Christmas is a time for spreading cheer and goodwill to all; I hate it. It has some positives though as you can get away with behaving like a demented halfwit and simply blame the festive beers.
Archives for June 2012
A Critics’ Corner – Ch23 – When Sky Sports came to the Villas…honest!
“Mr Wilson? It’s Sky Sports here and we’d like to come and film your Under Seventeen team if that’s possible?” Our juniors who played at Under Eighteen level when I were a lad now played in the Bradford Junior League so manhood came a year earlier these days. Good one I thought; who on Earth could be winding me up today? Of course it’s easy to be tempted to reply with some form of language usually reserved for an Aussie bowler but I relented and listened on. After all it was another slow day in asset finance and it is not as if I had anybody else to speak to as the cat had just poked it.
“We understand that you are playing a team from an Asian part of Bradford and as we are up in Yorkshire for the test match we’d like to film the various communities happily mingling and competing with each other”, said Home Counties Harry, clearly never having left the Great Wall of London otherwise known as the M25 corridor and visited the People’s Republic of Bradford. Which bit of Bradford could he mean I thought; does he really know what he’s letting himself in for?
Lord Charles Colville Of Sky Sports: Contender For Most Miserable Man On The Planet
Once we’d determined which part of the crumbling city he was referring to – hey I live here so I can rubbish it all I like – and that it was not one of my Southern mates from Head Office winding me up – it was confirmed. Sky Sports wanted to come up to the Villas and film a game. I could picture Donald inserting the stump mike and lining up Hawkeye perched on top of Mr Khan’s bungalow at the Willow Gardens end. Beefy and Gower striding across the outfield to do a pitch report – good job Stevo had passed the mantle back to The Don – and Bumble sat there interviewing Critics Corner getting slowly hammered with Haighy, Browny and all.
And so it was that one freezing May evening Charles Colville – the quintessential Home Counties Harry – rolled down our drive resplendent in his Sky jacket and chinos looking as miserable as anybody possibly could be, dragged all this way to a dump like Bradford whilst his colleagues had just come back from England’s tour of the Caribbean. I suppose I could have offered him a better welcome than a hand covered in whitewash and sawdust and avoided enquiring as to how Nass and the boys had enjoyed the Caribbean where, by the way, I’d had a very good time there too Charlie boy. It must be tough on Charlie, relegated to the late night slots with Bob Willis to cover tours that none of the big guns wish to go on having ruled the roost at Sky; but surely there must be worse places than the Villas?
A Tale of Two Cities
Now once our opponents had got wind of the Sky visit we had been under all sorts of pressure to switch the game to their ground, presumably so they could show Sky just where £1.3m of Lottery/Local Authority/EC grant funding had gone; this whilst the rest of the hundreds of amateur local sports clubs in a city with absolutely no strategy for sport and recreation struggled to keep alive opportunities for all. Having been a touch vocal in the local press about this subject I considered it safer to retain home advantage preferring four wheels on my wagon and so, despite some attempt at coercion, we told their coach to sling his hook. It was Villas or nowhere.
In fairness to both sets of lads the game was a tremendous advert for junior cricket although Sky’s agenda was pretty clear cut. They interviewed absolutely nobody from the Villas and, once they had got a bit of padding for the forthcoming lunch break slots at the test match, off they flew oblivious to the result and, frankly, disinterested. Amazingly though, in their hurry to get off they left behind the production schedule for their whole week long tour up through the Midlands and into Yorkshire. This was around the time when there was still considerable -and unwarranted – attention to the lack of front line Asian players being produced by Yorkshire.
Half Truths And Even Bigger Lies
Reading it, I was struck by the patronising and idiotic theme that ran through it, summarised by one line, which read along the lines of:
– Drive into Bradford and take pictures of smiling Asian shopkeepers
You see there has long been a misconception that Yorkshire, because of it is ethnic diversity, should almost be exclusively an Asian team, which is rubbish. Yorkshire is no more diverse than Londonand you never hear Middlesex or Surrey being patronised in such a manner. Indeed in recent years Yorkshire, through sheer hard work, has begun to produce some very good, England class cricketers of Asian descent. I cannot belive thatYorkshire, as with little old Villas, judges anybody with a cricket bat or ball other than on what they can do with it rather than their ethnicity or background.
The Sky team was just hunting a tired old story and, had we been less scrupulous and handed the papers to the press, they would have copped a fair bit of flak. Well probably not because the local rag could not spot a scoop if it was handed on a plate to them. It would have been the scoop of the century for the dismal, dull local rag and maybe they could have changed the headlines from the usual drivel that generally ranges from Odsal Super Dome On Again/Harvey Nicholls Eyes Bradford Site/City Sign Ronaldo. On reflection we may have got Rupert Murdoch to cough up for a new clubhouse but then again we did the right thing and rang Home Counties Harry the next day and posted the papers back.
Hell…we never even charged them for the stamp!
The Scandal of the Bradford Odeon
My Home Town
Whilst the Westfield debacle continues to attract most attention in the sorry saga of Bradford’s city centre, across town the iconic Odeon site refuses to lie down and die. A recent article in Private Eye (1314) suggested some very unsavoury goings on; this will come as no surprise to Bradfordians weary of shady, incompetent councillors and pie in the sky proposals dreamt up by unelected quangos and consultants with no motive other than crude political and financial gain.
The Odeon, originally the New Victoria, was built in 1930 and the red-brick theatre and cinema claimed to be the third-largest auditorium in England. It is the last remaining building designed by the prominent Bradfordian and pre-war architect Alderman William Illingworth. The domed landmark boasted an Italian Renaissance interior design and fantastic furnishings throughout.
The Beatles performed there twice in 1963 and other names included Bill Haley and the Comets, Tom Jones, Buddy Holly and the Rolling Stones. It was the first in the country to be fitted with Cinemascope in 1954; in 1969 it was split into Odeon 1 and 2 and in 1988 the redundant ballroom was converted into the Odeon 3. In 1997 Top Rank Bingo (the owners of the Odeon at the time) ceased trading and the closure of the cinema followed in 2000. In 2003 it passed into public ownership and the hands of the now defunct quango, Yorkshire Forward (YF).
Will Alsop’s Childhood Fantasy
In 2004, a consultation exercise, carried out after the Bradford Centre Regeneration (BCR) Master plan was unveiled, found that the future of the Odeon was top of people’s concerns. Maud Marshall, then BCR chief executive, said its future was being reconsidered in the light of demands for it to be retained. The City Park plan, a sort of scaled up Legoland, was produced by Alsop architects – who also produced a plan for Barnsley claiming it to be the Tuscany of the North which I would if brainless officials were paying me thousands to do so – and jointly funded by Yorkshire Forward and Bradford Council.
“Bradford lends itself to a completely different kind of approach – not only do people generally like open space and water, it pushes up property values dramatically” gushed Marshall. “We would be very respectful of the city’s architectural heritage. People in the city…want to see modern architecture sitting alongsideBradford’s architectural heritage in a way that protects it. This…is not a fantasy.”
Dream On
Those old enough to remember when Bradford was home to beautiful Victorian architecture also remember the wanton destruction of the Sixties and the ugly modernistic concrete blocks that were built only to be flattened to make way for Westfield. Eight years on and with some 3,000 empty city centre properties now there is plenty of open space but little sign of a property boom although we do have water in the guise of a £30m pond.
Since the plan was announced there has been an admirable and often derided campaign led by the Bradford Odeon Rescue Group (BORG) to save the Odeon from demolition but, curiously, despite the words of Marshall and weight of public opinion, those in control have been hell bent of flattening the Odeon. Insistent that theirs was the only option they have ignored any alternatives and the public have been misinformed and misled.
In 2005, instigated by YF/BCR a report by structural engineers Arup (the Council could have commissioned this internally at nil cost) suggested that the building would cost too much to renovate and concluded the only options were to demolish the whole building or demolish most of it and keep only the facade. The cost was put at £3.6m to save the towers but demolition was £1.44m – a net cost of £2m. Once again Marshall assured us: “As a result of what we have learned…we have decided to take further soundings from the people of Bradford.”
Of course this all proved bluster with a competition announced early 2005 for an iconic structure to replace…an iconic structure. The deal had been done whatever the public sound bites offered by Marshall and the Council. Things then took several twists.
The T&A – Mouthpiece Of The City
In 2006 plans to revamp the city’s St George’s concert hall were revealed. Private Eye suggests this explains the apathy towards the campaign to save the Odeon site from local paper, the Telegraph & Argus (T&A), which stood to benefit from any redevelopment of the St George’s site as its adjacent and redundant press halls would be central to this. Indeed it suggests that the editor of the T&A was involved in this project.
Several quotes from the T&A suggest its editorial had become a mouthpiece for YF/BCR and I wrote to the T&A asking for clarity but strangely silence. Notably its correspondent, Mike Priestley, remained consistently opposed to the demolition plans.
Apparently consultants looked at several options including building a new purpose-built concert hall and also converting the former Odeon building but decided that St George’s, which dates back to 1853, was the best choice. Interestingly the plan was estimated at costing between £5-10m. Meanwhile, Leeds was on with plans to build an arena much needed to attract larger events away from Sheffield andManchester.
And We Have A Winner…roll Up, Roll Up For The Great Carve Up
Soon after, the winning plan for Marshall’s competition was announced by developers Langtree-Artisan H Ltd and Carey Jones Architects. This included a hotel, restaurants and galleries with Bradford College moving some of its activities to the New Victoria Place development, as it would be known; deal done and dusted and surely bad news for the twin towers?
As we all know it never happened and, with the construction of the new Jurys Inn hotel across the road, it seems it’s another master plan for the bin labelled “Bradford”. Fast forward again and all the main parties behind New Victoria place have either gone bust or been dismantled and Marshall is nowhere to be seen. Fortunately the twin towers, although shrouded in a canopy, remain defiant, almost smiling behind their shroud.
Morphe Ltd… Here We Go Again?
So what future for the Odeon? Ominously, as revealed by Private Eye and further by the Yorkshire Post (26/5/12) a consultancy set up by the former director of city centre regeneration plus its former head of property and a former chairman at Yorkshire Forward – Morphe Ltd – is seeking to advise the remnants of Langtree on the Odeon though why these parties should have any say in the matter is unclear. The prize here remains very real as Langtree stand to gain a 250-year lease at a peppercorn rent so surely it is time for the council to show some backbone and demonstrate some transparency as an elected body?
Few will be aware that Bradford was designated in 2009 as the UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation) first ever city of film. Of course we have the excellent National Museum of Film & Photography adjacent to theAlhambra theatre. Modern day cinema requirements make restoration of the Odeon as a cinema unviable, plus there is now a multi-screen across town (however ugly it is), but this magnificent building should not be flattened.
An Honest Transparent Future?
Putting sentiment aside, there is no case now for either a hotel or shopping development; let’s at least be honest about what Bradford can and cannot justify. The twin towers could though, and should be preserved as part of either office or student accommodation and, at worst, simply retained as a façade overlooking the expensive pond. If the city can justify £30m for a pond then it must be possible to make a case for restoring the towers.
The Bradford public has been misled for years by unelected individuals vis-à-vis the public purse without any interest in the city itself. They have allowed the building to decay for over a decade which is tantamount to vandalism. Having refused to fall for so long we must ensure that the fight was not in vain; there is little left in Bradford to be proud of and the destruction of one of its remaining treasures would shame us all.
The End of the Line
As the Travelling Wilburys had warbled many years ago it was indeed The End of the Line; conscious of the mounting pressure on the world’s eco system and fearful in equal measure of a potential depletion in my own resources, I had decided that it was time for the dreaded “snip” so feared amongst modern men. It seemed entirely logical to me having only just cut the umbilical cord attached to Barclays as, at the age of 47, procreation offered few benefits of any kind. With redundancy cheque safely lodged in the money bank it was time to ensure nothing came out of the other.
Although my mum would have been the best grandma in the world even she is realistic enough to have conceded that introducing a younger version of her eldest son would not have advanced mankind that far; my dad was happy enough that I had not turned out “queer” as he had feared for the much of the first 47 years of my life although I comforted him that change can come “out” late in the day. So now it was down to the GP for a final counselling session.
Are You Sure You Don’t Want A Sleep Deprived Next Few Decades?
It seemed odd to me that a mature adult of sound mind has to be counselled about deciding not to introduce some wailing brat with the capacity to empty at both ends on a regular basis into the world; surely those who choose to do so would clearly benefit much more from a bit of mentoring. A school teacher friend of mine has long since held the belief that the only way to halt the slide of humanity is to enforce sterilisation – I assume these days at primary school level. She argues that at a very early age you cannot fail to spot the grim cycle of yester-year raising its ugly head.
The counselling session was over in a flash and I was adjudged of sound enough mind to nip the thing in the bud so to speak; now it was only a matter of choosing the clinic which was easy enough in the end as one had speed bumps en route whereas the other was as flat as you need after having a knife to the nether regions – I chose well.
Go Easy On The After Shave
Like most things that have cause for some dread the human mind can switch to a state of denial until the final brutal point of no escape. With the snip there is a bit of foreplay to engage in before the actual event, if you pardon the terminology; this involves creating a bit of a landing strip for the knife by craving out a runway with your friendly disposable razor. Standing in the shower it was all a bit bizarre and, to me, seemed a bit cruel; after all I still remember the first giddy day in the school showers that I noticed my first pubic hair and here I was butchering the product of many years’ efforts.
When I did pluck up – sorry – the courage to look down it looked like one of those mass produced chickens all shrunken skin with a bobbly bit of hair left; and what a mess of the shower floor. The worst bit though is slipping on your trousers; it just feels so weird down there. A quiet night in and the fateful morning arrived as England were getting hammered over in Perth, the one blip on the glorious Ashes tour of 2010-11: as bad as it was seeing Mitchell Johnson bowl straight for once I would still have chosen that over what was now only an hour away. Hell, I would have volunteered to have batted against him even at my age.
How to Quieten a Godson
Too tight to pay for a taxi and always keen to share the pain I blagged a lift from my Godson’s parents with explicit instructions that if young Harry was to punch me in the nuts as he generally does each time I see him – I am reassured it’s a show of affection – then could he make it on the outward journey. Harry was a bit quizzical about this until I told him – helpfully in my view – that I was going to have my willy cut off and so was he if he did not behave; fifty ways to quieten a kid in an instant – number one.
Snow on the ground did foster a thought that I may have to walk home in PJ bottoms with a swollen under carriage; who was that local Councillor who said they had more grit than Siberia? I am not sure what I was expecting when I got to the clinic but the staff seemed more interested in the morning brew than a queue of men who were about to be voluntarily assaulted. I sat down on Snip Row and awaited my fate.
Calling Mr Wilson… Your Time Is Up
Soon the human conveyor belt began and the first victim was called in bravely hugging his lady – mum where are you when I need you – and about half an hour later there he was, limping out with that knowing look of “that’s me done…enjoy boys!” In came a whole 2 + 2 family – what had the kids done to deserve a Saturday morning at the Snip Clinic – and, somewhat bizarrely the husband and wife sat at opposite ends of the waiting room. It seemed to me that there was no need for contraception with this frosty twosome.
Then it was my turn and, with one longing look at the exit door and a voice in my head screaming “run!” I trudged through the doors, more frightened than when I went on the Big Dipper at Blackpool. I politely knocked on the consultant’s door and in I went, and there he was; it was Mr Khan, the chip shop owner in the film East is East. Oh my God I am going to get my bollocks well and truly battered, I thought.
“Sit down Mr Wilson and what a bloody good morning this is!” he said simultaneously twirling his moustache. “Pity about the bloody golf this bloody afternoon, bloody snow”; which at least suggested that he might not be rushing to make the first tee leaving me in a pool of blood with entrails hanging out.
“Now then tell me why you bloody want no kids? No…I bloody don’t blame you…bloody ungrateful bastards!” I just smiled weakly determined not to offend a guy that would have a scalpel to my nuts in a very short time. For God’s sake I kept thinking do not call him Mr Khan or ask for a Special!
Now Towelling Down?
As this was, in effect, a production line, the pleasantries were over fairly quickly and I was escorted to my dressing room and offered my luxurious NHS paper gown. A knock on the door, a gulp of water – I did notice my hand was start to shake – and then a walk down a freezing corridor trying to hold the paper gown over my shorn dignity.
The operating “theatre” was about as big as a bus stop but no sooner had I acclimatised than I was introduced to a nurse who wanted to paint my bollocks now; could this get any worse? Any thoughts that she might at least be some Filipino babe were soon dashed as she was a dead ringer for Olive, wife of the long suffering Arthur from the comedy show On the Buses.
One The Tee…Mr Khan
Out came Mr Khan whistling as if he was strolling down the fairway having just creamed a monster drive with his favourite clubs. Meanwhile, as she gently painted my nuts a sort of light tan, Olive was engaging in small talk making this seem even more surreal. Up strode Mr Khan, cheery grin and glistening blade in hand.
“Now then Mr Wilson I tell you bloody good joke then I want you to tell me bloody good joke too” he said. I pointed out that the last thing I could think of right now was a joke and making him laugh and shake with what he was about to do was not a good idea. He told me a joke regardless, it was shit, I laughed dementedly and in flash he stuck a needle in my left nut. Ouch!
He then proceeded with a running commentary telling me I would feel a slight incision – I did, more ouch – and then a cutting sensation followed by him pulling out my soon to be Pipes of Peace and tying them in a knot. It felt as if the pipe was attached to my neck, I swear when he pulled it out my head jerked forwards; no worries though because Olive was still cradling my nuts, talking cricket and patting me on the head.
And as the famous line went all those years ago “they think it’s all over” well it wasn’t. The whole thing had to be done with right hand nut as well. Eventually it was all over, Mr Khan played a few air shots and went off singing into his office. I looked down at my nappy and prayed Harry had remembered the instructions. And that was it; the end of the line and the World a better place for it.
A Critics’ Corner – Ch 22 – It’s Hard to be a Saint in the City: Sex, drugs and Big Phil’s Sierra @ the Villas
22 – It’s Hard to be a Saint in the City
As I’ve intimated earlier cricket can hardly be described as a sexy game despite coloured clothing, Twenty Twenty, cheerleaders and all the other inane razzmatazz the ECB come up with after several bottles of Lord’s finest each year, desperate to appear progressive whilst at the same time strangling the grass roots that feed the game. Don’t think that the glamorous Mrs Flintoff and Mrs Pietersen married their respective beaus for the love of the sound of leather on willow or the ebbs and flows of the beautiful game as it meanders gently through the day. If those two were slogging it out in the leagues on a freezing cold Saturday perched on a hill in Denholme with Toxic leering at them they wouldn’t get a look in.
Most club cricketers are simply grateful for a good, reliable lass who won’t mind if you come home plastered professing your love after twelve pints of Tetleys and a Rogan Josh smeered over your new shirt, still high from the elation of that annual fifty and wanting to relive every single run; and you have to do this trying to imitate Henry “Blowers” Blofeld’s inimitable style of commentary complete with Bradford twang and Tetleys. So it was probably a good idea to stay single on my part although I think it was a classic case of it’s either cricket or women; with my attention span being so limited that only one could command that total commitment needed it was an easy choice.
Merging Two Worlds
I remember the beginnings of a school romance with a blonde called Julie. She who was a champion runner and had such a perfect rear that we coaxed her into training some of us for the school footie team with a lunchtime slog around the local streets. This was our commitment to wearing off the chocolate biscuits we had spent most of the morning stealing from other people’s lockers. So much for her rear though, we could hardly get near it as she left us for dead gasping and happy to be consigned to the B team. Yet when cricket came along the allure of that rounded bit of perfection seemed to fade instantly.
Over the years I have attempted to straddle both worlds, albeit never for very long and always the same end result…back to the one I always thought caused me least hassle. There was one woman I came very close to settling down with – I even left my cat for her for a while – although given that she was a temperamental artist type I’ve no idea why we were together in the first place and am sure that she would have gladly knifed me in my sleep at some later date or super-glued my balls together. She was, shall we say, temperamental, highly-strung and prone to mini explosions although I doubt I was entirely blameless.
A Girlfriend In The Cricket Season?
For a time I was spectacularly captivated by this beautiful woman who spoke in clipped tones that baffled my mates at the club and wore lacy M&S underwear that made them wonder where I had stolen her from. We met in the office kitchen – try fitting that into Mills and Boon – and commenced a torrid affair most days next to the hot water boiler. As the season approached the usual nagging doubts occurred around bat and ball but this time it was different. I’d never entered a season with a woman in tow so this would be a challenging season at best. I cannot remember much about the 1991 season barring that we won the Worthington Sports Cup with my total contribution to the four games being less than ten runs and no wickets; I must have been distracted.
Mid-season and there was a party at Duck’s parents’ house, which backs on to the cricket field. My lady was feeling particularly lively that night and as the party kicked into life she asked me if I fancied playing on the wicket again, this time minus bat and ball, in fact minus everything which had been about my total contribution to the game that had taken place there that afternoon. My one regret is that, on the way out of the house, my face had it written all over – I was getting laid on the square no matter whether it needed rolling or not.
Big Phil And The Portable Ford Floodlight
Apparently as soon as we left the house word spread like wild fire and my mum fainted at the prospect of yet more humiliation although grateful this time it was not a fellow tea-lady’s daughter. As usual, my dad found the distraction useful to get closer to the beer supplies and Big Phil Smith decided to ruin my one and only attempt at becoming an outdoor exhibitionist. It was a beautiful warm summer’s evening, a bit of cloud cover and there was definitely going to be a bit of swing out there.
With a backdrop of a beautifully star-lit sky, this gorgeous young woman started to undress just on a good length. The cut strip had never felt so good and it made a change being voluntarily sat on my backside on the wicket instead of some lunatic fast bowler putting me there involuntarily; Spenner had never had this effect on me at all. I followed, slightly hesitantly but gaining in confidence ready to play my best knock of the season, which would not be that hard, little willow flapping in the breeze.
Big Phil You Ruined My Life!
Then off in the distance we heard a commotion and lumbering on to the field with full beam lights on was Big Phil in his Big Ford Sierra driving right across the outfield and straight towards us. Where was Browny to clear him off the field now just when you needed him? I felt like the guy who gets disturbed by the raging husband and scurries for the drainpipe to escape except that there was no drainpipe, although someone had left the hosepipe out. So we scrambled for our gear and ran off towards the changing rooms, rather ironically as ten years or so earlier I would have had a key and unless Big Phil’s Sierra fancied a ram raid we would have been safe and secure inside the old wooden hut.
We did eventually skulk back to the party and enjoyed cult status from all but my mother for the rest of the evening. The eternal shame of having me as a son, had once again resurfaced. However, the best was yet to come as the following week we played arch-rivals Harden at home, which was always a lively game to say the least. Harden was a bit like Denholme only posher. The lads drove 4x4s instead of tractors and generally knew what cutlery was for, although they were equally mad as hatters with some wonderful characters in the team, one being Andy Gill.
Gilly
Andy was a larger than life character who opened the bowling and on his day could bowl quite sharp with a wonderful competitive edge and a theatrical appeal that shook most umpires to the core often waking one or two from slumber with a raucous LBW shout from a demented fat lad. That competitive spirit may have led to him chasing Dirty Den off the field many years ago after we had won a narrow victory in a league match causing us to lock Den up for his own safety for quite some time after. I think Den alluded to the possibility that Boris the Rottweiller could bat better than Andy – just after he was last man out and the game was lost.
Den sprinted off the field chased by Andy waddling in his pads waving his bat with which he would surely have smashed Den’s remaining brains in. Once locked inside the changing rooms it was a case of Andy outside going through an “I’m going to huff and puff and blow your changing rooms down and the I’m going to eat that little, wiry man inside” and Dirty Den quivering inside seeking out a hole in the floor from which to escape.
Word Spreads Fast
Now by the following week, most of the Harden lads knew of my attempt at an open air performance the previous Saturday. So much so, that on walking to the wicket one or two of the lads asked if I felt okay being fully dressed. Cooky, a lively lad who always had a point of view or two (most of them total bollocks), fielded a yard off the bat end at short leg, aka suicide watch and was keen to make me feel settled as ever by enquiring if I’d left a wet patch anywhere on a length. It was genuinely funny and I almost did there and then.
As Gilly continued to beat my groping lurches – this time with bat – there were assorted pearls of wisdom from bowler and fielders alike. The next ball he steamed in and this one spat off the pitch and flew past my nose so close I could see the gold foil of the maker’s name and almost smell the leather, which was better than smelling Cooky. Gilly ran down the wicket, almost nose to nose and simply said for all to hear.
“Must have hit a ****ing ear ring Willy?”
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