“Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.”
George Carlin
I’ve been following a disturbing Twitter “storm”. Given city centres are struggling for survival, with Bradford hardly one that says “come see me”, you might also be perplexed by this.
Council traffic wardens have been reported out and about en masse in areas once free to park off-peak, which were previously dead as a doornail before local entrepreneurs sprung up to revive them.
You could not make this up.
If ever a city needed footfall it is Bradford but this seems beyond the intellectual capacities of Hapless and her poodle, Comical Alex, Head of Degeneration. I wonder if there is anybody at Muppet Hall who might be able to do some maths?
Lets compare the cost of traffic wardens in these off-peak times, when tumbleweed often blows through Bradford, against the revenue generated? Then try to estimate the amount of trade lost to the city as punters go elsewhere.
Do not try to offer Leeds as a counter argument, it is like comparing Comical to Einstein.
At the same time his Council are causing havoc for traders, the otherwise silent Comical popped up to announce – doubtless scripted for him – the first of £2m of grants to “restore and renew the ‘Top of Town’ as an exciting and integral part of the city centre.”
For those of you who do not live here and suffer these idiots, this is exactly the same end of town they are strangling. There surely must be prizes for stupidity at the Council.
It is my long-held belief that most councillors are people who have never done much of any business related value in their entire lives. Given Comical looks like he is still in Sixth Form I rest my case.
Poor Cow
Out on a windswept moor I saw a group of cows huddled together; poor bastards I thought, currently blamed for every ill on the planet. If only Greta had ever had a Big Mac!
This followed a documentary on budget food chain Iceland and their attempts to cash in on vegan food. A machine produced endless rolls of pastry filled with a mush that must run through you faster than a bad curry.
As the fattest nation in Europe, it seems to me that we have sought out a scapegoat; never has the term poor cow had such relevance. Perhaps if we made an effort to get out in the fresh air more…just like cows?
Fat Frank From FIFA
I bumped into local legend Fat Frank, a Sunday league football referee back in the day. Whilst he was never on the Premier League’s fastrack scheme, Sunday mornings with him around were never dull.
Frank liked a tipple and, if we had had pitchside breath tests, he would never have started a game. He would wander into our dressing room beforehand, ruddy cheeks, bandy white legs and enormous belly.
“Right yoo’s lot I’m in charge so dinna give me any shite!” as he sought to establish a line of authority “And I’ll no be ‘avin any swearin’ yoo’s foul mouthed bunch o’ ****s!”
Frank was not known for charging up and down the field, preferring to officiate as if tethered on a five yard rope in the middle of the field. Appealing for offside – the bit all Sunday players love because you get a rest – was a 50/50 distribution of decisions.
In truth you could get away with most things because Frank never let FA form filling get in the way of his Sunday afternoon once his wages had been secured.
One Sunday a young FA Assessor turned up to judge Frank, clipboard in hand, overflowing with officialdom. Frank was particularly hungover that morning and was mortified that his source of Sunday afternoon pub funds was threatened.
We kicked off and had barely played a minute when we heard a howl as Frank went down as if he’d been shot. He was writhing around like a Premier League forward; his hamstring had “gone”…allegedly.
The assessor wandered across, unsure what to do, the FA Coaching Manual bereft of a chapter on how to deal with wily old drunks.
Reluctantly he called off the assessment as we carried Frank off. As soon as he was out of site, up shot Frank to grab the whistle and ensure his bounty was secured for another Sunday.
Wonderful days.
Why I Failed Woodwork
Last summer my loopy neighbour suggested that the fence between our two houses be heightened. It was either that or she would torch my boxers.
I ended up with loads of useless wood which my erector – Gaddy – reckoned would come to good use. Clearly, he was clearly taking the piss, but consider the Law of Unintended Consequences.
Having been kicked out of school woodwork, I decided I would do my bit for the local tits and build a bird box to add to my carrot box. How hard could it be?
I am available for commissions.
Leave a Reply