“When a thing has been said and said well, have no scruple. Take it and copy it.”
Anatole France
The local rag lifting stories from here…allegedly…whatever next?
In this month’s edition of The Trumpit – actual circulation 800 copies – we broke a story concerning Bradford Council’s inept management of the Bingley Music Festival. Not hopeful of a Pulitzer Prize, I offered the story to the local rag, the Telegraph & Argus – claimed circulation in excess of 100,000, which certainly puts it in line for a fiction nomination.
A few days passed without reply until last Saturday when they ran this story on the front page claiming to reveal there was a £300,000 overspend on last year’s Bingley Music Live. Some hack called Felicity Macnamara claimed credit for the piece.
The local Bingley councillors are apparently clueless as to whether the event will run this year but any sane person might suggest that throwing it together so late in the day would be chancing it at best. What acts would be available is an obvious question. My sneaking suspicion is this might be conveniently canned but why worry when nobody votes for you in Bingley anyway?
Laughably, the incomprehensibly named Department of Place, responsible for the cock-up, claimed losses to be “partly offset by underspends in other parts of the department”. Don’t they keep claiming money is tight?
Which just goes to show how lacking in any business capacity these people are as no private business would nor could so easily brush this aside.
I approached the T&A hopeful for a royalties cheque so Editor Bill could finally buy The Trumpit a company yacht to sail off merrily down the Leeds-Liverpool canal. Their rather sniffy response was that this was merely coincidental and that they were on it anyway; I sensed the yacht would have to wait.
As for the bigger picture, if the Council can so merrily blow your money down the drain, how timely local elections then?
Footnote – the T&A revealed the salary of the Strategic Director of Place as £133k this week. Nice work!
Vote Me!
I love this time of year as wannabe politicians sneak up the drive hoping to bung a leaflet through the door then scarper. In direct contrast to Jehovah’s Witnesses and kids wanting money in exchange for not bombing the house with fireworks, I love a doorstep “discussion”.
Helping out his party colleague Cllr Glum, as she attempts to secure another four years waving placards as the house builders as they continue to concrete the area was ex-MP David Ward.
Now I do think he is a decent bloke and was a good MP for us before he fell victim to the general national apathy towards the Lib Dems and Liar Liar Cleggy. When the expenses scandal broke I was reassured to find he was one of the few not taking the proverbial. Nevertheless, I am wrestling with voting at all this time.
Indeed a Look North feature suggested that voter turnout in Yorkshire for local elections was circa 30%; make of that what you will. When I confessed this, David replied calling me “crazy” which I thought was a bit rich from a politician.
Given the general feeling towards parasites of all parties for the self-absorbed mess they have created dealing with Johnny Foreigner, I could understand why he was delivering leaflets in his running shoes.
Local councillors remain a protected species, with some ninety of them sitting down at City Hall at £13k plus a year before they really get noses stuck in the trough; we should all question what value we get other than keeping the unemployment figures down. Try as I might, conscious of how people fought for the right to vote, this lot leave me utterly uninspired.
Beware Jack Frost
Since my conversion to the cult of veg growing several years ago, this time of year is one of excitement (really!) and fear too. Weeks of nurturing seeds into young plants ready for the surge into full production can be destroyed by one surprise late frost.
Charged with looking after the Old Man’s tomatoes for a few weeks recently was pressure of a kind I have never experienced. As I attempt my first full year of self-sufficiency after an apprenticeship longer than a doctor’s, killing off the old Man’s Alicante was not an option.
As I gaze down from the office, past the cherry blossom in full bloom, the greenhouse is stacked with all sorts of plants covered against the threat of Jack Frost. Inside the house, leggy looking cucumber plants seem to be eternally on tip-toes, stretching towards the light, ready for their final destination. Like frightened kids peering over a wall they wait to find the light.
Of course there will be casualties as not all will bloom – that is nature – but soon all manner of life will flow into the garden and with it the gifts of the land.
By then the local elections will be over too…
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