Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.
George Carlin
Given the green light to decimate a beautiful part of Bradford by a Government Inspector based in Bristol in December 2014, how long before the greedy developers would be back?
Word has it more fields are being scoped for further piss poor development in an area the Inspector described as having “an atmosphere of tranquillity…a peaceful quality that provided relief from the urban area.” But crack on anyway!
He was able to rule so because our useless Council had failed to satisfy the Government’s requirement to have a five-year housing supply plan. Despite the Council rejecting plans in it’s own back yard, in the end it was utterly powerless.
As for the aspiration to build on brownfield sites take a look at this map. Developers are simply not interested in these areas; so they keep ripping up green fields at will where the big money lies.
Here is Bradford Council’s House Building Policy summarised:
1 – set mythical target of 42,000 new houses to 2030 ignoring any population forecasts.
2 – fail to agree five-year plan to allow the above.
3 – ignore reality that building at these numbers is nigh on impossible.
4 – blame the Government and rake in Council Tax.
Wacky Races
“The Council is considering introducing a Public Spaces Protection Order (PSPO)…to address identified issues around anti-social use of various types of motor vehicles. The Council wants your views and feedback…”
Inept hardly describes this – see here.
Back To The Future
Recently my mobile phone found itself in intensive care. As I was unable to breathe life into it’s ageing body, with a Saturday afternoon of rugby and the pub looming, I left it’s bedside with a “do not resuscitate” order.
Because I have an aversion to phone shops with giddy kids wanting to demonstrate all manner of things I will never fathom, my reliance on The Scruffy’s mobile phone repair man would need a day or two extra; the world would keep turning.
A few quiet days reaffirmed the obvious; we are all insignificant specks on the planet and nobody missed this one. Once repaired, uncannily I received a call from Zee from Vodafone trying to convince me I was a “valued customer” which translated means “let me sell you something you do not need.”
I could save the likes of Vodafone a fortune by putting a marker on any bloke over forty; you will not sell to us, we do not need you. Women are different, they will buy anything…try them.
My Dad’s phone is held together by sellotape and has more cracks in it’s glass than his forty-year old greenhouse. His pal Eric enters numbers into his phone as if trying to punch a hole in the screen with his index finger. I swear he thinks it’s a block of toffee.
I watched a young thing in the gym the other day work her phone – as opposed to working the machine she was sat on – effortlessly gliding one-fingered from screen to screen like Torvill & Dean. Back to Zee who was at an instant disadvantage for having stupid parents who named him after a pet.
He told me that my “reward” for paying “not a lot” to Vodafone was a “special deal” on a tablet by a manufacturer called Who Way. It turns out this is a Chinese company and for £10 a month a bunker in Slanty Land would know my every click.
My phone and I are are now back in harmony. Iin motoring terms it’s back to the future: I’m driving my Dad’s clapped out Capri again and everything works just fine.
The Law of Totally Predictable Consequences
As a footnote to the Idle Moor piece came this article.
You might have thought that building around 1000 new houses close by would have caused the local councillors to blame somebody other than the bridge owners for the increased traffic flow.
The projected costs of “improvements” here are equivalent to 0.13% of the recently ousted Persimmon plc boss’s after tax bonus pot. Read the idiotic comments – cross-party – to fully understand why these people are hopeless.
The Golden Girls
A couple of newbies have joined us recently but are a bit vocal, emitting guttural sounds the like we have not heard before, used only to the odd displacement of wind from frail old bodies to break the spell cast by the Iron Lady’s Monday morning soundtrack.
“I’ve not heard grunting like that since I was 21!” said Trish turning to her fellow Golden Girl Cath who smiled, rolled over, let out a quiet one and wondered where the days had gone.
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