“When they call the roll in the Senate, the Senators do not know whether to answer ‘Present’ or ‘Not Guilty’.”
Theodore Roosevelt
With local elections only a few weeks away – yawn I hear you all say – there is a real opportunity for the little bit of Bradford I was born in to make a big difference.
In Wrose, Hapless Hinchcliffe is up for re-election. Back in 2019, she retained her seat – and her position as Leader of the Council – with 1563 people re-electing her on a turnout of 27%.
Based on the last census, that’s less than 0.50% of the electorate who voted for us to be saddled with her and a hand-picked bunch of cronies.
She leads a council generally viewed as a joke. Last week – Bradford is not alone here – new figures show that nine Bradford Council staff were paid over £100,000 in the 2021/22 financial year, with the Chief Executive paid over £197,000.
The counter-spin is that the council is a big beast and that it has to pay market rates. Surely then we should expect market-leading performance too? There is no evidence to suggest Bradford Council is anything other than a self-serving shambles.
Wiggle, Wiggle
There was a new class at the gym last week. Body Conditioning suggested a good all-round workout; what was not to like?
I arrived to find a busy class and that I was heavily outnumbered by the female of the species, all brightly coloured and sporting slick gym wear.
Seeking kindred spirits, I placed my step and weights on the back row next to the familiar Golden Girls – Pepsi and Shirley – who were deep in conversation as to where to grab the morning latte after an hour of torture.
The class was being taken by Mrs Bird, a fixture at Kents almost as long as myself. Surely this would be a breeze as I’d never seen her leave the comfort of the office and the Space Invaders game she played most of the day.
We started with the dreaded (by men) rhythmic (no chance) warm-up. Despite six weeks of dance lessons I could see in the mirror that I looked a pillock.
Mrs Bird was already struggling not to laugh, her headset almost falling off, as I moved in perfect synchronicity…the opposite way to the rest of the class.
The Golden Girls were also trying hard not to leave pools on the floor. I’d also made the classic newbie mistake of choosing the wrong weights and soon my arms were screaming.
This was okay according to Mrs Bird in her pre-amble because our shared mission was the perfect bikini figure.
I thought about pointing out my genetic differences and that I was happy being called “he” and did not desire a nameplate the length of a Welsh village.
Sensibly, I decided drawing more attention to myself was not a good idea.
As the ladies nodded their heads in unison – “Yes M’amm!” – I struggled to keep the thought of myself in a bikini from entering my head. A few weeks of this and the bingo wings would be as lean as a KFC. Mrs Bird had the makings of a cult here so best keep my head down.
Eventually, we made it to the end and – mercifully – no more wiggling around to disco hell. Next time I will just jog on the spot. The morning after I felt like I had gone several rounds with Tyson Fury…but my bingo wings felt great.
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