Musings From The Padded Cell

Global Bank Flees Village Of The Hoodies!

“The ethic of honesty has been overwhelmed by the mass production of ignorance.”
Nick Davies – Flat Earth News

Symbolic

Still holding the belly in…

I was back at my old primary school last week attempting to spread the gospel of cricket. Bursting through the doors laden with bags of gear, I copped a disapproving look from Ms Becky.

“Shhh!” she said “It’s confession time.”

Glancing down at the angelic little ones sat waiting for Father All Ears, I knew enough of them to suggest to the Father that it could be a long afternoon. It was pointless asking to join in to seek personal forgiveness.

Out of the lush tarmac playing area I gazed wistfully at the untouched green grass that almost five decades ago would have been a sea of mud by this time of year.

I noticed fencing cutting across the middle of the old football pitch, goalposts long gone and so I asked the teacher, wrapped in more swaddling than a polar explorer, knowing I would not like the answer.

The school has planted a woodland where once we had a football pitch and cricket pitch, of sorts. And in the background shone a Dominos Pizza sign to shine a light on what is so wrong about modern day life – see here – and what we deny kids of today.

After all, its not as if the little ones will even be allowed to climb the bloody trees, if they ever grow.

Tales From The Scruffy – Part One

Like many others last week I faced hard choices as the Beast From The East struck. In the interests of the planet, most days I decided to linger in my pit saving body warmth, conscious that the world was in good hands. If schools could have snow days so could I.

As soon as I knew the roads were clear I ventured down to my kettle in a show of solidarity. To show community pride I shovelled my road only to draw a crowd larger than Harry Gration.

Seeking human company I risked yet another Wednesday night heart attack at the gym with forty-five minutes on a bike to music from the Guantanamo Bay mix. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was bereft of anything to eat.

Chippy time called to replace all those calories. As Bertie is not great in the snow, I parked up outside The Scruffy not risking a downhill slalom to the Village of the Hoodie.

As soon as I did the doors opened almost automatically to reveal Big Al continuing his noble quest to save the pub industry from extinction.

This month’s fags

In a flash out came Our Jackie; the Beast From The Bar had escaped.

“Me taxi! Take me ‘ome now I love you!” she cried. Realising it was not Idleways finest with a stop-off at the Khyber Pass – for everything you eat, you shall pass – she skulked back inside.

Returning with my slimmer’s meal, as I got into Bertie the doors opened magically again.

“Will you take the bloody picture! I can’t hold me belly in much longer!”

“Oh bugger it’s you again!” said a crestfallen Our Jackie “Me taxi’s blobbed. Take us down home and I’ll make it worth your while!”

Now Bertie is not known for his ability to dance on ice so I figured going down I may be down for a while.

She flickered her eyelashes at me, covering my chips in a heap of black mascara, pouting her lips seductively, positively begging for a scrap of salted comfort.

I reasoned that if she died from exposure that would have a critical impact on beer supplies at The Scruffy.

However, given the likelihood of never getting back up the hill and being kidnapped by the “misunderstood youth”, I opted to offer disappointment, risking my next pint of Black Sheep being gobbed in.

As I waved goodbye I suggested that Big Al would be happy for the company should she really be stranded. Fortunately she avoided both fates.

Localism Shafted By Globalism

T&A 6/3/18 – “Smile!”

“Loss of Yorkshire Bank in Idle will be ‘a shame’ and ‘a blow’ to the town” so ran the headline here.

Cue another photo from the leader of the Glum Party with news to me that Idle was now a town. Well done editorial team, wherever you are!

Our local councillor reassured us that she had “…been in touch with Yorkshire Bank and asked to meet them to discuss.”

This will doubtless have the UK CEO of the Aussie owned Clydesdale Yorkshire Banking Group – corporate mantra “Big enough to matter, small enough to care” (and dumb enough to write crap like this) racing down from Glasgow.

The banks were bailed out by the state – British or Qatari depending on your pick – and since then have proceeded to disregard the communities their greed threatened. The fact that politicians – real and pretend – are impotent in the face of this says it all.

She said the “prime site” had been refurbished recently and its closure would be a “blow to footfall which is so important to other businesses.”

A far bigger blow to footfall in our village are the hoards of hoodies running amok seemingly without a worry about police and councillors alike.

Should this continue there will be far more vacant shops than a bank.

One Hundred Years Ago

This week tales of a cooling of relations between the Bradford Cricket League and now defunct Bradford Central League. Plus a drunken Mrs Patchett; surely not?

Tales From The Scruffy – Part Two

The snow was beginning to vanish as global warming hit The Scruffy allowing Big Al to complete a whole month with no discernible change of clothes. Who needs Gucci?

Uncle Andy was waiting for us at Sunday Prayers as the sex-starved Patch joined the big man and myself. Young Bet, forearms twitching, was keen to satisfy our desires.

The Iron Lady.

After last week’s giddy goings on I was staunch in my resolve not to start the week ready to throw up over an octogenarian at Monday morning Pilates.

The Iron Lady had not been impressed by my “conditioning”.

Four pints and his stalker.

Soon Four Pints came in having been assigned responsibility by Mission Control for the weekly egg supply. It’s a neat system with an electronic shock administered through a tag disguised as a watch as soon as his fourth pint is downed.

Eventually, his watch lit up and a spasm shot up his arm; the pint was necked with an efficiency that even impressed Big Al. He surveyed the eggs, the necessity of his short visit and prepared to return to Mission Control.

However, rebellion was in the air and back he came clutching a bottle of Stella, defiance personified.

“You won’t tell Mission Control about this will you?” twitching as the watch bleeped furiously “We can tell her the hens had trouble laying due to the cold!”

Nana Mouskouri – legend

Eventually, after a few more thousand volts, Four Pints necked his illicit mistress Stella and vanished in a wobbly manner into the night clutching his double-yolks.

Fortunately, quiz night had started as Young Bet took her perch like a peroxide Nana Mouskouri to begin the weekly contest. The Fishermen were still absent whilst Simmy the giant driving instructor was bemoaning a recent Trip Advisor review.

“My driving instructor refused to let me skid this morning. I think he was watching Jeremy Kyle instead…fat bastard!” came the comment from #3kidzandcountingShaz.

Simmy had tried to explain that even with twenty stone in the passenger seat, a Kia Picanto driven by a brainless teenager would have traction issues.

The quiz rolled on, Young Bet purring on the Binatone, eyes fluttering at Giant Geordie, that cap would definitely be coming off tonight.

The Fishermen

Big Al was pushing the limits of the cashless society as Young Geoffrey finally decided to come inside for a warm on the naughty seat. Arthur had failed to reserve The Fishermen’s usual spot by the window and Young Geoffrey was in a fitful sulk.

We were almost ready to follow Four Pints, if not to Mission Control at least to our own assembly points, when came the following question.

“Which is the fastest creature on two legs?” purred our inked-up beauty.

“A Kenyan being chased by a lion!” offered Big Al still striving for full political correctness. I mused this long and hard, I kid you not.

“A giraffe!” I offered in an instant knowing it was time to review my drinking.

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Comments

  1. Sarah Cowley says:

    Misdion Control would like to correct you it’s not the watch that sends the voltage through the arm it’s the wedding ring!!
    #fameatlast

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