It was a very strange start to the week I have to confess, largely because I was in de-clutter mode. I had also been listening to George talking fervently about the Northern Powerhouse, halfway into Monday, although barely a bone had moved at this powerhouse.
These days there are all manner of outlets that will buy your crap. Not wishing to tackle the online fraternity nor end up on Bargain Hunt, I decided to explore the mystical world of Cash Converters.
I was selling a bike which, technically, belonged to Patch’s daughter – consequently almost new and never seen wind or rain – but “gifted” to me in case I needed to exercise the odd woman along the canal tow-path – consequently rarely moved from my garage.
I rang the local Cash Converters in nearby Shipley – a ghost town frequented by cider drinkers and zombies – and was told to bring some ID for the trade to take place.
On a windswept and rainy day, typically I had to park a few hundred yards away and wheel the bike through the hordes of winos enjoying the midday Pissed Powerhouse Hour, oblivious to George’s optimism across in Manchester.
Inside you get directed to a booth where Aaron looked me up and down with disdain despite my business attire; just like the neighbours, he must have thought I had got dressed and gone out to pretend I was actually working.
I handed my ID and instantly thought someone would come out from the counter, cuff me and that would be that. He asked what I was selling so he must have thought the suit was on offer too.
I explained to him that the bike had to go as cycling with a girlfriend was very damaging to any relationship unless it was Victoria Pendleton, the like of which I had yet to witness blowing out of her arse on the Leeds-Liverpool canal.
The male normally gets hypothermia travelling slower than a three-legged turtle whilst resisting the temptation to sing Queen songs about fat bottomed girls. Meanwhile, the female requires a pursuit car from the St John’s Ambulance and scuba divers on alert.
A lack of obvious sympathy for various mishaps can also endanger the male via a potential drowning in the canal too; far better to rid myself of this thing and stick to Salts Mill in future.
“How much do you need?” asked Aaron. Did he think I had swiped it and was about to shove the proceeds up my nose?
“No idea mate but could you make the cheque payable to the White Bear, Idle please?” Strangely he did not seem to find this funny.
Being a salesman myself – of sorts – we are notorious for being crap at negotiating so I agreed a derisory sum and cold hard cash was slid my way across the counter. Before I left though I got an unexpected sales pitch.
“If you need a loan anytime just let us know” said Aaron. This suit was definitely going in the bin! “And if you have anything else to sell…” At last a final resting place for my collection of David Soul albums I thought.
On my way out West clutching my dirty money, I wondered where I could launder it safely and quickly, just in case any strange substances were present. Raymond Town Menswear – Autumn collection just in – sprung instantly to mind and in an instant trickle down had become trickle up.
My budget surplus had vanished into a trade deficit and I sensed George would not be calling me into the Treasury any time soon.
How Developers Talk Bollocks
Readers here will know what I think about the many housing developments going on across this part of Bradford – see The Changing Face of Bradford – so imagine my reaction to the pile of blurb that landed on the doormat recently.
This concerns the proposed conversion of the vacated Dunnes store into a new Aldi and Home Bargains. Presented as a consultancy document – despite that fact that these are done deals – some of the claims made are clearly done so on the assumption people are simply thick.
We already have two Aldi stores two miles down the road in opposite directions. In addition, Bradford has more discount shops than Kabul and Idle has it’s share, as it does of supermarkets.
So the claim that this will “offer local choice…” by the “re-introduction of a supermarket…” conveniently ignores the fact that locally we have Morrisons, Sainsburys, Asda and the Co-Op.
It gets better with the twin claims of reductions in travel time and CO2 emissions, presumably with as much validity as a Volkswagen promise.
The spin gets into overdrive with the promise that this will be a “catalyst for further investment and economic growth” . This is a supermarket not a hi-tech manufacturing facility!
Above all though the most laughable is the first claim made for a “comprehensive redevelopment of a brownfield site which does not contribute to the current street scene…” The site is next door to a factory for God’s sake.
At several sites locally developers are digging up green fields and sticking down £300k boxes that few from Bradford will be able to afford, even with recent increases in the minimum wage which is what most supermarket staff get.
Our Council are utterly hopeless in preventing any of this for reasons explained previously. It is, frankly, quite depressing as are the numerous wails from people protesting about vanishing fields yet seemingly delirious that Aldi are coming to town.
DIY and Me
Only the third Saturday of a long winter and, as I lay in bed surprisingly bereft of a hangover, how to fill the hours till Church – The Scruffy – and England’s date with rugby destiny occupied my mind.
It was time to put the allotment to bed if I could haul my arse out of mine; the runner beans had run their last this summer.
Job done and still with time to kill I thought it might be a good idea to give the driveway wall a fresh lick of paint for winter. Off I ventured to the mystifying world of the DIY store, a place where men like me should be barred and turned away at the doors.
I’d had the wall done last year costing me more than a Caribbean cruise despite my pitiful efforts at imitating a builder’s labourer. To save a few quid I’d painted it myself.
According to Dulux, the can covered 80sq metres, three times the size of my wall; so how come the paint can was empty? And so there I was walking into DIY hell again.
I try not to be seen on my rare excursions to the unknown but balaclavas and dark glasses are not a good look these days. As I crept into this confusing world I heard a family voice.
“Are you lost?” It was my neighbour Chris who is a real tradesman and who views my various attempts at DIY with a mix of amusement, pity and a Godsend to his peers who make fortunes correcting our cock ups.
“Need some paint mate” I said in an assured manner. “Going to give the wall another coat”
Chris had no need to point out that the wall had had more coats than a polar bear. By now the checkout girl was viewing me with pity too.
“Get home lad you need a job!” Chris had a point but I was committed now though to what I was not sure.
Only when I reached the aisles filled with numerous pots and implements did I realise I was lost and, no matter how bad I get at cricket, I will play till I drop. Safe in the knowledge that Chris had gone I escaped from the hell.
As I was leaving someone was waving at me from another car barely ten yards away and, blinking furiously, they remained a blur. With eyesight like mine maybe the cricket days are numbered after all?
Selling England By The Pound
Over the last few issues Private Eye have been running articles exposing the amount of property held off shore, ostensibly for tax-purposes.
Have a look at the interactive map to spot your nearest tax haven.
And Finally…
There I was sat in the traffic, Shirley Bassey soothing my soul, as alongside me came a black Ford, windows down and big galoot of a woman, fag in mouth, one hand on the wheel as she struggled to light her pleasure.
A couple of wheezing puffs and smoke began to billow out of her vast cavity of a gob which seemingly gave her the urge to crank up the volume on Boom Boom For The Brain Dead FM.
I glanced casually to my left, caught her eye, and gave her my best seductive look that really said “Oi fatty, turn that shite down!”
As the traffic moved on it was impossible not to reflect why anyone who chooses to smoke would also need to keep their window down and share their poison with the rest of us?
Grumpy?
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