Only one more week to go and we are facing the prospect of the Two Eds; personally the Two Ronnies would have run the country better.
Worse still Jimmy Krankie looks like she will have Ed’s balls tighter than the unions.
Now I know Cameron is a weak, limp posh-boy ex-Etonian but, honestly, he does not matter. Five years ago we were bust and going the Greek way without the sunshine.
And as for the bloke that contributed to the mess in the first place, would you really want his hands on the piggy box again?
Be careful what you wish for.
Surely Not More On The Muppets?
There is something about us Brits that, even in times of dark adversity, we soldier on. Hats off – once again – to the campaigners behind the attempt to save the old Hutton Middle School from the wrecking balls.
You may recall that a bunch of old fools got together one morning several months ago to wave through a grotesque scheme by a bunch of office block builders from Leeds.
Amazingly, across our city there are wonderful examples of conversions of old schools, preserving a slice of history. Remember too what happened in the 1960s when much of Bradford’s city centre was flattened to make way for a brave new world.
All of this was in the name of lining a few pockets and the concrete monstrosities barely outlived the idiots that conceived them. When the councillors that voted this through are pushing up daisies, the concrete boxes will still be here to plague the area.
What makes Hutton worth saving is not just the energy and tenacity of a local campaign but the historical significance of various discoveries the Council – unsurprisingly – seem oblivious to.
A beautiful old building, an intriguing set of tunnels and a connection with one of Bradford’s most famous sons; all to be lost to a bunch of Lego builders.
Perhaps though the trump card available to the campaigners has not yet been explored. The school was international artist David Hockney’s old school. Is there not some way that Hockney himself, for the price of the odd painting, could not step in here?
Obesity
According to a piece on the BBC “…there may be two distinct child obesity epidemics – one among infants and one among adolescents.”
Researchers found signs that obesity was linked to the influence of parents for young children. Great minds at The International Journal of Obesity have decided that if mum likes a Triple Whopper and fries then the kids are not getting salad tonight!
In plain speak they found that “the rise in obesity among the very young had largely been restricted to the minority with obese parents.”
Taking this further, more obese parents means even more obese kids. Worryingly – and clear to most of us with two eyes – “obesity among 16-year-olds had risen across the entire age group.”
Despite the great minds engaged in this study, as ever there are few suggestions at remedies. Time for another study then or nice work if you can get it?
If Only
I’m doing some cricket coaching at a few local primary schools at the moment, trying to help the little cherubs recognise a cricket bat as a tool of recreation rather than a future potential implement to rob a grannie.
You all know by now what I think of the current “provision” of school sport so I wont bang on about nothing – which is what it is -again. However, one incident last week caused me to long for ye olden times.
I was preparing for an after school club, where parents generally opt for another hour free from their “creations” and use any activity as an excuse.
Anything will do just so long as they can stay in the comfort of the hair dressers or tattoo parlour for an hour longer with that hard worn copy of Hello.
A young kid marched into the area known as a MUGA – multi use games area – with a football. They execute people in the Middle East in the same areas although I swear the thought never crossed my mind…
Politely, I told him he needed to play elsewhere. Unbelievably, I copped a tirade of abuse from this little half-wit and, in an instant, longed for olden remedies.
I did muse about hitting him with the plastic bat I was holding but, having not middled anything all season, chances of a clean hit were slim.
Mrs Wood, my old primary teacher, would have grabbed him by the throat and clattered him around the head, safe in the knowledge that brain damage was impossible.
Old Psycho Tetley at St Georges would have simply locked him in his metalwork room for some overnight torture. It would have been like a night with Hannibal Lecter.
And dear old Plug, long since retired from the school now trying to elevate this moron above flipping burgers for fifty years, would have simply caused him to wet himself on the spot with one fixed stare.
Casually, I informed him that he was a disgrace to my old school badge but you could tell by the sneer that he was struggling to compute this and had probably stolen the blazer anyway.
I comforted myself in the knowledge that a long life lay ahead under a cheap cap, covered in animal fat and on minimum wage.
The Spirit Of Cricket
Our junior cricket season is upon us once again and this Spring players have been dropping out faster than a bout of malaria. There are many reasons for this as regular readers will know, yet the game’s administrators remain largely in denial.
Whilst we only had eight players after two days of texts and emails, I made the offer of a friendly to the opposition even though it meant a 30 minute journey and a moderate Saturday night for the Coach.
Most of us don’t coach in expectation of great reward or glory so I thought my offer was reasonable given that it would enable 20 lads to have a game.
Sadly, having gone out and bought his new tin of Brasso in pursuit of a shiny medal sometime this summer, the opposition coach declined claiming that his kids would not like something that was not “competitive”.
What they will now do that ranks as “competitive” this Sunday morning one can only guess. Me…well I will look forward to the extra beer, a roll-over on Sunday and a day with my competitive vegetables!
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