A few of our good friends at local cricket clubs have felt the cruel force of the recent floods wreaking horrific damage to facilities maintained largely by volunteers.
As most clubs live year to year with funding always tight, this is a situation that could threaten the very existence of some.
Many of you who read this may be part of the wider cricket community so now is the time to really show what the real Spirit of Cricket means down here at grassroots level.
We all know a club that will need some help – here’s one of our old friends where many “battles” were fought and many more beers sunk later – so if you can help in any way I am sure it will be really appreciated.
In a week the Government boasted it would be spending an extra £40m in Yorkshire on flood measures, Manchester United were rumoured to be about to spend £75m on Gareth Bale. Strange old world?
[Roll back the years for a look back at some great days on the road with The Road – see Ch 8 – ON TOUR WITH LORD LES]
Material Boy.
For the first time in almost three decades of unassisted living, my splendid isolation was threatened over the holiday period.
Not by the local care home coming to take me away, not by a woman coming to make her stay, not even by a hairy pet of any other kind but by one of the local smack heads desperate to fill their nostrils on the proceeds of my property.
How they must have been so disappointed when they crashed through my window. As one of the police officers said.
“There’s absolutely nothing worth nicking…you do know it’s Christmas don’t you? They might have at least left you a food parcel!”
In terms of “technique” this was smash, panic and scarper. Landing amongst my CD collection containing greats such as Billy Ray Cyrus, Boyzone and The Pointer Sisters they must have thought they had landed in a set from Bargain Hunt 1980’s.
If the little coke-heads thought they had hand-picked the property of some gadget addict then I would have loved to have seen their pasty, spotty faces as the alarm raged and they presumably shat themselves, though happily not in my dining room.
According to the police they were “opportunists” seeking Christmas gifts presumably laid neatly around a glittering tree. A couple of half-dead house plants, not a bauble in sight and the only electrical gadget a table lamp, they clearly hit the wrong house.
Luckily, they ignored my Mum’s stellar gift this year – a pair of sandal socks – have they no style?
The harsh reality is that the mess and trail of destruction they left locally that night – I was one of six houses hit on a reckless rampage – is hard to bear but, seemingly common at this time of year.
The fact that their haul amounted to one Nintendo suggests they need a career rethink but, in reality, all of us are out a few hundred quid re damage and several hours of lost sleep into the bargain.
The police have been great, make no mistake, but even they admit there is little they can do to effect real justice. For now, the one they have caught – till he grasses his “mate” as he inevitably will – is costing society a small fortune.
He is currently out on bail; maybe I should destroy Celine Dion’s Greatest Hits to avoid being outed as being “in possession” and a possible dealer in mind-altering goods?
Doubtless some expensively educated solicitor will plead “human rights” alluding to a “tough upbringing” in return for a slap on the bottom to be set off free to cause yet more carnage.
The police clearly know the usual suspects so it does beg the question why they deserve the liberty they enjoy at the expense of the rest of us.
Only this week I received a circular from our Police & Crime Commissioner – Mark Burns-Williamson – showing the kind of decisive leadership we pay £100k a year for.
In it he sought approval for an additional £5 a year charge to the Police bit of my Poll tax. I would gladly pay ten times that if I thought that I was getting more Plod for my Pound but not to fund more useless pretend politicians making policy by survey.
The recent spate of violent break-ins in the Bradford district suggests either the villains think there is little chance of being caught or they don’t fear a sentence sweeping up leaves; something is clearly not right.
They clearly don’t fear our expensive dithering PCC. However, given the human suffering inflicted by the floods this is nothing.
The quality of the human spirit, in evidence throughout communities in the North in the face of appalling personal tragedies, enables us to shrug off the irritation of low-life scum, fit only for lying at the bottom of a dark river bed.
Craft Beer
That master of the craft, our dear old Molly, has raised the bar ever further over the festive period in his perpetual pursuit of a pint; the big man is getting a dog.
“‘Ee lad” he said “I’ve decided to get fit for t’season so I’ll be walking it every night!” as he winked, not needing to clarify any further the most likely destination and certainly not needing an ordnance survey map or a compass.
Not only is the mutt costing more than my first Mini – true it will most likely not rust nor need a furry steering wheel cover – he has opted for the canine equivalent of Jessica Ennis.
It’s a Springer Spaniel so we understand, prone to being excitable. Get ready for the sight of a big lad in steaming glasses hanging on for dear life racing down the road to The Scruffy.
The portents are not good. Come April the dog will be a drunk, having sought asylum at Big Al’s and Molly will be seven stone, fit only for the tea-room.
Back In Your Arms
The holiday season was over and soon it would be back to the inevitable grind, long hours and the rat-race. In such challenging times we look to the things that comfort us most in life and, as always, the open arms of The Scruffy were there.
Back they all trudged in, able to reclaim seats for another fifty-one weeks with no more flashing light sweaters to shake weary heads at.
The Fishermen were all present and correct fresh from a week of watching Deadliest Catch – none lost at sea or at least on the Wharfe – still wearing last year’s sweaters, looking as if they had slept in them all Christmas and smelling as if they had let a few fish in too.
The Frantic Foursome arrived delirious to find their “reserved” corner free again. They scrambled for the seats, petted them lovingly and all was good and orderly about the world again especially as the cheeky man with The Sunday Times had gone home.
Mick the Quiz was back too, though not yet in his trademark shorts for Spring is not yet quite here. A new quiz book for Christmas would challenge us throughout the year; you don’t win a gallon of ale that easily.
Eddie lumbered in looking immaculate with inimitable timing as supper was served, having decided to get another year out of his trademark leather jacket and bollocks to the rest of you!
The locals buzzed around the sandwiches and pies as if they had not been fed for a week as Norah, our lively middle-aged peroxide barmaid heaved away at the pumps to pour our medication, Popeye tattoo glistening with ale.
In a disturbed world there are certain things that should never change.
All In It Together?
Fat Cat Tuesday occurred this week, so named because this was the day – January 5th – top executives earnings passed the average annual pay of Average Joe.
Happy New Year.
Leave a Reply