“When I wake up with a hard-on these days, I know it’s time to pee.”
Anon, aged 55.
As a stark reminder of my early life stutterings into adulthood, my Mum still has my Bradford Grammar School satchel, which probably cost a fortune and still looks untouched almost fifty years on.
Inside she had stored numerous old documents from the birth certificates of her grandparents to evidence of her attempts at becoming a city trader. As I waded through this I came across a hand-written note from 1966.
It noted that in December of that year, me and Our Kid had had our Premium Bond holdings diluted from £10 to £1 each; there was no admission of what my Mum had spent the £18 on – the satchel?
It gets worse for Our Kid because the £2 is in my name and so I duly contacted NS&I hoping they had failed to locate me and a £1m prize lay unclaimed; bye-bye Bros, unlucky! Not so.
To claim this part of my inheritance they will send me a form to post back so I can access their website. As a stamp will soon by 95p, that leaves my riches in tatters.
A rather cheerless lady at NS&I then confirmed that there was no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.
Tales From The Allotment
Sat in the sunshine with Greenfingers, we were relaxing after a session of hard toil hoping to witness the Lesser Spotted Fireman as The Good Wife dutifully slaved away. It was not to be as he’d wandered off to Bristol in hope of seeing City actually win a game; she ploughed on.
Gregarious George was full of beans, merrily wielding a mini-axe into the land; if ever there was a man who could do with a horse. Grind over he suddenly disappeared into his shed as the two sliding doors enveloped him.
“That’s ‘is walk-in shed” said Greenfingers “got a full wardrobe in there!”
Sure enough, some ten minutes later, out stepped the recently dishevelled sweaty Greek replaced by a suave, debonair European. He bid us his usually cheery goodbye and almost danced off down the cobbled street.
They don’t make them like Gregarious anymore.
My City of Ruins
I’ve had to drop down to The Abyss – city centre – twice in the last week or so and both experiences have been soul-destroying. Can there be another city centre in the UK that reeks as much of deprivation and hopelessness as ours?
I take no pride in writing this; I am born and bred a Bradford lad. This is my city, this is my hometown. However, it has been allowed to slide into ignominy for several decades.
From the disastrous hole in the ground from where the scaled-down new Broadway centre arose, a decade too late, its customer base long gone. To the gradual deterioration of the city centre populace.
Had Micheal Jackson been shooting the video to Thriller now, Bradford city centre would have been an ideal choice; the extras are free. A young lad I used to coach recently described a Sunday morning trip as like being in Shaun of the Dead.
That young people neither feel safe nor attracted by the centre asks an obvious question what future is there. An awful lot hinges on Bradford Live and whether the NEC Group can entice enough quality acts to Bradford.
Yet if the authorities do not pull their heads out of the denial bucket, even this may be a forlorn hope.
Speaking The Unspeakable
Dealing with your parents’ affairs towards the end of life is something most would like to avoid; sadly, this only makes things worse. On advice from an old client/friend of mine, whose opinion I always held onto, I sorted Powers of Attorney several years ago.
It is not as hard as you may think and if you do not want to pay some grasping solicitor a fee they have just plucked from the air, DIY is simple enough.
Unfortunately, now that you have these documents signed, not forgetting it can be a bewildering process for your parents, many institutions remain difficult to deal with. Stripped of staff and branches on the High Street, impossible to get hold of by telephone.
My mum was asking why she had to re-sign the full fifteen pages the other day.
“Can’t you just put me in a home? she asked.
“No home for you,” I said “You’re moving in with me.”
“No!!!” she wailed “I want the care home…now!!!”
Gratitude?
April Fool?
One week on and this headline had me bog-eyed.
The iconic Richard Dunn Sports Centre, which was due to be demolished later this year, has been given listed status by Historic England.
Only in Bradford can a concrete carbuncle be listed.
Leave a Reply