“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
St Ambrose
I met an old pal this week, a keen rugby man; thoughts turned to the All Blacks versus England game. I asked where he would be watching; perhaps his club in Bingley?
“Twickenham” he replied without noticing my instant humbling. “Where are you watching?”
“New Inn…Idle” I replied crushed as if the All Black’s pack had descended en masse.
Swing low sweet chariot…
Farce
Often a story illustrates many of the issues facing Bradford. This concerns our Council’s unfathomable approach to planning. What it drives out via readers’ comments, ignoring the idiots, is telling.
Mention retrospective planning re certain areas and the floodgates open to those who believe that our planning laws are openly flouted.
A banqueting suite that has been operating “illicitly” for four years is the subject of the latest retrospective planning application to be submitted to Bradford Council. The use of the term latest is illustrative.
Make you own judgements on claim and counter-claim but the Council have either been wilfully oblivious or downright incompetent; I suspect both. Scarce resources will be offered as an excuse but this place has been operating for four years.
Retrospective planning permissions often engage Councils in lengthy battles; witness the violation of several shop-fronts in Bradford. Planning restrictions re older buildings are often resolved by a mystery fire.
If we are to shed our piss poor image we have to observe standards governed by the rule of law not some third world village. The lead must come from the top, from those with lavish public salaries that simply do not reflect performance. That they fail us so consistently is woeful.
Days Of Innocence
As Bonfire Night came and went here’s a piece from yesteryear.
As days shortened we always had the final event of the year, Bonfire Night, starting almost as soon as the cricket season ended. We collected wood – “progging” – by various means; begging, stealing and borrowing…sort of.
One year, we acquired a huge number of planks courtesy of NEGAS (North Eastern Gas Board) with their distinctive livery. We then stole some whitener from the club garage and painted them to disguise our haul in a military style operation.
The following day an irate local builder turned up accusing us of nicking his planks. He identified the newly painted planks, hauled them on to his van and threatened us with “ a right good towelling”. The NEGAS logo was still embossed on the edges, something we had missed but nobody felt it opportune to point this out.
We competed to build the biggest fire locally and sought to take out our rivals. Close by was Boothy’s farm with son Richard head of the clan.
One night, Adi Walton and I undertook a midnight raid. Their pile was massive and looked like it would burn for days – which it did – only a week before scheduled. We only intended to light a bit of it but soon Adi and I were contemplating witness protection. As the sky burned brighter than the Blitz, we realised Boothy would toast us.
Interpol were not needed to figure out the culprits; our rivals arrived the following day, marching down the driveway at the club like a marauding army as we shit our pants. Somewhat hopefully, we had locked the cricket club gates but they just climbed over. We had neither boiling tar nor cross-bows to fight back plus they were miles bigger.
This was when I discovered that negotiating may be a good future career as we brokered a peace where they got our wood and we avoided getting our heads kicked in. Adi promptly vanished never to be seen again emerging as a tax exile in Ilkley post re-constructive surgery.
I saw Richard decades later in the local confectioners and offered a vanilla as a gesture of peace; if only Brext was so easy? We smiled at long gone memories and went our separate ways knowing life would never be as good again.
One Hundred Years Ago
More tales of the brave fallen fighting for freedom. Today those free as a result feel enabled to launch fireworks at firemen and police officers.
Money Can’t Buy You Love
The boss of Persimmon, Jeff Fairburn, has apparently fallen on his sword after the controversy surrounding his £75m pay award – see here.
After a toe-curling interview on local news where he appeared deaf and dumb, he’s been ditched. This is modern Britain at it’s greediest and most hypocritical for, odious as the bonus was, he will not have been the only cat that got the cream.
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