge of mad-eyed kids wondering – as I always have – what could possibly be the attraction of having one of these things.
Mums stand in the playground talking casually eyeing each other up and down with barely hidden contempt.
“Bit too much slap on for this playground love?”
“Those trousers shrink in the wash?”
“You stink of gin!”
The odd dad rolls up, having had to drag himself away from Sky Sports News as do grandparents wondering what to do with the little horrors for the next few hours till Countdown starts.
Teachers open the doors and breath air again with that “I’m free…stuff the marking where’s the pub!” look.
And I stand there safe in the protective bubble of my little world knowing this is not really happening to me and soon it will all be over…till the next time.
Pensioners’ Pilates
Teacher Lisa came out with a classic the other day. As the heaters kicked in and old Audrey started to shed layers, she offered the following instructions ahead of another tortuous exercise straight from the Guantanamo Bay gym.
“Right, I want you to lay on your backs, feet in the air and push your nipples to the ceiling” simultaneously demonstrating by shoving her magnificent chest out in the general direction of what we know as Crematorium Corner.
The old dears looked confused and worried.
“They’ve not pointed that way since D-Day” said Audrey.
As it was the anniversary of D-Day, sat amongst a group of people that may well have lived through this, I mused that we could never really understand what they and their generations went through.
As I picked up the paper at the counter, the headline was about some twat called Justin Bieber; then I knew we just did not get it.
My Father’s Son?
After several pulls, nothing was happening. I yanked a bit harder, fiddled some more but no life was forthcoming. The big roller was refusing my efforts to coax it to life.
My dad’s engineering heritage must have left some traces I thought, so I took out the spark plug, found Donald’s old nail brush in the toolkit and cleaned where I thought you needed to clean. I shoved it back in and pulled again…nothing.
When Tony arrived to manage the junior game I sought his expert engineering advice…and asked for a push back into the garage.
“See this” he said with a slightly concerned look on his face “it’s called an ‘On’ switch!”
And with that irrefutable evidence we both concluded that some people – me – should simply leave machines well alone.
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