“To say goodbye is to die a little.”
Raymond Chandler – The Long Goodbye.
It was a gloomy start to the week as The Iron Lady asked for our attention before Pensioners’ Pilates last Monday morning; she had something very important to tell us and we knew this was not going to be good news. After sixteen years guiding her flock of oldies – and a few not so old – she’s moving on.
A hush descended across the room, several old ladies broke down and Blind Tina was inconsolable. Anna the long distance walker – Aldi to Morrisons to the Co-Op every morning – was in floods of tears having worshipped from her front row mat for more years than she could remember.
The flock were in shock, who would fight the battle against sagging boobs and bingo wings for them now? The Golden Girls stood together, pursed lips hiding Hollywood smiles, tanned and toned but for how much longer? An outbreak of hugging gave a funereal appearance to the morning; as the token blokes, Nick, Peter and I resisted manfully.
Sixteen years is almost unheard of these days and she’s seen off many in her time, a vacant spot the following Monday dark confirmation of another with no need for a leotard anymore. Her flock worship her despite the torture inflicted at the start of every week; who could possibly replace her?
For my part being woken from my Monday haze by a kick or two has got me out of bed for almost the last ten years; Barclays Bank never had anywhere near the same effect. Bravely there is talk of a co-operative by the Golden Girls, anxious to retain the beach body for a few more years.
I retired to the showers, not even a blast from Rick Astley – Never Gonna Give You Up…hadn’t she just? – could lift my spirits. Only three more Mondays and then she’s gone; we will miss you so much, thanks for some of the best Monday mornings ever.
Hopeful?
The local rag ran this piece last week. Bradfordians are rallying together to send a strong message against those who blight Bradford’s streets. The Bradford4Better group only met for the first time last month, but those involved are determined to say ‘enough is enough’ and rid the city of the scourge of dangerous driving, quad bikes and drug dealing.
Noble sure enough but utterly futile in reality. Watching the two C4 and C5 cop shows that feast on the endless supply of idiots in Bradford, one is left with the feeling that the cops do as good a job as their resources allow yet the sentencing is often pitiful. There’s a kind of perverse irony that the legal system, supposedly there to protect the law-abiding, often seems to operate in favour of the lawless.
The campaign also wants to tackle problems caused by wedding cars travelling in groups, “creating chaos” and issues around fireworks. This encapsulates very neatly the arrogance of those who believe the law cannot touch them. I wish the campaign well but without a resourced police force and a worthwhile justice system it is futile.
Strangely, on matters so close to most Bradfordians, there was no comment from Hapless or her sidekick Comical.
How Bizarre
I found this on Facebook from a regular reader here. On the walls of Cologne City Hall, hidden under a larger statue of Archbishop Konrad von Hochstaden, is a carving showing a man giving oral sex to himself. It dates around 1410 and no one really knows why it’s there.
Another Goodbye
Each year I work with several local primary schools trying to keep the game of cricket, invisible to generations of kids, alive. It is not easy as most kids have not grown up with the summer sport as I did many, many generations ago. Ask them to name the England captain and you will have more chance of them telling you the Eurovision winner.
This week the sessions came to an end as I made one final “push” to get kids with some modicum of co-ordination and basic abilities, to come try cricket at the club. In a big year for international cricket, surely the profile was high so I asked a few basic questions.
“Anybody know this is Cricket World Cup Year?” Blank faces so I plodded on. “Who knows who England are playing later in the summer?” Straight away several hands shot up, maybe this was not a forlorn cause? I pointed to one bright faced little cherub.
“Sudan?” My heart sank. Try another.
“Sweden?” Time for the pub so soon? One more try?
“France?”
As a bunch of kids representing “normal”, if ever there was a microscopic bit of evidence that cricket has an identity crisis, perhaps this may be it?
Time for stumps and a beer.
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