bobby47

Hello Paul, A memorandum produced by a Legal Officer offering up advice to his/her Council Employer. These documents giving advice will of course be attached to most Council case papers, particularly where a Compromise Agreement is being sought, its been agreed upon and a course of action has or is to take place. Are these documents disclosable under the provisions of FOI or do they remain sensitive marked 'do not disclose' because of the nature of the Legal Officers role, namely giving confidential legal advice to a client who happens to be his/her employer? Im sure you get what Im driving at.

Frightened? Well you bloody should be. The latest slither of good tidings to slip out is The Ukraine, the side we the West say are the good guys, the ones who we support rather than the bad side, well they are going to make representations to join N.A.T.O. Lovely! Just the thing we need to increase the political pressure on both sides of the argument. Just the bloody job. If ever there was a sure fire way of speeding up this apocalyptic conflict to a point of no return, its this bloody good idea. Mind, it ain't all bad bloody news is it. With two thirds of Ukraine still intact and desperate to join the European Union, it'll mean we in Herefordshire get our weapons manufacturing industrial plans back on track and we can all sit there on a production line filling a Twenty Thousand Pound Daisy Cutter with rusty nails and bits of old iron that we can salvage from High Town. God help us as we stumble along ignoring history and never giving any past mistakes a backward glance!

A very warm welcome to you Mr Cardin. It's great to read you.

If you click on Flamboyant's link you'll notice the word 'journey' incorporated into the job description. Happily the word, 'passionate' is being slowly discarded and others like 'the journey' are being used in their place to attract the right sort of tw.at they are keen to recruit. Funnily enough, I was chatting with my lad who works in the City of London in the private sector and I asked him about this pressing problem, namely, why they communicate in this strange language. He tells me that in the City, this sort of shi.te was discarded many years ago because it was generally agreed that it was to closely associated with the public sector who's numbers, once tried and tested within the private sector, were spat out because they were of no use in the competitive private sector market. I think there is some truth in this. The management within the private sector are either reasonably good or excellent whilst the management within the public sector are either useless and incompetent or at best nibbling at being average and unlikely to cause to much chaos during their tenure in office. The journey! Good bloody grief.

Course, since all this, I've undergone a remarkable change. Folk in the battle cruiser see and speak to me differently now don't they. T'other day, they gathered around my feet waiting for my blessed words. Some old wanton strumpet had me socks off bathing me feet in a bucket of Carling until I shouted, 'fu.ck off Nora. Just me feet mind. Stop sliding your hands up toward my groin. Im a holy man'. And they wanted a story. A story that challenged their everyday thinking. A story that would make them blessed and more bloody righteous than they were before I told them the story. I said right, 'your neighbour has an Ass and you are beginning to covet your neighbours Ass. You get all bloody angry seeing your neighbour with an Ass that you wished was yours and every time you go to bed you get bloody angrier and angrier wishing that the Ass was yours and not your neighbours. Course, a lot of the throng were puzzled until one learned scribe shouted, 'don't take the words literally. It's a rhetorical point he's making. The Ass could be anything that was owned by his neighbour'. 'Bloody hell', I said, ' I mean exactly what I said. The neighbour owns a bloody Ass, a mule or a rotten donkey and you bloody want it'. And then I made my point. 'What you do to stop getting bloody angry over this bloody mule is you pop outside, pick some grass and dandy lions and you feed the beast until it wants no more. That's what you do. And when the neighbour catches you feeding his Ass, he says, 'I'm sick to the back teeth of feeding this Ass. I wish I'd never brought it home. Will you please have it and become its new owner'. Course, after that, the throng began wailing didn't they. Nora started gulping back the ale she'd been bathing my sore varooka in and they began shouting, 'peace be upon him. This is a man of God and if he says Gagging Payments are wrong, who are we to say otherwise'.

With or without an 'e', you've gotta question what sort of impact we've had with our ranting down the years old friend. Despite it all, and there's been lots of it, still, even now, after all that's happened, they can still churn out this sh.it. God above! It's relentless.

For Fu.cks sake! Good bloody grief. There's no end to this beasts life. Somebody throw me a bone and end this turbulent Council's ability to breathe in and out. Surely there are Councillors out there who are able to say, 'No. No more'. Am I missing something here? How can this be?

I suspect the mighty Megilleland knows the answer to his own question. Despite the window dressing that is a bloody vote now and then, our democratic system is busted. When an elected body, tasked to run an organization like our Council cannot stop or even slow down the happenings of what the suits are getting up to within Plough Lane. I think you can safely conclude our democratic system is broken and it'll be some time before any Councillor steps forward and asks why it is the pointless tiers of management are still standing and yet the culling of the low paid front line staff continues unabated without anyone intervening and saying, 'I don't think this is right'. Why can't anyone say these things? What's so difficult about it? Why can't a person with a democratic mandate say,'I don't think you should be doing this. I think it's wrong'. I mean, it ain't bloody difficult is it? The suits do it because they can. They do it because nobody objects and they do it because their empire, their authority and their own highly paid position depends on propping up a failed model of business management by keeping together all the pointless tiers of management. If it wasn't so bloody serious, I'd bloody laugh at the stupidity of it all. At what point does somebody in authority say, 'we've to many chiefs and not enough Indians'. Bloody madness and it ain't going away anytime soon.

My view is, anyone who simply asks why, rather than just opening their mouths and swallowing in acceptance of whatever the establishment throw at us is alright by me. Good for Mr Taylor. Argue, resist, and generally make a nuisance of yourself! All of these protests,whether its the one being carried out by Mr Taylor or any other, they all matter, they are all important and they really are no different to us tapping. It's all the same. People. Just people tired and worn out by simply accepting that whatever is ours doesn't necessarily belong to us. Whatsmore, I hope the lad wins his protest. Why can the State strip a British citizen of a small pile of wealth created by a deceased father and then claim that the law is on their side and the pile of wealth is no longer yours to own and spend as you wish. In times to come it'll become normal practice for the State to dip in and out of your affairs and they'll have no problem milking it for all its worth. Is Mr Taylor right to protest and push the boundaries? To right he is and I wish him well.

All my life I've been in turmoil. Throughout my sixty years I've been wondering, 'what does God have in mind for me'. Jesus must have had the same problem. He must have. For the best part of thirty years, he did buggar all. Not a bloody peep. And then, all of a sudden, he got busy and started doing things and saying things that he hadn't done or said in his previous thirty years. I mean, something must have happened to get him all fired up and co.ck sure of himself. I mean, folk must have thought, 'he's a one. He's said and done buggar all for thirty years and now he's got all busy healing the sick'. Something happened! One night he got into bed, he was perhaps the most boring man in the world and the next day he got up and off he went changing the world forever. I reckon I know what happened! He went to bed and all of a sudden, whilst dreaming as I do,about scantily clad women dancing round the bed chanting, 'be ours tonight', God must have intervened into his dream like state and said, 'you are now the Son of Man and I am bestowing upon you super powers'. And that was that. Next day, he got up and realized that he had incredible gifts. Mind, he couldn't levitate. That never happened. There's no written evidence that he could levitate. Not one person in the bible said, 'And Lo. He began to levitate inside the house of Martha' My view is that had he levitated some bloody fool would have said so. It's not the sort of thing you forget is it. You don't miss that one out. I mean, if I'd been down the Commercial and I began floating around howling, 'look at me lads. I'm levitating' it'd sure to become news around the globe. 'Fat Man From Hereford Levitates'. Folk would say, 'yes it's true. He'd just supped his tenth pint, nibbled on a piece of pork rind and up he went. There was no pulling him down'. So what's God got in mind for me. I mean he's bestowed upon me gifts. Many gifts. For staters,women can't keep their hands off me, I can hold an audience like Jesus did and tell a story, I can sup ale until it dribbles out of my ears and I've a fertile imagination which I use frequently, so what does God want of me? Well last night I got my answer didnt I. All was revealed to me. I crawled upstairs after nearly drowning myself on twenty pints of ale, I knelt beside me bed, said me Lords Prayer and then got into bed ready to dream about women who wanted me because I was the most desirable man on Earth when my wife said, 'you've still got your coat and clothes on'. So, bloody realizing that I'd just wasted a lot of time getting into bed, I got out of the bloody bed, popped on me nightgown and sleeping cap, threw me discarded garments on top of the ferret cage and then it happened. I was suddenly bathed in a white, bright heavenly light. I said to the wife, 'have we paid the bill and been reconnected', to which she replied, 'no and because you are a fat tw.at who's of no use to the world and we've no money, it's unlikely we'll ever get the electricity again'. Then, pondering why I was getting the electricity when I shouldn't be getting the electricity I was delivered an unearthly jolt. It was like someone belting me over the head with a piece of four by two. I fell to my knees and I heard a voice. I said, 'who's bloody voice is this that's in my head'. Course it was God wasn't it. I said, 'don't ask me to give up the ale, quit smoking and watching The Wirral Housewives on my Web Cam'. He said, 'shut the f.uck up and listen'. So I did! He said, 'you are one of the runts of your species that I created and for the most part of your life you've been wondering what I have in mind for you'. I said, ' Am I to become the Son of Man. The second coming. If so I'm ready for the power'. Course, God being as God is, says, 'Hell No Fatso. I wouldn't task you with a role like that. Your purpose in life is this!!!!! And he told me. He didn't pi.ss about. None of this beating about the burning bush. He simply said, 'I want you to keep posting this codswallop until my little Bill Norman, Hereford Council's Chief Legal Officer can explain why he was able to take money from the public purse, why these financial gains were dressed up as Compromise Aggreements, how much money was appropriated and for him to explain why the meek, the mild, the downright stupid and all the other ratepayers should be kept in the dark over the spending of their money. And so, I now know what my purpose in life is. Sadly for me, it's not to become the Son of Man. Apparently God doesn't think I'm up to that paricular job but he clearly thinks I should keep on writing this shi.te to irritate and mock those that hold power over us. And so it shall be. For as long as I've digits to tap and a brain to string together a coherent thought God has instructed me to lampoon the hierarchy who choose to spend our money in any way that they choose and not give you and I so much as a simple explanation about who gets paid what, why they got it, how much they got and what they did to be able to get it all in the first rotten place.

What a sh.it day this has been. I got up this morning, staggered downstairs and she handed me my little plastic pot that she pops me morning and nightly medication in. I call it me little plastic pot that I swallow me medication from. She said, ' swallow your pills, drink your tea and don't speak to me until I say it's ok for you to speak'. Course, keen not to get pulverized, I chose to swallow me pills from me little plastic pot that I use to swallow me medication from and kept me mouth shut. Then, feeling a bit giddy and worse for wear, that initially i put put down to supping twenty pints from the night before, she comes running in and says, 'you've had the wrong tablets. I've given you the nights medication'. Bloody Hell! I said, 'you rotten old bag. Are you telling me that five minutes ago, at nine in the morning I've just swallowed two diazepam, one statin tablet and two 10mg dose units of Nitrazepam, the worlds widely recognized strongest sleeping pill available on the pharmaceutical market?'. Course, the answer was Yes! And that was the high point of the rotten day. Thereafter, battling the effects of ale plus the relentless battering the two sleeping tablets delivered to my eyelids as I desperately sought sleep, the whole day quickly developed into a steaming pile of excrement. Throughout the next few hours, between collapsing into deep sleep and her shouting, 'get up off the floor fatso' I tapped away trying to end my bloody conflict with Ubique and, to keep her happy, I made a valiant attempt to paint the kitchen walls. Course, being out if my mind on medication, through no fault of my own, I managed to paint the kitchen cupboards and the cooker hob with a lovely magnolia undercoat. Course, that resulted in getting hit in the face with the frying pan and being chased outside where I fell asleep hiding in the shed. Then, she comes up, wakes me from my slumber to tell me the lads are here for a pint. Keen not to upset them and remain in her good books by not being in the same house as her, I staggered down to the Commercial where I lost thirty quid at Three Card Brag and supped another three pints before I collapsed and fell asleep again. Then, just as the lads were carrying me out of the pub, a Police Officer came ambling down the road resulting in me screaming, 'if he's six foot three, its Inspector Nick Semper and he's likely to be unkind to me.' Good as gold, the lads took me back into the pub, where for no good reason, I managed to get involved in another round of ale. How I got home I'll never know. When I left that licensed premises it was daylight and the roads were occupied by moderate vehicular traffic. When I opened that front door and shouted, 'honey I'm home', it was dark, the curtains were closed and the bedroom door was locked. It's been a sh.it day and its the last time I ever try to create a sensible topic for discussion.

Well I'll be damned if my cousins from The Wirral see me as an apologist. I wish I'd never posted this thoughtful rubbish. Clearly, being thoughtful and considerate is not something expected of me. Wish I'd kept me bloody thoughts to me bloody self. Well I'll be damned if I ever step forward again and offer up some intelligent and thoughtful thinking, commit it to the ether and expect a sane and rational debate. From hereon,I'm sticking to what I know. Fiery rhetoric, nonsensical pigswill and a fair measure of scorn aimed at those who's faces I don't like. That'll sort it out. That'll get them thinking. That'll win me favour back up The Wirral. The Council can get stuffed and if I wasn't so miffed that Ubique is upset, I'd take the bloody trouble to explain why I think the Council can get stuffed. But, seeing as I can't be bloody bothered, for obvious bloody reasons, I'll keep me bloody thoughts to myself for the rest of this day.

Ubique/ David, Noooooo! This has nothing to do with what you've said my dear old friend. I'm glad you wrote your piece because it made me think. And I've been thinking about this issue long before you delivered your reflections on my post about Inspector Semper. I welcomed it old friend. Truly, this has nothing to do with you. It's about me and how I conduct myself on these forums. For example! Harry Bramer and his head. There's nothing wrong with Harry's head. It's a lovely head but I have chosen to be critical of its shape. How does Harry feel when he reads rubbish that implies I don't like his head. It could well be that it hurts him or his family and I don't want that. Inspector Semper! I've never met him. I don't know him and unless I've nicked the Nanteos bowl, it's unlikely I ever will. How would he or his family feel if my words reached their eyes. Would he or they be offended? That's all this is David. Me having a good look at myself and questioning my conduct. That's it Dave. Nothing else, so please my friend, don't think for a single moment that you've I some way had a negative impact upon me and my writing style. I've only had 'good' from you and that'll never change so put this down and simply forget it. I've been thinking about this issue for a long time. It began when I was on Facebook and I questioned the diet of a leading council officer who i claimed 'must have a high level of cholesterol in their blood and they'd become more swine than human. Following that post, my inbox was full of complaints and it was this that first got me thinking about how my words can be taken. Please David. This ain't your fault so put it down and forget it old friend. My warmest regards.

And don't be thinking I'm being self indulgent about 'me' and my role within the tapping community. It's not that at all and it's really nothing to do with Ubique putting me in my place. I've been following stories of online bullying and how desperately sad it makes some people. I've also read the threads on Bulls Banter concerning Hereford United's current plight and the comments are extremely harsh and hurtful. And so, it's this background of thinking that's made me have a look at myself and ask this question. Within our community, the on liners, you can get swallowed up in the whole thing and lose sight of your own personal responsibility which is, 'not to hurt another's personal feelings'. I've been going through our membership and reflecting upon all who post within these pages and I'm the only one who you could say is or could be an online bully. Course, if that's the case, how do you stop yourself? You change your writing style. You stop doing what you've been doing, learn and tap more responsibly so that nobody is hurt by your comments. Mind, given the curse that is my mind and my imagination, it's easier said than done.

Makes you think doesn't it? It's got me thinking about the way in which my transmitted words might be interpreted by the person I'm lampooning. Am I hurting the feelings of someone? On another thread my friend Ubique implied that perhaps I was harsh lampooning someone I didn't know and hadn't met before. Now, I could have concluded, 'blast your eyes Ubique' and not given the matter a backward glance or I could have given the matter a little thought, which is exactly what I've done. I've had a good long hard look at the way in which I transmit my thoughts and views on this, that and the other and my conclusion is, 'perhaps I've become an online bully'. I've taken the pi.ss out of them all. Nothing has ever made me think about the impact my words have on other people. Me? I can lampoon everyone because it comes very easily to me and, to be fair to myself, it's of no consequence to me if I get bitten back. My attitude is, I give it and so I should be able to take it. I don't take things personally and throughout my tenure of 'tapping' I've kind of assumed that nobody else takes it seriously and therefore no one could possibly be offended by the drivel and nonsensical codswallop I shovel out. Of course, if I'm wrong, and my words can hurt, then I guess I've become an online bully. Without knowing or fully realizing it, I may have evolved into someone who's been unkind. Course, that's not what I want for myself. I wouldn't want any person to be hurt or offended by anything I've transmitted. I've always hoped that folk would mutter, 'bloody idiot', dismiss whatever I've said and perhaps conclude that it's healthy to lampoon the great and the good who have power over our daily lives. And that's where it began for me. Realising that no matter what we thought, said or felt, they, the ones who held sway over us, took absolutely no notice. And so, I began to lampoon them all knowing that satire and taking the pi*% is one thing 'they' hate. They cannot stand being mocked and laughed at and because I knew I could do it, I did it, never thinking that perhaps my words could possibly hurt another. I don't want to be an online bully. I don't want people to think of me as an online bully and I don't wish to carry the burden of knowing my words have hurt another. Mind, how do you stop possibly hurting another person who is in a position of authority. Do you stop lampooning them? If you do, do you risk giving them Carte Blanche to do whatever they like without giving 'us' a backward glance because we no longer laugh at them. Me? I don't know anymore. All I know is my words may have hurt the feelings of others and I do not want that. So, have I become an online bully? I think I may have. I ain't certain but I think there's a good chance that by lampooning our leaders for as long as I have, I've unwittingly slid into being someone who can hurt another's personal feelings and that ain't a good thing. Makes you think doesn't it!

I take your point old friend. Mind, it ain't some. It is just me. Only me. Take care my good and old friend.

Well that's it for me. They can get stuffed! I'll be damned if I go along with this madness anymore. From hereon, I'm doing two things. Firstly I'm going to start burning. Yes, burning it all in my back garden. Whether its paper, garden rubbish or plastic rotten bottles, I'm burning it. And what's more, I won't stop. This is my back garden, it's my rubbish and I'll now dispose of it however I see fit. I don't care if that bloody satellite monitoring our carbon emissions suddenly stops its orbital flight, zooms in on me and indicates to the EU and the Councils highly paid Carbon Emmisions Officer that some mad tw.at in Hereford is generating a great deal of smoke. And if they come round here and tell me that's its 'me' that's destroying their target emissions and because of my actions half an acre of ice has just melted off of the coast of Greenland, I'll tell them, 'clear off or I'll attack you with my now outlawed Dyson Hoover'. Secondly, from hereon, my house and this tiny plot of land I bloody own is now from hereon, annexed from both the European Union and the United Kimgdom. Yes! I'm forming my own sovereign state. God knows what I'll call myself but from hereon anyone, whether its the Postman, the bloody Milkman or the lad who delivers my Admag, will need a British Passport if ever they wish to communicate with or do business with me. I'm going it alone. And furthermore, if this venture becomes a costly excercise then I'll just declare war on some European Soverign State. That'll get John Kerry off his backside racing round to my abode to avert another global catastrophe. He'll shower me with aid amounting to billions of dollars on the understanding I don't build a bomb or invade a peaceful foreign nation. If this is what the European is, I want no part of it. I'm going it alone.

I had no idea Denise. No idea at all. I always believed that the potato I was eating, in whatever form it was served up to enable me to shove it inside my fat face, was British. From hereon, this is another thing that I'm adding to my list of things I ain't having or won't do. I'll be damned if I don't stick to my word, albeit my wife has paid my Council Tax without me knowing and made me look wan.kie. This is the land of the potato. When Walter Raleigh produced this vegetable from beneath his ample codpiece to Elizabeth the First it became ours and I'll be damned if I eat some spud produced a stone throw away from a battle zone that is now East and Central Europe. If I go into my local chippy and say, 'a portion of your finest battered Cod and a generous helping of your chips ', and the proprietor says to me, 'the chips are lovely today. We got them and they ain't British', I'm going to say, 'put the battered Cod back whence it came and keep your chips I do not want to continue with this transaction'. Whatsmore, I'll tell him, 'I'm a British potato man. Always have been and always will be and unless you start serving up spuds harvested from the fields of the Golden Valley you and I will no longer trade. There! I've said it.

They're all a bunch of stinkers as far as I'm concerned. Course, both are there to save us millions and create a thousand local jobs so I don't suppose I should moan. As for Carillion they'll get what they want and we'll pay what we are told to pay and round and round we go feeding the beast that sucks the life out of everything. I hate the Council. The notion of turning the clock back and reverting to providing Direct Services will happen. But before it bloody does, some tw.at who once rode the gravey train and now wants redemption for their past sins will need to tell some tw.at who's higher up the pole than they ever were, saying 'we are wasting millions. We are not saving millions. Go back to Direct Services'. Then one day, many years or even decades from now, they'll cry, 'hoorah! Direct Services. This'll save you millions' and they'll be right. It will save us millions and we'll then ask, 'why didn't we do this years ago?' And I'll say, 'because back then, during those dark years, we didn't want to save millions. Back then, we wanted to waste millions and at the same time fatten up the few and make them rich beyond their wildest dreams'. Course, nobody is going to ask me anything. Why would they?

Cambo, Yep! I read it. What a man. Sadly, I'm not half the man he is. The rotten old bag has paid me Council Tax hasn't she. Snatched me glory away. No getting bugarred in the shower block for me. Not this year!

Yeah, I saw the 'piece' on the news. Why can they stumble from one disaster to another and still continue to flourish and worse, bloody multiply off of our hard work? In any other walk of life they'd say, 'you are bloody useless. You are unable to do the job you were tasked to complete. Be gone'. Instead, nothing! Nothing bloody happens. It's as though it never ever happened. It becomes no more than a rumour. Nothing changes. They simply march on living off their remarkable CV, their contacts and the ability to sound ever so bright hiding the fact that they're as thick as f.uck. And they are thick. Make no mistake, these are thick and dull people who've no business ever being placed in positions of power. And yet they continue to remain in positions that they are totally unsuited for. Every single one of us has their own personal level of incompetence. No matter who, we all must reach a point when we admit to ourselves, 'I am out of my depth. I've reached my level of incompetence'. There ain't nobody out there who hasn't got their own personal level of incompetence and these people, that we are speaking of now, reached their level of personal incompetence many years before they were ever installed as leaders within our public services. Frightened? You bloody should be. I am! To think that they are amongst us and doing very well thank you very much. It makes you want to spit!

A/V, I can't for the life of me understand why we've allowed ourselves to go down this route. It's as though everyone has been whipped up into a frenzy. Its madness. We've no cards to play. Our fate is not in our hands so we might as well enjoy our local team while we've still got it. You and I both have exchanged our terse words whenever we've disagreed. Our exchanges are nothing compared to the bile and spite that they heap on one another on Bulls Banter. Reading the threads you'd think it was a vast game of Cluedo. Conspiracy theories over the leases and who did what, when and with what. The normal conclusion is Mr Keyte or Mr Agomba did it, did it deliberately and did it to spite us all. Course, nobody thinks for a moment about the impact this is having upon the kids who now represent our Club. There's no thought about the consequences of our actions, and the word 'business' is completely lost on all those who claim they want their Club back, never thinking for a moment that it was business that's saved us before and it'll be business that saves us again. At the root of the problem regarding the current ownership is the emergence of Mr Mark Ellis who was a gift from God for all those who yearned to dislike and mistrust the new proprietor. This young chap came in, and keen to impress and convince all he knew what he was doing, he embellished his antecedent history thus making himself and his colleagues easy targets for ridicule and criticism. Instead of thinking, 'oh well he's been silly and he's exaggerated his achievements' we went for the jugular and from thereon the hysteria spread and woe betide anyone who dared disagree with the howling mob. For some, they now yearn for the Club to go belly up so that we can play at Aykestone Park in a new stadium and go by the name of Hereford Thistle and rejoice in the knowledge that 'we've got our Club back' and, even though we've buggar all left and it'll take a century to ever get back to where we fell from, they seem to be happy about this. It's madness. We were knackered yesterday. We're knackered today and I'm certain beyond much doubt that well be knackered tomorrow and next week, so why continue with the boycott? It now makes no sense at all and the sooner some of our group start applying logic and reason to their thinking the better it'll be for all the support of the legendary Hereford United.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of our Clubs current predicament, and the wrongs are many in number, I ain't boycotting my team any longer. I'll be damned if I do! From hereon, I'm going to watch a game and being labelled a 'scab', a 'rotter' and a 'stinker' holds no fears for me. They can do what they like to me. I'm going back to watch Hereford United and I'd urge every single one of you to gather up your common sense, stop being lead by fools who've little of no association with logic and rational thinking and return to support the youngsters who are wearing our teams colours. The Leases that are at the heart of the problem? Now, I couldn't care less. It's now of no concern to me and if in the fullness of time my attendance supporting my team turns into a huge mistake on my part, then still, I couldn't care less. I'm going to watch my local team before its all to late. And the lads who choose to boycott the Club? Well I ain't scared of them either. They can do whatever they wish to me and still I'll continue to hand my money over and go into the Street to support my team. They can deploy there finest lads to monitor my movements from the Commercial, into the Old Burial Ground, and witness me staggering along Blackfriars Street full of ale shouting,'I'm going to watch the game' and its of no concern to me. They can surround me, tie me up in United scarves and with the aid of a long wynch and hemp rope they can hoist me upwards and tether me to the floodlights and it'll be of no concern to me. In fact, rather than bemoan my predicament I'll shout down, 'thank you lads. A little bit higher please. I can't quite see the Merton End of the ground. And even then it won't stop me. Never! They can scale the floodlights holding a bucket of Lugg water and a Cattle Prod and subject me to intolerable cruelty as I hang there submitting my ravaged body to fifty thousand volts of electricity and I'll howl with laughter throughout the terrible ordeal, screaming, 'we've just won a corner. Give me more voltage. I'm having the time of my life up here. Thank you all so very bloody much'. And several hours after the game, when some Steward spots me hanging upside down tethered to the floodlights and finds it within himself to show me a little mercy and cut me down from my suspension, I'll do what I normally do. I'll stagger back home, sink a few more pints, buy my large mixed kebab, rush home and still have enough energy left to tell my wife why she was so lucky to have found me amongst all the other idiots that were so readily available some forty years ago. Stop being lead by people who know even less than you. They are wannabee's who want to run a football club and its you that'll pay the ultimate price of having no Hereford United to support. Go back to the ground. Stand in the place they you've stood in for years and support what might be the last few weeks of Hereford United. Think for yourselves instead of being carried along on a wave of bile, spite and hysteria that'll only serve to speed up the decline of our football club and see us playing Sinkums in some top of the table clash at Aylestone Park as our team battles to get promoted from League Three in the Herefordshire County League.

The Gridknocker, who's currently in Spain finishing his second book, has tasked me with advertising the following event which will raise funds for our friends who are now settled in their new home at Union Walk, Hereford. The event is titled Rose Tinted Rags Cotton Night Dance and will take place at The Richmond Place Club, 69, Edgar Street, Hereford, at 7.30pm, Saturday, 27th, September, 2014 and will feature Food, Ale, the pleasure of meeting me and live music from Hereford band, The Boy And The Flatpack Band. Admission is five pound on the door or tickets available for purchase at the premises of Rose Tinted Rags or Clever Betsy Arts and Crafts at 40, West Street, Leominster. The Grid Knocker has paid for the function room, the live music, the food and the printing of the tickets and flyers which I've distributed around the City and all profits will go to the wonderful people at Rose Tinted Rags. reg charity no. 1096449. That said, if you don't turn up and the whole thing falls flat on its face its me and the bloody Gridknocker who'll have to take the hit, so please, for a great cause, make an effort, buy a ticket or pay on the door and have a lovely night. My very warmest regards to you all.

Oh and don't think I don't know what's being said. I hear the gossip. I hear them muttering over their ale, 'his head ain't that big'. Well it bloody is! It's a huge head. It's a vast head with its very own weather system and while we live within a democratic system I'll use my right to say I do not like Harry's head. The lower parts of his body I like. It's the upper parts I have a problem with. What's more, if ever he pops down to the Commercial and sits in front of me while I'm trying to watch Wrestelmania on Sky TV I'm going to be saying, ' Harry move your head now. It's blocking my view. Go sit in some other ale house that caters for folk with huge heads'. There's nothing worse than minding your own bloody business sat in a battle cruiser and someone with a bigger head than you'd like them to have sits in front of you blocking out whatever it was you were watching. Bloody selfish people! If I had a head that was on the large side and I bloody haven't, I'd be a little more appreciative of others needs to watch the television unhindered by a skull that's getting in the way of everyone else. If anything, it's bad manners and downright rudeness. If I had a huge cranium I'd be saying to the lads, 'lads I'll stand at the back so that folk down the front are able to watch the programme without my huge head obstructing their evenings enetertainment' and they'd respond by saying, 'what a fine man you are. Nothing you say or do surprises us. You are the most considerate big headed tw.at we've ever met'.