Where Else But Bradford?
Bradford was once again in the national headlines and this time it was all good news. Gotham City’s caped crusader, Batman, has apparently been living here, in Wyke actually, watching over us all at the same time as delivering Chinese takeaways; who said men cannot multi-task? Could Batman save the day for Bradford? Think of the bat-pole in a newly restored Odeon as Batman watches over the villainous goings in City Hall across the murky pond. Ka-pow you dopey councillors!
More Skullduggery…Batman We Need You
Got a quiet weekend? Dont go line Mr Murdoch’s pockets, read this instead, another tale of dirty doings from our “leaders” entrusted with the future development of the City.
http://bradfordodeonrescuegroup.co.uk/blog/fraud-maud/
And, just in case you thought you read this somewhere before this is what I wrote about the fascinating topic of a building that simply refuses to die, thanks in large part to unstinting work from people who care about Bradford.
https://www.idlelord.com/a-phoenix-from-the-ashes/
Shame on those that try to bury the truth.
He’s Behind You!
I recently went for a “refresher” evening on child protection, compelled to attend in my role as Child Welfare Officer (CWO) at the cricket club. Once again it was run by the same genial ex-copper who probably still cannot believe his luck that he gets paid for repeating the glaringly obvious to a captive audience of bog-eyed, despairing volunteers who thought they had signed up to coach cricket.
Child welfare is a big box that all sporting governing bodies have to tick these days in order to secure national funding and, whilst its a serious topic, its delivery borders on the asinine. The last time I suffered this same torture, we began by slogging through the then relevant Parliamentary Acts which, as far as I could see had nothing to do with the art of batting or bowling; let me tell you that was a blast! The good news was that this time it would be much shorter as we did not really need to know all that after all…you don’t say!
All we seemed to have to remember this time was a new mantra – “Record, Respond, Report” – which we were encouraged to chant like drugged up Moonies; at some point I was sure we would be offered cloaks and asked to join hands and prey. Some bright spark at the ECB has come up with the Three ‘R’s for child welfare in cricket although as the night ground on it was clear to me that it should really have been “Repeat, repeat, repeat” , at least till the three hours was up or the medication wore off. If I really was being abducted by a cult then surely not in Pudsey of all places?
Half an hour in and at last we were past the mandatory introductions designed to pad out a few opening minutes like Our Geoffrey trying to wear the shine off the new ball – “tell us a bit about you, what do you do, why you are here”. By now we had already had Jimmy Saville and the murderer, Ian Huntley, introduced; cheerful fare this was not. An hour in and I had almost lost the will to live as we discussed such real life scenarios as our under seventeen girls team going on a three day trip to Dublin. Where do they dream these? How many clubs do you know have an under seventeen team let alone a girls team? And if anybody’s going to Dublin it wont be the juniors!
We were given a range of responses to choose, as CWO, on how to deal with the everyday dilemma of the team coach having, allegedly, slept with three of the squad – all under age – as the other coach – wheeled variety – prepared to leave with a bunch of girls for a weekend on the Guinness. The mind boggled as to how this guy had managed to do any coaching at all. I could just imagine those ITV quiz shows for thickos that charge £5 a text so that thousands, baited by an answer a retarded monkey could guess, make the programme a fortune in return for a prize weekend in Skegness…and the answers are;
- Offer the three girls a choice of batting spots to placate them
- Offer the coach the penthouse suite and an open window
- Suggest coach may be going to somewhere with bars on the windows
The justification here was that this had actually happened but then again so do earthquakes and at this rate I was going to be dangerously asleep if one did so right at that moment. I know awareness is necessary because there are a few wrong ‘uns out there but this has turned into an unchecked industry of the “What If” driven by hopeless political correctness. Our tutor acknowledged this by confirming that, since he started eight years ago, he now has two assistants. Are there really that many more perverts out there?
Sadly, the content was the same bloated statement of the blindingly obvious three years on and a reflection of these dumbed down times we live in where common sense is as endangered as the Mountain Gorilla and we need Sat-Navs to get to the supermarket. The saving grace was that, just as I was about to enter a catatonic state, we finished ahead of schedule and we were free to run for the exits chanting our new mantra. I may have to delegate this one in three years time.
M’aam, I think You have the Trots!
I am not a Royalist by any stretch but I do sympathise with the old dear this week. As I rolled in my sweaty pit with guts churning, I could only be grateful that the paparazzi were not outside looking for a cheerful wave and a comment when I finally surfaced having been down with the dreaded trots for a few days.
Trapped
Shortly after 11am I wandered reluctantly in the gloom down towards the stumps, rearranged them nervously as if in preparation for their being disturbed again shortly, and settled at the crease tapping my new bat against new shoes. To magnify this already pale looking target, my new gloves and pads acted only as extra incentive for the queuing bowlers as I glistened there all shiny, new and white under the dim fluorescent lights. It was the first winter net of the season, one month off from reaching 50, and I was the target on the range.
The England bowler, Steven Finn, has recently unveiled a new, shorter run-up and claims he gets more pace and bounce than previously. Our very own Sam was also operating off one as well, constrained by the limits of the indoor shed and, more than likely, concerned not to cripple his regular chauffeur ahead of another season. After a couple of “sighters” in he loped, wide grin (“this wont hurt really, Willy!”) and wasted a perfectly pitched in-swinging toe-crusher on his old pal. It was no contest and I was soon re-arranging the splattered stumps far too early in March for my own liking.
Still, at least it was only the stumps as, shortly after Sam also re-arranged skipper Lee’s nether regions making him grateful that two kids were already done and dusted and necessitating an early call for the stretcher. Winter nets are precarious times for us batters on bouncy, hard tracks the likes of which we would only encounter on a tour of Australia…and nobody is picking me for an Ashes tour. Roll on April for soft tracks, stiff bowlers and fielders too cold to move.
The Diggers Are Coming!
Our dynamic Council are now in the process of reassessing their previously stated need for tens of thousands of new homes in the district following a fresh report which downgrades the perceived number by some distance. Once again, whichever figures you accept as closest to reality, just where are they going to build all these new homes and who is going to buy them?
The biggest rises in local populations are undeniably in the inner-city areas where sites to the major developers are about as attractive as Baghdad. Developers want high value sites, preferably surrounded by green fields (so they can flatten these in future years) which does not square with a clear need in a low wage economy like Bradford for low cost, affordable homes.
Despite the well publicised campaign re the number of empty houses and brownfield sites, developers do not make the same returns here as greenfield sites. If you are reading this in one of the outlying areas keep an eye out for the JCBs!
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