With less than forty days to the General Election it is fair to say the country is in a state of weary apathy already with promises, promises and more promises.
The first leaders “debate” told us nothing about the respective “qualities” of the contenders for No 10 and apparently only one in fifteen voters actually watched Jeremy Paxman go through his entire pantomime villain routine.
Red Ed came away pleased as punch having stumbled on a new war cry of “Hell yes!” Hell no if that buffoon ever gets near No 10.
People’s apathy is largely because politics is a squalid business at the top table; way down in the basement though, it is positively sewer-like.
Consider this from the Telegraph & Argus.
“Four independent Bradford councillors have rejoined the Respect Party…Faisal Khan (Bradford Moor), Alyas Karmani (Little Horton), Ishtiaq Ahmed (Manningham) and Ruqayyah Collector (City) were originally elected to the Council for Respect in the 2012 but quit en-masse in 2013.”
These four principled folk had neither the guts, morality nor the conviction to seek re-election having jumped ship from old George first time around, choosing to declare themselves “Independent” and continue taking the money, saying all you need to know about them.
That my home town has people of this base-like morality and flip-flop politics actually participating in its management is thoroughly depressing.
“I am delighted to welcome our four comrades back and am looking forward to working with them in the future” said George.
One more nail in the coffin for a once proud city but surely the voters of Bradford West cannot be so dopey again?
Fortitude
Although the Chancellor recently knocked a mighty penny a pint off the price of our favourite tipple, the stark reality for many is that prices are going up regardless this week and few will understand why. Go easy on your local, it ain’t their fault.
Way back in December our suppliers at the cricket club advised us that, due to ever-increasing costs, the price of a pint would have to go up in the region of 10p. Given we are in an era of almost deflation this is hard to fathom.
The breweries spin the same old yarns in good and bad times and landlords have little option but to enforce the increases.
Adopting a less than scientific analysis, Big Al reflected in solemn mood at the weekend, faced with his favourite Blonde reaching the dizzy heights of £3 a pint.
“I said I would give up when it got to 50p a pint!” as he drained the latest victim and lumbered to the bar.
One for his headstone?
Lost
In last week’s blog, newly appointed Chairman of the English Cricket Board, Colin Graves, was quoted describing the difficulty of keeping young kids involved in the game of cricket; and by the way it is not just cricket that faces such challenges.
“I’ve seen over recent years that the younger generation get to 15, 16 or 17 and then other things take over their lives quickly.”
With numbing precision, the same day I received an email from an admittedly disappointed parent, thanking us as coaches for all our hard work over several years with the young man in question but that he was jacking it in.
Now I would not pretend this youngster was going to turn around English cricket but, very gradually, he had shown consistent improvement after hours of coaxing along. Worse still, we lose a parent that actually got stuck in too, so a double kick in the old knackers.
After all these years you start to get immune to this stuff for there are larger forces at play here. A complete absence of competitive team sport at school coupled with crap diets and a sedentary, plugged-in society are killing grassroots sports.
Love him or loathe him, Jamie Oliver has launched yet another new initiative – Food Revolution Day in the face of appalling worldwide statistics on childhood obesity.
However, laudable as this is you sense it can only play but a small part in a global attempt to prevent the stark probability that generations of young people will have lives shorter than their parents due, in large part, to piss poor physical conditioning.
On Saturday it was National Cricket Force Day when volunteers up and down the land silently slid out of bed, collected a paint brush or two from the garage and arrived to give their old grounds a fresh lick of paint ahead of the new season.
Luckily we had enough volunteers to start the Forth Bridge but, as the rain piled down, it was clear it would be a struggle to spin the tasks out till the pub opened.
Unfastening our outdoor nets with a howling gale backing up the torrential rain, Pete and I lamented on what numerous generations has missed out on with this growing apathy towards team sport.
We considered the highs and lows of competition, the unique blend of characters in any dressing room and the lifelong friendships that resulted, the complicated paths of personal lives, the challenges of creaking bodies and the undeniable camaraderie.
“And just think” said Pete “none of them will ever experience being ten foot up a ladder, piss wet through with borderline pneumonia in a Force Seven just to hit a ball or two!”
He doesn’t say much our Pete but when he does it’s on the money.
Hammer Time
For a few weeks, Cricket Widow had been asking me to use my new toy to mount something heavier than normal (surely not a cheap fatty joke about the Missus? Ed).
Her new acquisition had lain propped against the sofa, awaiting it’s ceremonial hanging, gathering dust; it was time. Capable of crushing a skull from a height of five feet, I requested she seek out some strong string for this relic from Bargain Hunt 1985.
So, it was no surprise to be given a roll of darning cotton and a hopeful shrug of the shoulders. The blind really were leading the blind; where was Patch when you really needed him?
I strapped on my tool regardless, rubbed my chuck, inserted my hardened 8mm and bashed away; I slid in quite easily almost ending up face first where “X” marked the spot.
Soon I was grinding away but getting nowhere, sweat dripping as the room submerged under a red cloud of…fire brick dust! Sometimes you just have to fake it; so I climaxed my efforts and slid in a shorter effort than planned. Would it stay in and for how long?
Even the cat knows not to hang around in the vicinity of the future crash site now and any suggestions for a quick roll on the rug may need suitable protection.
It seems that I may be one of the reasons B&Q have decided DIY is a dying art.
Modern British Morality?
A story broke in Private Eye (1388) – subsequently almost repeated word for word in The Sunday Times – that should concern anyone who currently works for or has any connection with Bhs, formerly known as British Home Stores and part of our high streets since 1929.
The business has been sold by Sir Philip Green’s Arcadia Group to a bunch of directors with no retail experience, a trail of personal bankruptcies and CVs that suggest running a business employing 11,000 people may be a stretch. Reading further it seems the local chippie may be beyond them.
How and why does this happen – in far fewer words that the above publications – and what of the future for Bhs?
The business was losing money and if Green, acknowledged as a master of retail, could not make it work then what of the new crew and what’s in it for them?
Green has sold Bhs for the token quid plus left it with a dowry of £90m cash according to the Eye. The purchasers get a business losing £40m a year and a pension fund with a £100m plus black hole.
I am no city whizz kid but here is what will happen sure as the day I was born. The business will go bust – it may take a few years – and in the meantime and despite assurances to the contrary, the new owners line their pockets and enjoy their time in the spotlight.
Ching ching!
Green in his own words has been quoted distancing himself from the inevitable already. “If I give you my plane and you tell me you’re a great driver (driver?) and you crash it into the first ****ing mountain, is that my fault?”
Not a great sentiment given recent events and missing out on the obvious that nothing in their respective track records suggests he has sold to anybody “great”.
The precedent? Comet, sold in 2011 with a £50m dowry, tits up one year later and 6,000 people out of a job. One more sign of the dirty rich, some dirty tricks and a total absence of any morality.
More on the Muppets
This week’s Private Eye (1389) features the campaign to save this grand old building from the lunatics at the asylum down in the dip…wonder who sent them this?
“…one might have thought that in Bradford, where much of the architectural heritage and character has been destroyed, the council might be anxious to preserve such things.”
Not, I am afraid, in Dave’s grim wasteland.
Have a great Easter weekend.
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