I’m never happy with what I’ve written. You imagine, before you start, there’s a cathedral, and the moment it starts on the page, it’s a garden shed. And then you just try to make it the best shed you can. Sadie Jones
Men suffer several mid-life challenges and react in numerous ways; the menopause, what’s all that about girls?
Some ditch the wife for an online bride and end up living with several generations of new in-laws talking Pidgin. Others opt for a shiny sports car to find the saying only the old are rich enough to be young is a fantasy.
So I’ve bought a shed and far too small to house either a Porsche or a mother-in-law. The downside was that it came flat-packed; at least you can jump in a Porsche and go. Memories flooded back of my failed 11+ Airfix exam, haunted by this ever since.
I’d thought about an interview with Oprah to explain my personal angst and how my Dad destroyed my life by buying me the Airfix kit. He was not taking my calls this week as I sought a co-worker.
I recalled my greenhouse, another flat-pack torment. All looked good until my mate Patch came around to inspect and noted I had built the frame inside out.
After a weekend with the singing builder preparing the base and studying a You Tube video of a bloke putting up a shed in eleven minutes, I was ready.
Luckily, my next-door neighbour, a retired lingerie marketeer (Bradford, Dewsbury and Shipley markets) was available. Between us we had enough drills to open a dentist.
In truth, it fairly flew up albeit a 4×6 shed is not the Taj Mahal. However, I’m pleased to say my confidence in a young Bradford business – Power Sheds – was well placed. Great product and top service.
As we flagged towards the end of the day, on the hill appeared the cavalry in the well-fed shape of Fat Ping Pong the Plasterer, a real tradesman with white van to boot on another 3pm finish hunting a brew.
The ex-financier and knicker trader took cautious backward steps as Fat Ping Pong started popping “three-inchers” in like pills.
It was done and just in time for the arrival of my helper’s wife – on one – with a list of jobs to do, things she did not like and “your junk to chuck out!.” I hugged my shed knowing I had made a wise choice.
Shaun Keenan
As a celebration of getting to fifty I wrote Fifty Not Out largely as a tribute to all that is good about sport. There were numerous characters I came across but few as likeable as “Keenan” as we got to know him.
Sadly, he passed away recently and I would like to reproduce and embellish the little bit I wrote in tribute to him almost a decade ago.
Quite often we could all be guilty of pre-judging and never more so than when we first played at The De Lacy, renowned to be one of the toughest pubs in Bradford, long since gone.
We changed in the pub cellar, avoided the broken glass, viewed the bucket on the floor giving up on the prospect of a warm shower after the game and hopped across the busy Tong Street to watch the horses being led from the pitch.
Managed in his own inimitable style by a hugely likeable nutcase called Keenan, their side also contained a character by the nickname of Chewbacca, named after the Star Wars character as he was a spitting image.
After another competitive and lively game, notable for Dayks playing an ambassadorial role, similarly tormenting their team and placating the voluble supporters, we had as good a post match bit of hospitality ever with warm-hearted, high spirited and generous lads.
That’s sport for you in a nutshell, even though we honestly expected our cars to be gone by the time we left the pub.
Everytime we played The De Lacy, Keenan would be there, either doing his best to hold the team together on the pitch, trying to catch Dayks to kick lumps out of him or screaming his lungs out on the sidelines.
He was a laugh a minute, a genuine guy and one of thousands of untold heroes who allow most to simply turn up and play. Many lads will have looked forward to their Sunday morning kickabout; without this loveable, charismatic and funny bloke it would never have happened.
Rest well lad.
Banana Republic
Swiftly publishing and then effectively burying this article the local paper did journalism no favours this week. As a voice of Bradford it failed us.
The Bradford Council for Mosques (BCM) set up a Community Interest Company (CIC) in July 2020 to deliver £200,000 worth of Covid communications funded by £200k of public money.
Two of the directors have several directorships but what qualifies them for the work the money was intended for is not clear.
Jenny Cryer, assistant director to the office of the chief executive, told…how Urban Reach was one of three companies commissioned to deliver Covid communications. When asked who they were Ms Cryer said she was unable to say. Really?
The article also included a statement from BCM.
The work of Urban Reach has received local, national and international coverage and has been highlighted as an exemplary model for Covid communications by the Cabinet Office and councils across the country.
International recognition after six months in existence?
Only a Banana Republic would operate like this by doling out public money to organisations clearly set up on a whim? As ever neither Bradford Council nor BCM were keen to comment and no wonder.
Tellingly, a T&A reader does the journalist’s job. There seem to be two companies Urban Reach CIC and Urban Reach (Yorkshire) Both companies are registered to a flat in BD5, along with 85 other companies all registered to the same flat.
Finally, remember last November our Council spent £88k on household letters advising us all on…Covid.
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