We Are One?
A certain leader of the opposition is hanging his hat on the mantra of “One Nation” and for the next two years or so we will hear a lot of this as he scrambles for the ultimate seat of power, seeking our love, admiration and trust. Politicians like to bleat on about how we are all in it together at the moment – in other words up to our necks – but most of us know fortunes vary widely in modern Britain. Living in a place like Bradford demonstrates this as well as anywhere else currently as the city offers the casual observer many contrasting views. And to get a perspective of what I mean, there are few better ways than to get on yer bike, especially on a bright and beautiful autumnal day.
So, with a rather fuzzy head and a body in need of one of Lance Armstrong’s alleged blood transfusions, I set off with fellow young dopes and domestiques, Marsy and Racing Snake. In the world of professional cycling, something our One Nation (if you include the Scots for now) does really well, the role of the domestiques is critical to the successes of the likes of Bradley Wiggins, winner of the recent Tour de France and Olympic gold medallist. It is a hugely unselfish role with the sole aim of getting one man across the line as a result of a team effort. Most weekends, as we venture out for our recreational rides, there are times we also play at being domestiques as well, if only to get us home as bodies tire and yet another hill looms.
All For One, One For All!
In our ever changing, mythical “team”, Marsy is often the domestique derrière – in charge of bringing up the rear – which he does most weeks huffing and puffing sweating out the ale, whilst Racing Snake is the domestique le gradient – responsible for making hills look smaller than we all know they really are. As domestique le old goat I know I am there simply to give the guys hope that there is life after 40 even if it sweats like a sponge and wishes it had stayed in the night before as it had promised to do.
I am sure that Team Sky’s preparation does not include anywhere a gallon of ale as a prerequisite and that nobody on the expensively prepared team has ever rolled up as Marsy did proclaiming “I’m ****ed…sod this for a game of soldiers!” After some gentle coaxing and promises (and many more lies) of an easy day, eventually we were off. Traversing the canal and the river and climbing quickly onto Baildon Moor, the vista was spectacular and hard to believe that most of it is actually Bradford. Apparently, some 66% of Bradford is deemed “rural” and very appealing on the eye too; the fact that the dimwits at City Hall can only focus on a £30m foot wash to bang on about as a tourist attraction is a touch perplexing.
Englnd My England
After about an hour it was clear that our domestique derrière was actually blowing badly out of his derrière so an inducement of tea and cakes was the only way to save the day; trouble was Racing Snake’s assertion that the 6 miles to Ilkley was “all downhill” was pure New Labour spin. As we set off we passed a lovely lady gently cycling along, basket perched on the front of her bike; in the sprint finish a few miles later she totally creamed Marsy. After several very naughty hills, we eventually descended rapidly past the Cow and Calf rocks with whoops from Basket Woman and into Bradford’s very own Covent Garden, the floral, affluent town of Ilkley, some ten miles or so from the centre of the abyss.
Now it is a bone of contention with some in Ilkley that Bradford retains “control” over this genteel little town yet it remains part of the Bradford Metropolitan area despite having a Leeds postcode as some form of protectionism to already outlandish property values. It may have very little in common with its downbeat parent suffering hard times and lurching towards a slow death, but the affluent upstart would do well to remember that much of the wealth that resides here was generated in the industries of cities like Bradford and Leeds. Where there’s muck there’s brass and there’s not a great deal of muck in Ilkley – which, of course, is a large part of its appeal.
A Cream Tea in Ilkley
Watching the world go by with our much cherished refreshments, hoping Marsy would wake up, it was hard not to muse on the stark contrast between here and back across the hills with Bradford’s much promised retail face-lift resembling a giant, festering pock mark via the now infamous hole in the ground surrounded by a break out of pound shops. We were, quite simply, in a different world of independent retailers, coffee shops adorning the pavements and people walking with a confident strut; recession, what recession? And this, frankly, is why we all know Miliband is talking rubbish; there never was and never will be One Nation.
I Want One!
Soon we were talking rubbish too having convinced the domestique derrière that there was no danger of him having a heart attack on the climb back out of tinsel town. As Marsy sought the local train times we had to gently coax him into a more positive mindset knowing full well that as far as the return journey went it was all uphill. At one point a little old lady pottered past aided by her mechanical trolley and Marsy eyed it jealously. Were anybody taking odds on who might be quicker back up the hill the old lady was an evens favourite.
The Only Way Is Up
So I volunteered to follow him – not a pleasant job – with the sole aim of motivating him back to the top and for a while – a mile or so actually – I became the domestique derrière. Once again, pausing to take in the views (and several deep breaths) the scenery was beautiful. Miles and miles of green and pleasant land making you wonder why we are all crammed into cities, fighting for space to live: making you wonder why we keep cramming more into the same confined spaces: making you wonder why thousands more come flooding in with no prospects of jobs: making you wonder why they have the gall to gush of One Nation. Wealth grows, wealth escapes the hordes, wealth chases spaces and wealth rarely ever looks back no matter what the view.
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