The Council’s grand housing plan spanning 2015-30 is soon to be unveiled.
Seeking to build 42,100 new houses at an average not far short of 3,000 per annum, this is a staggering figure; it suggests the district will be turned into a gridlocked building site for the next fifteen years.
Behind all this is a raft of Central and Local Government policy; wade through Appendix 2 and you can see what’s either committed or up for grabs in your part of the district.
However, as I’ve written many times it is the Council’s lack of a mandatory five-year supply of housing that now leaves green fields open to predatory developers allowing open season.
What is certain is that developers will not be seeking to build what the City really needs, namely affordable, low-cost starter homes. This is not where the money is.
The proposed numbers are also laughable; consider the following.
“NHBC…builders…which construct about 80 per cent of the UK’s new homes…completed 560 properties in the Bradford district in 2013.” (Bradford T&A 9 May 2014)
In the depths of the recession that figure fell by almost two-thirds. So, how will they quadruple annual builds across several future business cycles? It is potty to be kind.
Laughably, Chief Stooge at the Council was moaning this week about a raft of proposals for one and two bedroom flats in the city centre despite the Council being one of the beneficiaries!
“We need to continue to regenerate the city, to continue to raise property values to ensure that some of these developments can be bigger, and perhaps slightly more expensive, to attract in couples and ideally families.”
This is Bradford not West London and since when did family living begin in Bradford city centre? Another thing that seems to have escaped his somewhat limited attention is that the population mix of Bradford is also changing rapidly.
A recent article illustrated this.
Dig a bit deeper into these figures and they suggest that Bradford’s population growth in the period 2001-30 will be fuelled almost entirely by the minority communities.
The figures are staggering and show that as the city’s population grew by 58,000 in the period 2001-11, 55,000 came from the Muslim population. Similarly, predictions to 2030 show an overall growth of 64,000 with the Asian* population accounting for 58,000.
(*strangely the article focuses on the Muslim element for the first period of comparison then switches to a broader “Asian origin” definition)
The figures suggest that, unless the indigenous population has given up sex, migration out of the city continues.
A look at the 2011 Census also shows that decades of multi-culturalism have done little to shift the traditional areas of population settlement in Bradford.
Bradford is a city characterised by very differing population mixes contained in the inner city core to the outer lying areas. Given many of these inner areas have issues of high unemployment, can anyone see the obvious flaws with the Council’s plan?
Oblivious as ever to stark reality, the Council clearly have eyes set firmly on areas of the district which are clearly going to be off-limits for many buyers within Bradford.
The obvious effect here is an influx of people unable to afford higher Leeds prices solving nothing re Bradford’s housing issues. There is a blatant lack of any realistic future vision which developers will cash in on.
Developers want green fields in prime areas to drive premium values; equally councils can insist on Section 106 agreements which mean the developer coughs up sizeable sums into the pot for infrastructure improvements…that few notice.
Less desirable sites rarely have queues of developers lining up unless councils can offer incentives to develop. This is why sites you would think ripe for development often lay untouched for years.
It is easy to lampoon our useless Council but this plan could shape the city for generations. That it is so badly thought out and ignores many realities should concern all that still enjoy living here.
FOOTNOTE
Persimmon Homes have predictably lodged an appeal against the Council’s decision to refuse the building of 270 houses on land at Cote Farm, Thackley following the recent decision by a Government Inspector to overturn a ruling at Idle Moor.
The Cote Farm Action Group are working on this once again but what chance against the Plc chequebook?
A Dirty Weekend At The Scruffy
With news that 16-24 year-olds are, allegedly, becoming more and more teetotal, I looked forward to three days in The Scruffy to prove that 50 somethings are conscientiously keeping the pub trade alive.
As with most Government statistics you could treat the above with some scepticism. Even if they were true, the reality will be that most young people simply cannot afford to drink and are stuck at home playing Candy Crush all night with their best pal in Botswana.
Of course, Big Al was quickly on my shoulder and must have seen the news piece as well as he boldly stated that – from Monday – it was a new healthy life for him too.
Viewing our cynicism with some dismay he lowered his pint to protest.
“I’ve lost seven pounds since Christmas!”
“Don’t worry” soothed Patch “you’ll find them down the back of the sofa in time!”
Sensing he was losing the argument he was prized off his stool by Luckless Linda as the mega-bucket Chinese meal deal was on it’s way.
We would reconvene the following day and what better way to wile away a grey Saturday afternoon than watching a sporting contest that an England team can actually win.
Ignoring the slaughtering Down Under of our useless cricket team, we awaited England’s demolition of the Italian rugby team. Our Jackie was manning the pumps once more in her clingy one piece, biceps at the ready.
We took our seats in the “Stand” and were soon joined by Macca, local wit and raconteur. Macca was bemoaning the length of the Cricket World Cup, seemingly necessitated by the need for players to rest up between games.
“These are supposed to be fit lads aren’t they?” he quizzed “I mean I can do two games in a weekend, sixteen pints and a Jalfrezi! What’s wrong with them?”
Macca had a point, after all the only ice baths at Hepworth Idle CC this summer will be for the bottles of cider.
England’s demolition job, after a shaky start, proceeded into the afternoon but there was at least one late surprise proving that sport still retains the fickle beauty of unpredictability.
Big Al had laid a complex bet that meant that he was fifty quid to the good should Italy not score a late converted try. As the Italians had spent most of the second half in typical full retreat, the deluxe Chinese for the evening seemed assured.
All of a sudden the Azzurris started flinging the ball around with the precision of the Harlem Globetrotters as England’s defence fought manfully to preserve the big man’s King Prawn starter.
To no avail, as they scored a wonderful late try out on the far touchline. However, they still had to kick a tough penalty and, having removed their premier kicker for being blind and useless, surely the substitute would not convert?
To the cheers of The Scruffy the ball flew perfectly off the kicker’s boot and split the uprights with supreme precision as a crestfallen Big Man licked the empty bag of his Quavers sensing no more treats today.
Defeated, it was off to the chippy.
Fifty Shades?
I could not help but hear a local wag telling all within earshot that his wife had been to see the film last weekend.
“She came back all excited and demanded I tie her to the bed, blindfold and gag her” he said with a wink.
“Then what?” was the consensus, several pints lowered in anticipation.
“I went to the pub!”
High Plains Drifters
Having recently passed his Key Stage 1 in Map Reading, Patch was keen to show off his talents so several of us headed high out on the hills overlooking the jewel in the crown of Emperor Green’s Kingdom of Bradford – Ilkley.
There was more chance of meeting the Abominable Snowman out here than seeing an affordable home; this land was so remote I asked Patch if he came dogging out here.
Mrs P gave me a withering look although her mood had not been enhanced by holding her Valentine’s Day present, a pair of walking sticks. Barely into her forties and condemned already.
We set off into the icy mist following our leader, festooned with all sorts of maps hanging from his neck. Once again, shorts looked a bad call.
Unlike our Christmas walks this one had…girls! Mrs P was in the company of several other Jaw Jaws and, with Bradford City about to dismiss more Premier League rubbish, several regulars were missing.
This was probably not a bad thing as the going was soft enough to suggest that Big Al and Molly would have had to have been airlifted off the top at some stage.
Patch had been kind enough to point out that the path disappeared at a certain point; what he failed to mention was that it vanished into a swamp. Fortunately, crocodiles hate sub-zero water more than my feet.
By halfway Mrs P’s new “legs” had already snapped and, if we ever got back home safely, Patch was threatening to sue Go Outdoors. We looked around for a suitable spot for the RAF to land as the fog closed in and Patch realised the map was upside down.
Eventually, we reached our destination – Beamsley Beacon – which is basically a pile of rocks on a hill. It struck me as a good point to relocate the Town Hall.
The only good thing about my new bout of Trench Foot was that we were driving home in Marsy’s car. A few hours later and, with bodily warmth restored, in came the legions of City fans with delirious eyes once more.
Hammer Time
I gripped her firmly with both hands, felt the sensation of life flicker through her body, strong pulsing from my rod. With my eyes focused I pushed as hard as I could but slithered this way and that. Try as I might I could not penetrate.
Sweat dropped off my brow but still no joy, no response from my target. I pushed again, grunting with my manly effort, arms now shaking but still resistance.
It’s me not you I thought and sought the sanctuary of The Scruffy.
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