Musings From The Padded Cell

A Bromance In The Air?

“One of the key problems today is that politics is such a disgrace, good people don’t go into government.”
Donald Trump

Team Bonding

In his high pressure job as Chief Tester, Pudding Dept, Asda, my teammate Luke takes his responsibilities very seriously despite the personal toll. If he is to approve a pudding then it must be sampled; it’s a man’s job.

However, since his appearance on The Apprentice as the Simon Cowell of pudding judges and subsequent offers for I’m A Celebrity and Strictly, Luke has undertaken a serious fitness regime.

Shedding a few stone over the winter, he’s now a trim figure though he still gets to avoid running around when we field as he’s the only one that can catch a ball.

Villas poster boy Louis Brown shows Luke he still has a bit to go. Villas 2017 Calendar still available at all Church Fetes.

So it was that our highly recommended mental health candidate, wicket-keeper Rob, was moved to comment at the weekend as we sat in the changing rooms about to do battle.

“I must so you do look good Luke” purred Rob as he rubbed his bi-focals, strapped his brittle chef’s fingers and pulled on his gloves “You’ve got a really nice body I mean!”

The chatter in the room went quiet in an instant, was this a bromance in the making? Had Rob come out?

Looking like he had just dropped a sitter (Should be used to that by now! Ed) an embarrassed Rob scurried to redeem himself as several of the guys moved bags and clothing a few pegs away. Our overseas, Young Joe Root, looked as if he suddenly wanted a flight home not quite ready for this form of male bonding.

Several hours later most waited till Rob was out of the showers whereas Luke rushed home to his wife and kids to explain why he was still wearing his sweat soiled cricket gear and would now be going to each and every game in his kit just like he did as a junior.

Diversity and inclusivity…we have it all at the Villas.

Slimming World in the 2nd Team


I saw this the other day and it did remind me of working in a night club many years ago where girls seemed oblivious to the freezing Northern winds as they partied partially dressed in the middle of winter.

Never did it go so far though; I mean, where do you put your change? Do you need new tape each time you go for a pee? And what comes off first, the mascara or the tape?

Here in Bradford, girls have been quick to latch on to this new trend.

A Bradford gal’s best friend.

Strap line – Duct Tape that Sticks to Rough and Uneven Surfaces – this should really catch on.

Tales From The Scruffy

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Heads were down and tongues were dribbling; soon it would be Sara’s Super Supper at The Scruffy and feeding time would start for the regular motley band, fasting since the early afternoon ahead of free nosh and sod the Michelin Stars.

The quiz was in full flow, the place packed to the rafters, so much so the Fishermen’s usual late entry meant it was standing room only. Of course they sulked as usual but failed to raise an eyebrow.

Normally courteous in the extreme, we “youngsters” sat firmly in our seats, unwilling to make way despite poisonous looks from the desperate anglers. Varicose veins swelled up, titanium hips strained and Our Geoffrey’s knackered knees longed for Strictly no more; Charlie looked miserable in his 1984 C&A sweater.

Our quiz mistress was doing her best sexy voice over the Binatone sound system as her beau – Giant Geordie – sat impassively at the bar searching out any old boy that might cast a suggestive glance over his tattooed princess.

Sara the landlady was watering down the egg mayo fillings, which made a change from the beer, as bellies began to rumble. And then came question fifteen, the one before the supper.

“Which product’s name has been translated as ‘happiness in the mouth’?” purred our hostess as she knocked back another lager. “Somewhat more suitable than the original which was ‘bite the wax tadpole'”

She concluded with a burp, a longing look at the sausage rolls and a wipe of her moist red lips on her arm. Giant looked on aghast at what he had agreed to marry in one moment of madness, drowning in Newcastle Brown.

There was uproar in the room; several pairs of dentures landed in foaming pints of ale and a few had to rush urgently to the facilities for fear of a Tena moment as the Fishermen scoured empty seats like wild hyenas a meaty carcass.

A sudden onset of hot flushes sent the room temperature soaring as the culinary feast arrived. Men rose uneasily from their seats to seek sustenance and escape their heated up women. All of a sudden the week-old pasties looked a good proposition.

Eventually calm was restored and life fell back into line at it’s usual Sunday night pace. And the answer to the question: Coca Cola. Be careful what you swallow.

La La Labour Land

“Next year Rodney we’ll all be millionaires!”

The Bearded One was in Bradford this week launching the Labour Party manifesto and, having cleared my emails, sent the lad off to work and baked a few scones, I found myself watching with curiosity as he addressed a hand-picked crowd of whoopers at the university.

Firstly, there was the bizarre spectacle of the Shadow Cabinet getting off a coach like rock stars or footballers; it struck me that I knew very few of these people and that this was the way I would prefer it to stay. I had more chance of naming the cast of Emmerdale and probably more expectation of credibility.

Then came news that Diane Abbott would be Home Secretary in charge of counting everybody in once we scrapped immigration controls which comforted me enormously.

I spotted Baroness Chakrabarti, CBE, elected by nobody but always managing to get a free gig somewhere. Jobs for the boys…and the girls…if your face fits.

After half an hour, if I believed Jezza, soon we would all be rich and have four extra days holiday too. I calculated that would cost me a fortune in hangovers and it killed it stone dead for me. Who needs more holidays?

Several weeks in and can you name anybody – from any side – that has struck you as both credible and impressive? I am drowning in soundbite hell.

What It’s Really All About

Trials and tribulations of the game of cricket apart, when it all boils down to it there is nothing better than getting kids active, engaged and – if only occasionally – winning too.

Congratulations to our very young U11s who won last weekend in a last-ball thriller in a very sporting contest with East Bierley. Their smiles apparently would have lit up the city.

Notes From An Independent

David Ward

In the interests of balance and to stop all you whinging Lefties moaning at me, here’s how the dirty right can effectively de-select a Lib Dem candidate. It means that we locals lose a candidate time-served in Bradford for a chum of Tim Farron at the instruction of a Tory…get it?

This is from David Ward, Independent candidate for Bradford East. Make your own minds up.

“Those who know the details about my sacking…tend to be “outraged” about how I have been treated and those who don’t know and are confused by what has happened.

My sympathy lies with Jeanette and the Local Party who went through the proper process of selecting a candidate, one who the Party was perfectly happy to support in 2015, and have now been told they were wrong to select me – even though a week ago I received a call from one of our senior MPs and Tim Farron’s right hand man asking how my campaign was going and wishing me good luck!

What changed was the interference in a Bradford election from my old Bradford Council opponent Sir Eric Pickles, Chair of the powerful Conservative Friends of Israel, who applied pressure on Tim Farron to sack me.

I am still building my team and preparing my leaflets – it should not be for Eric Pickles to decide whether I should be a candidate in Bradford East. Tim Farron maybe gives in to bullies – but I don’t.”

So much for Farron as his strong opposition claims. Will you let Fat Eric decide who can stand in Bradford?

Sir Eric Pickles

One Hundred Years Ago

A nice story here about our old friends at Thornton Cricket Club who honoured Private Harry H Craven’s name – a former captain of the club – marking the 100th anniversary of his death on the battlefield aged 33.

For more tales from a hundred years ago see the usual link.

хороших выходных (Have a great weekend.)
Donald Trump

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