Musings From The Padded Cell

The F*ck It Society

“Courage is fire and bullying is smoke.”
Benjamin Disraeli

It seems that the hot weather is not all good news. Lettuce shortages across Europe mean that supplies are having to be sourced from the US and the street value has gone through the roof. The local druggies have sacked cannabis farms for little gems.

For those wishing to chance a midnight raid, be aware that I am now on sentry duty, sleeping in the greenhouse with my bat. Having not middled anything all summer the threat is limited.

Sentry post

On the flip side, my Kiwi lodger – Microwave Man – seems ambivalent to anything that you can’t fry and block the sink with the residual fat from. It must be a generational thing.

Tales From The Scruffy’s Garden

The sun was out again as the end of the working week approached once more; beer gardens started to fill up, tills jingled merrily and landlords beamed contentedly.

I sought out my favourite spot under the old tree in The Scruffy’s garden, well away from the sun, well away from red, blotchy beer bellies, frazzling with Factor Carling.

Sat on the old bench I settled in for the Friday night madness, the ebb and flow of life, a perfect vantage point.

The New Inn and Towngate Fisheries both busy on a sunny Friday night.

The New Inn basked in the early evening sunshine, the hanging baskets a lovely touch, titivating one of the many beautiful old buildings the area enjoys.

Next door Towngate Fisheries had its usual regulars queuing for their weekly treat of some of the best nosh around, undeterred by the heat, to hell with expensive salad.

Its fascinating to watch some of the customers who could do with a better balance between exercise and fish and chips. A quick march up the steep hill might help but most simply seek the closest dropping point to the door.

Dismissive of the potential traffic carnage, weekly cars are dumped on the sharp bend, often parked the wrong way with u-turns galore as the occupants strive to get home to devour the catch. It strikes me that landing the fish might be safer than a lift home with some.

A flashy Audi rolled up the hill and parked up with the modern day F*ck It approach on double yellow lines when only twenty yards back, off-street parking beckoned. Suit Man strolled from the car, hazard warning lights on, as if to say “Look at me I am a knob!”

The lights were the type that look like a cheap disco strobe from the youth clubs we used to frequent many moons ago. God knows why Audi think they belong to cars costing the price of a house. Silently I prayed for that rare species a cop car but Suit Man knew this was as likely as a rain shower.

At the brow of the hill a delusional middle-aged man revved hard in his equally aged sports car before launching across and down the hill. I swear I have heard quieter passenger jets as my pint glass vibrated, my peace by now even more disturbed by dreaded children in the vicinity of “my” bench.

I scowled as best I could to warn them off but the little ones were oblivious to grumpy old men.

Ready, steady, go…

Observing the road junction is far better than any reality television show and is all the proof you need to reaffirm the obvious that the car has far outstripped the average brain.

For the uninitiated, the High Street rises out of the village offering sharp turns left, right or straight up. Tyres howl like an ageing porno actress as cars battle for supremacy. Manners do not maketh a man here.

My turn, your turn….go on punk…make my day.

A young lad with an exhaust system modelled on the Space Shuttle sat, all bulging eyes and rotating neck, waiting for his moment, his Lewis Hamilton fifteen seconds. A roar of noise and the kind of car I crush at will in my dreams flew off down the hill.

I prayed for brake failure and no innocent casualties save for the takeaway where Microwave Man buys his drain blocker burgers.

The Grid

Another near miss as BMW Woman offered a stiff finger out of the window to the amusement of her head-down, technology obsessed offspring who will doubtless be using the same on her teachers by now and getting a red card instead of a good whack.

The crowd at the New Inn jeered in the sun at the continuing madness; happy fish punters continued to sail out of the door; beer pumps creaked under the pressure; landlords opened winter holiday magazines.

Who needs Love Island with entertainment like this?

Brain Shortage

Despite what many campaigners have been banging on intelligently about for years, our hopelessly inept Council has been aiding and abetting the ripping up of green fields across the district.

In pursuit of a laughable housing “plan” that defied an infant’s logic, the socialists have filled the big house builders bonus pots to the brim. And the impact on real housing need – the people they are supposed to protect in Bradford – zip! You could not make it up.

And now we find – see here – that we really don’t need 43,000 new homes – you don’t say! Are we that short of credible, intelligent people that we have to endure idiots?

One Hundred Years Ago

A welcome return to this fascinating archive after a few weeks away. Here is what is on offer from July 2018.

The Trumpit

July’s edition

Issue two in the new format is now out and, as many of you know, we have competition. Media wars in North Bradford, could you make it up? This village ain’t big enough for the both of us?

Sparks – “This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us”

We also appear to have ruffled a few feathers but we did say we would stay true to the long held values of The Trumpit. There is no point in producing fluff and bumf.

Only local people can really bring you local news; if it upsets some who would rather there be things you did not know well all the better.

We hope you enjoy the read and all feedback is welcomed.

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