The recent BBC documentary series Permission Impossible followed the planning process at several councils as developers, locals and planning officers battled away before the “judges” – local councillors – delivered some dubious verdicts.
Britain is in a house-building fever prompted by a relaxation of planning rules as the Government seeks to remedy what is perceived to be a chronic lack of housing in the UK.
As a defence, if you thought localism was alive and well it is not. As the programme showed, old Fatty Pickles can bulldozer the whole process from the comfort of his padded chair in Westminster.
A notional target of some 200,000 new houses a year has simply not been approached in recent years but with the big developers sat on huge land and cash banks, aided by the Chancellor’s Right To Buy scheme (who cares if you can afford it) it’s concrete jungle time.
The documentary exposed for all what a farcical and ominously destructive process planning currently is and how we should all fear for our remaining urban green spaces.
On the front-line are the local planning officers, most seemingly handicapped by severe and charisma bypasses. Nerdy Norman from Planning, thrust onto the nation’s tv sets, seems to believe he is a budding stand-up making for painful viewing.
Dressed by Matalan, styled by a blind man, Phil Skill, drives around in an open top Mazda – the sort rejected even by hairdressers – trying to woo the viewer with his funny side. You are left with the forlorn hope that the Mazda’s brakes are as weak as the jokes.
Still, you reap what you sow and Phil and his peer group’s reward are the NIMBYs – Not in My Back Yard – at which we are clearly world leaders. Objecting is the chosen career of the retired.
Defending us against the unstoppable march of those who worship mammon are a bunch of wrinklies making their first placards since primary school.
Those whose job it appears to be to arbitrate in a sensible and responsible manner are the local councillors; clearly then there is no hope here.
Often a site visit is required so the mini-bus rolls up to the rest home, the councillors are herded up, helped onto the bus and off they go on a fully expensed jolly.
“Where are we off to today Dottie?”
“We’re off on a day out to see where they want to put a few thousand homes on the village green”
“Ooh what a lovely idea! When’s the refreshments start?”
Our countryside is being determined by a bunch of people the wrong side of dementia. Which leaves absolutely no hope for those with real concerns and modest means to fight the mighty deep pockets of the developers.
The programme evidences a generally abysmal process with awful standards of debate inevitably bulldozed by policy, power and the odd nod and a wink.
Yet the real issues are not being met. It is affordable and largely social housing that is needed and on brownfield sites of which there are plenty given our onward shift away from manufacturing.
According to a Government survey quoted in Private Eye (Eye 1361) “fewer of us own our own property than at any time since 1987”. Building homes out of reach of the bottom rungs of the ladder merely serves to widen the affordability gap.
Save for the older generations we are becoming a nation of renters.
In addition, renovating unoccupied properties is not attractive to developers as there is no opportunity for scale plus a ridiculous VAT disparity which means developers of older properties are penalised by 15%.
Of course, to developers size matters as does location. It matters to councils too, as better the development then better the revenue roll from poll tax; no point in building one-up, one-down boxes in Poor Town, lets rip up some more green fields.
So here we go again on another property boom and bust seemingly having wiped away all those bad memories of recent years. What goes around surely comes around again.
Saving the Tiger
Young Chloe’s school trip this year is to Morocco – we rarely went past Morecambe when I were a lad largely because the school bus would not have made it back. However, Chloe and her fiends have to raise an eye watering £1800 each to get there.
Using this as a convenient excuse for a day on the ale, dad Molly, volunteered to walk the 21 miles on the canal from Skipton back home…dressed in his tiger print onesie.
Fearing the worst, Nigel and I decided to walk with him although had we known that Chloe had managed to detach three friends from their Facebook-Snapshot-Twatter world to walk with us we may have left him to his fate.
If the feet would suffer much later, several hours of incessant teenage babblings would reek far more damage on the soul.
Of course the sight of an eighteen stone tiger on the canal was a source of great amusement.
After several miles, eventually we reached the village of Silsden which seems to be going somewhat up market benefiting it would appear from the exodus from inner Concrete Bradford. No sign of Burger King or Hey Potato here.
Special mention to the cafe bar that provided the girls drinks on the house; soon though it was up and off with man more miles to do.
Eventually we hobbled back to home, feet on fire, throats parched and ready for that special rehydration. Despite all those hours at the gym, it was Molly who sprinted up the home straight…gyms are surely over-rated.
Mad Dogs & Englishmen…Go To The Scruffy
On the best day of the year by far, with a bright sun teasing the early buds of Spring and gardeners’ fingers twitching more than Jimmy Saville on a Christmas special there we were.
Curtains drawn against the harmful sun, a full house sat in The Scruffy awaiting a demolition of the Welsh by England’s exciting young rugby team.
Our Jackie was sweating more than the Welsh front row as she heaved and pumped our ale with barely time for her regular fag breaks; there would be no time for a knee trembler down the cellar today!
Even the pensioners were in including eccentric Professor David and his feisty old bird Jill, bringing in their free-farting dogs to rival Big Al for most noxious smell of the afternoon.
Jill was trying to tell us why, aged 87, she had the upper-hand with the Professor as divorce rates proved that women were now divorcing more once past 70 than any other age group.
The Professor, as ever, had left her with us and escaped for precious moments of peace with his pint. William Hill’s have it odds-on that the Professor would not be contesting.
The game was magnificent, Nob ‘Ed Corner was packed tighter than the corporate boxes at Twickenham but there were no prawn sandwiches here, not even the usually mouldy pies.
Despite the regular explosions from the old dogs – the furry ones – faces were fixed on the screen.
The Welsh were splattered and sent back to the Valleys humbled. Most of the Bear were equally splattered and sought culinary comfort down in the happy valley of Idle Balti land.
Still blistered from the previous days exertions I slipped away quietly, if not entirely steadily, fearful of a yank down the cellar steps from a now revived Our Jackie and hobbled home a contented man.
Mind The Gap – Part 2
This week presenter Evan Davis was supposed to tell us poor Northerners how we could fight back against the giant forces of London. In a piece more padded than his puffer jacket, Davis huffed and puffed.
A stark fact is that London gets over seven times the spend per head on infrastructure the rest of the country gets. Infrastructure connects and drives growth – fact. Art galleries and the like do not – fact.
So how do you think the gap will be closed with the building of HS2 starting in London, a Heathrow extension (or Boris Island), a probable Crossrail 2 and even a giant sewer across town indicative of all the shit that comes out of London?
They are even building a new £30m bridge across the Thames to make life easier for shoppers!
One nation…really?
Phil Baxendale says
You mean to say that the brick you carry around with you (aka phone) actually takes photos?
Christ you’ll have games on it next!
Packman or space invaders or even flat tennis!