bobby47

In the seventies our nation was in ruins. Brought to its knees by the Callaghan and the Labour Government who'd literally bankrupted our economy, we all raced to the ballot box and invited Maggie Thatcher to dig us out of the hole we were in. Back then public service was a place you went to work if you wanted a steady job, a job for life and a pension after thirty years. Of course back then, the pay for all public service workers was extremely low but the trade off was all the things I've mentioned previously and the chance to live in rent free housing. Also, back then, the hirearchy from within these public services had walked in everyone's shoes, done most of the jobs, they were not academically particularly bright but they knew how to get the job done. That was true of all our emergency services and it was most definitely true of the Council. But then something remarkable happened that changed the course of history for all our public services. What was that? Arthur Scargill and the Miners Union who challenged Thatcher. As a consequence of this important period in our industrial history. Two significant things happened. Over a two year period the Police were awarded two huge pay rises which catapulted them into the high earners bracket and they began to become skilled in riot training. As for the outcome, you all know what happened but it wasn't this event that impacted upon our public services. The huge pay rises awarded to the Police changed public services forever. Thereafter, the Police began to realise that they didn't have to empty someone who was tall and had some commonsense. No! They opened the doors to the high achieves. Those with a Degree. In the meantime, the other public services who were still on their pittance of a salary wanted and got what the Police had been given. Now the other public services were becoming high earners, like the Police, they to opened their doors to the highly qualified academics who then began their climb up the promotion ladder. By the early nineties, tired of Margaret Thatcher and forgetful of what Old Labour had done to our economy, we raised out and voted in Tony, the liar Blair who, under the banner of New Labour decided to embark upon a vast public service job creation programme and a belief that Public Service Organisations should model themselves on successful private sector management styles. And they did. Very bloody quickly. Out went the old, in came the new and before you knew it every single Public Service agent began to build its new model of leading from the Centre. Gone were the days when someone got promoted for their operational achievements. They were either cast aside, retired or simply ignored. Decades of knowledge and experience were lost to the new breed of leader who, armed with a fistful of Degrees, no operational experience and an inability to see anything in a straightforward way, they began their relentless change. By the time we hit the year 2000AD, the public service chant of, 'If we want the best, we have to pay the best', had completely overwhelmed our public services resulting in no self control, a sense of self entitlement and worse than everything, a cultural ethos of outsourcing that saw the suits getting shot of all the dull and uninteresting things. For them, filling in potholes, cutting the grass, emptying the rubbish and doing all the other mundane and boring stuff was no longer wanted. They thirsted for the interesting areas of business. The areas that they, armed with their degrees and their unusual language could challenge themselves and become involved in the exciting stuff. The sort of stuff you could corner, create an empire and better still, charge up the pole of success, get a bigger salary and a pension pot that you and I would die for. Now, all the dull and boring stuff has moreorless been outsourced. All our public services are now dominated by the offspring of those who became grateful that Maggie Thatcher decided to give the Police a huge pay rise. That one single political decision started off a chain of events that's sees you and I staggering around wondering why we've got long bloody grass, why the Council has become a bureaucratic beast of burden, why we've potholes you could hide a domestic cat in and why High Town has been destroyed and abandoned to a bunch if people who have a Degree in Making Love in Sixteen Different Languages. Me? I regret the three day working weeks of the Seventies when, at four o'clock the power went off we all went home and sat behind a lit candle wondering how the Council still managed to fill in the potholes, cut the grass, empty me bloody bin and do it with a smile on their faces cognisant that we all appreciated their help, albeit their wages were very low and not many of us wanted to do their job.

A word of caution Martin. Everyone registered within our County has a right to vote and that of course includes the thousands of European Citizens who are registered with the Electoral Office. For many, being able to vote on anything is a huge privilege and if this group vote like they work then I fear it ain't going to be as straightforward as you, I and many others would like. The only helpful thing is those from within the EU who form a part of our 'hidden' population will, as I understand it, not qualify to be given a vote as they do not appear on the Council tax register as ever being here. Now factor in us. The indigenous group who've had centuries of democratic governance. We don't vote anymore. We can't be bothered and its this that may be our downfall and see us tied and bound to Europe and their horrid Eurovision Song Contest for decades to come.

Stupidfrustration, Hello mate. Actually, no! In my old life I had a rather easy time of it all. Because I and my colleagues were all at rock bottom, without any prospects of ever leaving that position, creeping was never really an option. Besides, if anyone had have crept and tried to oil their way into favour with those above us, and there were many of them, then you'd have been thrashed. They told me what to do, I did it and throughout the entire process of 'you do this', I moaned my way through the entire excercise that lasted near on five decades. Five decades, unblemished by any form of achievement that were rarely ever interupted by a performance of mediocrity. As for the future, seeing as I did hit rock bottom very quickly and managed to sustain my performance and remain there, I think that there's every likelihood that I'll provide nothing of any use or importance to the society I'll surely be departing from soon if I continue with my chosen lifestyle of drinking, smoking, betting upon uncertain outcomes and shovelling out this pigswill that comes so naturally and with such ease to me. No! I've not been through any Mill that you can imagine. My Mill was a joy to be in even though I moaned my way through the entire thing. My warmest regards to you.

That's a lovely hedge. Whoever trims that hedge has sharp shears, a good eye and a skill in topiary. You don't get your hedge cut like that unless you know someone who knows what they're doing. It's who you know nowadays isnt it? It's entirely about who you know. If ever this topiary expert quit his or her job and went for it, registered self employed and advertised their work using that photograph as an example of their topiary skills, I know which hedge cutter I'd go for. You'd be a fool to pick another hedge cutter. You've gotta go with what you see and if that hedge is anything to go by I'd happily say, 'this is a man or a woman or someone caught between two stools who is highly skilled at topiary. Hire them! You'll never regret it'.

Denise, it is an odd thing isn't it? The art of creeping! The ability to not only creep, grovel and ingratiate yourself to the one positioned above you on the foodchain, but more importantly, and not to be underestimated, to be able to transmit this trait in your nature to your target clearly indicating to him or her that its you who should become the chosen one. Yes, you are the choice they should make if they want to continue to hear laughter, high praise, an hourly assurance that you are a remarkable person and you've no problem in allowing another to crawl up and into your anus and be covered in sh.ite. The wonderful thing about being the creep is that the workforce around you quickly realise who you are, what your new status is and, from hereon the creep begins to undergo a change. Remarkably, cognisant of your new found status, they start creeping around you. Oh, they laugh and fall about whenever you say something mildly amusing desperately trying not to let you know that they too have the ability to crawl up the masters anus and eventually challenge you for the best bunk in the house. And round and round it all goes. Never a challenge to the most blatant of mistakes. This is the way of things. This is the structure of management within our Council. Oddly enough, after the creep has spent enough time crawling about inside the masters anus the realisation hits home. The creep is not the only one with this remarkable ability to burrow up his masters arse. The master is at it as well. He has his head buried deep into the Chief Executive who, like Geoff, enjoys to hear people laugh at his pithy comments, marvel at his George Medal and be told, 'thank God you left Southampton. Without you, my life would be incomplete'. And for those who choose to do their work, do it well and quietly go home at the end of the days labour, well they get to do that every day for as long as they can stand it. No warm embrace for them and when they do pluck up the courage and say, 'this ain't right. It's a mistake', the whole structure and culture of the way things are then kick in and the poor soul who never wanted to creep finds himself or herself in the next pen destined to be made redundant when the next cuts arrive. Yep! Creeping! Not so nice is it? And, worse, it has a devastating impact on all of us who want our funds spent well.

His downfall? Perhaps he will but he's very unlikely to ever meet any harm as he hurtles downwards toward the exit door. Not a single velvet glove will land on Geoff. No! Geoffrey will throw himself at the feet of anyone who chooses to ever question him and hold him to account by simply saying this, 'I'm now a wreck of a man. I've reached my personal level of incompetence because I was handed to many areas of responsibility.' And he'll say, 'and if it were not for the managerial mistake of giving me to many areas of responsibility I wouldn't be in the mess that I currently find myself in'. He'll sit back, graciously accept his suspension, if it should ever arrive upon his lap , let it be known that he intends to sue the Council for giving him to many areas of responsibility and sit back and wait for the huge cash windfall that'll be described as 'a Compromise Agreement'. Why would he do this? I bloody would! Look at his portfolio of responsibility. You'd have to be superhuman to manage that lot. It's nigh on impossible especially for someone who reached his own personal level of incompetence some years ago. No! He'll be fine and so will all the others who find themselves in areas of difficulty. They'll simple march away with a wad of our money, quickly reinvent themselves via the 'old boys network' and before you know it, they'll be back telling you, me and anyone else who's prepared to listen that, ' I am driven to save you millions and if there's a chance in hell, I'd like to help you all to create a thousand jobs. No! Geoffrey will be just fine. Don't worry about Geoff and his well trained sycophantic lap dogs who daily throw themselves upon the carpet as they roll around in hysterics when Geoff says something that requires a laughing response and cries of 'god Geoff! You are the funniest and greatest line manager I've ever had the pleasure to creep around'.

That's the question the media are now shoving out after they managed to get Nigel Farage to give them the answer that they wanted to hear! I want out of this unholy bloody European Union but at what cost? Good grief! Now we're done picking on the Polish people who've taken all our jobs and all our houses, now its the turn of the Romanian people. And why? Because they have a predisposition to commit crime. That's what they say. If it ain't nailed bloody down, they'll steal it. Good bloody Lord. Well if anyone here in this fair County is bloody qualified to answer this question, its me and my wife who still ain't cooking for me and still makes me sleep in the High Town bed. For the past two years my neighbours have been a Romanian family. Since they've been my neighbours my car is still out there on the drive, my house hasn't been burgled, my wallet is still in my pocket and the cans of Ale that I hide in the shed because my wife's a nosey bloody woman are still there. Nothing has been taken! Not one penny piece. And I'll tell you why! My neighbourse are lovely people. They are kind, thoughtful, caring, extremely polite, they speak English, they work harder than ever I did when I was able to do anything that was ever worthwhile and productive toward society, they love 'family' and they ain't a moments trouble. In bloody short, I couldn't ask for or want for better neighbours than the ones I've got. In fact, if anyone's the problem in my manor then its me when I stagger home and try to get over my threshold and past my wife who has a predisposition to commit violence upon my fat face. Don't listen to the media. Don't let them press your buttons and make you afraid of things you don't understand. There ain't anything wrong with people. People are just fine and dandy. All people want is a better life and that's why the migrants are here. They want happiness and a chance for a better life. It ain't their fault that the politicians have constructed a crazy social model that allows anyone to leave their home Country and move here. Me? I simply want the chance to put my 'X' in the box that clearly states I want my Country to leave the European Union. I do not want to put my 'X' in the box alongside people who are happy to demonise a minority group simply because the media thirst for a battle between 'us' and 'them'. Finally, to illustrate how nice my neighbours are and how humour has no boundaries, T'other day I was spraying weedkiller on the front drive. The lady from next door said, 'Hello Bobby. How are you today'?, to which, I replied, 'Every day is worse than the last one. Im killing these bloody weeds'. She said, in her great English, 'Bobby, you know they are English weeds. They are not Romanian weeds'. How about that for razor sharp humour. It doesn't get any better than that! My warmest regards to all.

I've many friends who are employed in the public service sector. They know how I see things. I value all the wonderful things that the public servants provide me and my family but, after the tenure of New Labour and the massive national public service job creation excercise they implemented, the ethos of public service somehow or other became lost on the hirearchy that now dominate the corridors of power. These people are not like you and I. They are very different. They see a wonderful institution like our Council as a vehicle to create for themselves, power, influence, contacts, personal wealth and the opportunity to 'climb'. Climb the ladder of success and create for themselves a huge pension pot that we will never, ever be able to realise and enjoy. They are now our ruling elite and we are their host body. We're little more than worker ants destined to work, pay and be directed by those who, before the emergence of the liar Blair, were our servants who's role it was to put in place things that made our lives easier and enable us to work in the private sector and help create the wealth. In many ways this was the covenant between us and them. They provided our much cherished front line services and we paid happy in the knowledge that our roads were maintained, our grass was cut the rubbish was collected and removed and the vulnerable amongst us were cared for and treated with dignity and respect. That covenant between us and them has been broken and we didn't do the breaking. They've become an arrogant, fat and bloated clique of people who've attached themselves to us and they treat our funds as though its their money. Whenever people become to powerful, no matter the circumstances and no matter what their role in life, the outcome is often much the same. A loss of any sense of right and wrong and a deluded notion of self entitlement that sees them doing whatever they like and not giving the consequences of their behaviour any self critical examination. We collectively passed the tipping point the night Mr Jarvis demanded five hundred thousand pounds to keep Stanhope happy and senior Council Officers began rewarding oneanother Gagging Payments, or as they like to describe them, Compromise Agreements, as they move from County to County feeding off another host who willingly sit back accepting of the mantra, 'I am passionate about public service and I will not eat, sleep or drink until I've fulfilled my unquenchable desire to deliver a positive outcome to the service users of this fair County'. Believe me, these people are incompetent bungling idiots who've no grasp on reality and despite the fact that we are near to fiscal ruin, still it has no impact upon them and the gimmicks and the rubbish they serve up to us on a daily basis. Now, more than ever before, we are now reliant upon those who work within the public sector to find a way of reporting wrongdoing and become a whistleblower. It's no easy step to take. It's not easy at all. In fact, for those who work within the public sector, where often they are surrounded by bullying, a constant fear of redundancy and a design within to do as your told and don't rock the boat, its nigh on impossible to make up ones mind, take that first step, and report any wrongdoing. I have sources within the Council and I also know that many, many staff read these pages because they've become horrified by the culture that the senior Management have created. They don't visit pages like this to simply report back to their masters. They read these things because it brings them comfort and reassurance that they are right to feel that things are wrong within the Council. I'd say to any employee who is unfortunate enough to be working for one of these idiots, to take heart, take a step forward and report your concerns to someone you can trust and do all you can to erode the power that these people have created for themselves. Remember, if you don't think it's right it doesn't feel right and it doesn't look right then invariably its not right. It's wrong and becoming a Whisteblower about wrongdoing is a brave and honourable step to take. Me? I admire any of our public servants who conclude, 'this is all very wrong' and they then decide to do the right thing, which is, to become a Whistleblower. I'd urge any Council employee who is in turmoil because of what's happening around them and above them to do something. Anything that will bring back the days when we knew that those at the top of the public service tree had walked in our shoes and they were able to know what was right and what was wrong. Don't be afraid of these people. There's nothing to be afraid of. Don't let them frighten you. Take a leap of faith. Take luck and good fortune by the hand and report your concerns and in doing so you might just inspire others around you to conclude 'I ain't staying silent any longer'. Don't be bullied into remaining silent. My warmest regards to you.

There's a book out right now, titled, ' Living in the Past'. It's a wonderful read that celebrates the discovery of the medieval village of Studmarsh or, as it was known before the Doomsday document, 'Ye Ole Stud'y'. This book, produced by a much celebrated academic, outlines how a number of local people, many with mental health issues, came together, dug and successfully found the place. It's a remarkable find when you consider that this old village predates the Roman occupation, The Norman Conquest, the Black Death, the emergence of Wassailing in High Town and the English Civil War. There is if course another book that is based upon this search for Studmarsh. It's hugely unpopular and once correctly described by Richard & Judy as the work of an idiot who'd successfully produced a bucket of sh.ite! Of course. I wrote it. Im the author. It's titled, 'Digging for Studmarsh in the Wrong Place' and its a piece of work that describes a thirty year dig without finding a single thing of archaelogical significance. Have I regrets about it? Indeed I have. With hindsight I should have given it the title Digging for Studmarsh. Had I done that then folk in the library may have picked it up, taken it away and read it. Understandably, the whole 'Wrong Place' bit tends to put people off and mutter,'the fool didn't find it because he was looking in the wrong place. Lets wait for another book to come out that says, 'Digging for Studmarsh In the Right Place' and we found it. I know which bloody book I'd have chosen! Of course, hindsight being what hindsight is, I should have paid more attention to the many historical documents relating to Studmarsh that clearly indicated that the remains of the village were definitely to be found in close proximity to Bromyard. My mistake was I convinced myself that all these dead writers had colluded with oneanother and were deliberately pointing folk like me in the wrong direction. And whatsmore, if ever it was to be successfully located , you'd be better off digging and burrowing anywhere else other than Bromyard. That's where I went wrong. I chose to completely ignore Bromyard and hamlets in close proximity to the Town and I began to dig in an isolated area just outside Kington. When did I realise that perhaps I was digging in the wrong place? It's a toss up really. Either pretty much straight away on day one of the dig or eleven years later when I'd burrowed from Kington and found myself emerging beneath the Corn Square in Leominster. Anyway, my book is available at most Car Boot Sales.

And remember this, all things go in cycles. Everything does. Unfortunately for 'us' we are currently out of favour but that is the way of things. Once the wheel has turned half a circle perhaps we'll get back in favour again. Who knows! It's no easy task being the Editor of a newspaper. Remember the news and the reporting style must be fair and balanced. On the one hand, the Editor tasks people like our Bill Tanner to dig and report the things that are normally secreted from us by the ruling elite. And,on the other, the less noisy who voted this Cabinet into Office have the right to have their voice heard and, if they and others see Hoople as a wonderful thing, even if its at odds with what we think, they have the right to be represented. I honestly believe the Editor is simply trying to retain a sort of balance. A balance of fairness that doesn't fit easily with us who see Hoople as a huge millstone wrapped around our necks. Anyway, that said, for what it's worth, that's how I read the tea leaves in the cup. We are finished. That's it. The end! and we ain't going to change anything until the wheel turns, the Tory's lose power, another group come in and start lifting up stones that secrete secrets that we were never meant to ever see. Once that happens and things are discovered which will be highly enlightening, perhaps then we'll have a part to play again upon the pages of the HT.

'D' your 'glass is half full' approach to things doesn't surprise me. I wouldn't expect less from you my dear old friend. However, the writing is on the wall. Our race is done. Times have changed and I have to tell you that 'we're no longer wanted on the HT. I know this to be the case. The parting isn't a matter of any hostility toward us. None at all. They are simply tired of us and the constant barrage of complaints the Council direct at them after 'we' collectively say something that upsets them. There was a time when we all wanted to know that the Council and the Cabinet listened. Well, we achieved that toward the latter part of last year. The trouble is, we created a notion, a perception that we simply were a group of moaners and groaners. It's these things that have seen 'us' go into decline and be perceived as mendacious oddities. Truly Denise , we are finished. It's done. The games up. We all now simply stagger onto 2015, vote this chaotic and deluded Cabinet out of Office and pray that a group emerge who'll try to do the right things. It'll be either the IOC or the Independants who'll dig us out of this mess and deliver the one thing we all wish for. Sane and rational thinking. That's all. Nothing else. A will to do what's right and for the benefit of all who need good and sensible governance. Take care old mate!

Alas, the writing is on the wall. Even for me. I'm done for. Everything changes. All things shift and move on and the HT is no exception. It seems that 'we'have had our day and its all over. Never mind. I wish the Editor and the HT well. It'll survive without 'us'. It did before we began tapping and it will do so in the future without our contributions. It's all over!

Cambo, why did you do that? Four times you did it. You might say, 'look, I made a mistake. It's nothing to kick off about' and some might say, 'he has a point. It ain't the worst thing that can happen'. But, my view is, it ain't on. If this sort of thing goes unchecked then folk can start pressing the button 'willy nilly' and before too long you get others trying to outdo oneanother. And mark my words, they're out there watching out for the repetitive button pressers. For example, as soon as I saw your four time button hit, I thought, 'right, I can beat that, I'll give it five', but then I thought, 'fool you. This reaction can cause a problem that'll only end in some button presser emerging who'll sit there all bloody night posting the same response over and over again.' Its no different to a bloody Arms Race! Well I for one ain't getting dragged into it. Ive got better ways to spend my time and if you think that by pressing your button four times makes you a better button presser than the rest of us, then you've gotta a surprise coming. You ain't dragging me into this game old friend. Never! Stick to the rules. Press the bloody button once and once only and stop upsetting folk like me who get upset about pointless stuff like this.

I was told that the Head of the Council Legal Department Mr Bill Norman, formerly of The Wirral Council. Is going to study the findings of an internal investigation, and he will decide on the outcome. Which, given what Paul Cardin has disclosed to the social network world, probably means that nothing will ever be done to right any wrong.

What's with all my gibber jabber on how to recruit a source of information. Buggar, the consequences, Im going to be holding a Course at the Commercial on 'How to find someone who knows something'. That's what I'll do! I'll call it the Course on 'How to find someone who knows something' and it'll place a huge emphasis on what's worth knowing and what isn't worth knowing. There'll be role playing as well. There allways is on a Course. It wouldn't be a proper Course unless you had some fool out front begging the audience to role play. The first hour would be devoted to one single thing. Who are you, are you in the round and why on earth did you bother turning up in the first place? Then after a few drinks, a few tall tales and a sing song upon the tables, we'd get down to the serious business of what to do when you find someone who knows something. We'll also be exploring the possibility that you'll never meet someone who knows something and you'll be forced to find something out for yourself. Yes, the dark art of finding yourself a hiding place in the Chief Executives office. We'll together explore the possibility of getting yourself posted in a box to the aforementioned Officer, getting out of the box and secreting yourself beneath a small drinks table and listen in on conversations that you've no right to listen in on. Yes, you'll be trained to become An Eavesdropper'. Of course, being an Eavesdropper then requires you to become a Telltale. A Teller of Tales. Only the facts mind. None of the bloody embellishments you'd normally associate with the horrid embellisher.

And whatsmore, if you happen across someone who works within Plough Lane and they are desperate to become you're source of information, ask them the right questions, like who are you? That's often a good start. There's no better place to start than asking someone who they are. Me? I park me fishing chair outside the building displaying a little sign that says, 'do you want to tell me things'. And they do! Moreoften than not Ive got a bloody queue growing ready and willing to tell me things. To weed out the chaff, I shout out, 'any of you loathsome lot embellishes?'. Course a few put their bloody hands and I tell them to clear off exclaiming, 'I've no time for the embellisher. Be gone'. Course another thing to watch out for is the source who knows absolutely nothing. Ask them, 'do you know anything at all', and if they say, 'I know nothing and whatsmore its unlikely I ever will', then tell them to 'clear off. Don't waste my time'. Then there's the group who are at the bottom of the foodchain who know things but what they do know isn't bloody worth repeating. Tell them to 'clear off and don't come bloody back'. Finally there's the cream. The ones you want to capture in your web of intrigue. They're the ones you need to recruit. Give them an inducement. Anything! A piece of lovely pork rind or a swig from your can of ale and if they ever say, 'phone in sick. I've a room at the Holiday Inn. We can make love all afternoon, then tell them to 'clear off', saying, ' I've no wish to catch syphilis of some other exotic sexually transmitted disease. Then, if there's anyone left in the queue, and lets face it, it's highly unlikely, then pick up your chair and belongings and clear off whence you came from. That's how you recruit a covert human source of intelligence!

Yes Dippy my source of information that's from within Plough Lane is an excellent source. One which can be highly reliable or, in the case of him/her telling me that the Council wanted to knock down the Cathedral next Pan Cake Day, extremely unreliable. By and large, I try to glean the information before he or she has supped their third pint thus ensuring there are no embellishments. I've no time for embellishments. This world would be a whole lot better off without the embellisher. The problem with the embellisher is they can embellish an embellishment, allow the embellishing to get out of control resulting in chaos. And for what it's worth, I'd say to all of you out there, keen to recruit a source of intelligence, stay well clear of the embellisher. Tell them to clear off with their embellishments. Go bother someone else. Tell them its the facts you want. Nothing else!

Well done Cambo and well done Dippy and all.

And there I was! Inside the Chief Executive's office within Plough Lane keen to learn why it was that affordable housing, intended to meet the needs of the homeless and the poor were being given over to Council staff who'd been able to reach the top of the Housing list with a little help from their friends. 'Now then' he said, ' I've upped my personal security since I've learned that your'e as mad as a ships cat. My minder here is going to search you'. I said, 'I've nothing beneath my Crombie and I'll be damned if I allow you and your shaven headed primate to violate my person and fiddle about amongst the folds of my coat. Never! I'd sooner give up ale'. Course, me rights enshrined within Magna Carta and me right to a fair measure of Habeas Corpus, were cast to one side and from beneath my coat they immediately confiscated sixteen bales of hay, twenty gallons of leaded petrol, a clipper lighter, an old sea farers pirate cutlass, a wooden stake and a generous length of rope that may have been useful to tether a senior public servant to a stake that might quickly have been turned into a bonfire. He said, 'you'll not burn me at the stake. Not in here. Never. I'll be damned if I allow you to ignite that vast pile of hay that you managed to secrete beneath that tiny Crombie.' As for my question, which I never really put to him, do any of you out there know anything about this latest piece of news which Im told is creating a great deal of worry amongst the hirearchy of the Council. Im told that homes at The Furlongs have been taken by Council staff who've managed to acquire them despite the fact that these homes were intended for the needy, the homeless and the weak and the poor. If this tittle tattle is true, and I suspect it is, then you have to ask the question,'why has this been allowed to happen'? And, who helped it to happen?

After watching an hour of this cultural dross I sat there nibbling on a packet of Pork Scratchings thankful for one single thing. That we, Great Britain, four nations of greatness and incredible important gifts to the world are separated from mainland Europe by the salty brine of the Channel. Thank God for the Ice Age and thank God for the science of Geology. My only regret is the Channel can be navigated within ninety minutes on a ferry from Calais. Good bloody grief, if I ever had to sit there listening to their music and witness their cultural way of life I'd take a small fruit fork and stab myself in each ear. As I sat there listening to some bloody offering served up by a European backwater of a Country, that told a musical story of how high the milk yield was from the local community goat, my mind wondered to the thought of death not being such a terrible thing to happen to me. As I viewed the voting process that saw some Austrian bearded man or woman dressed up in a lovely frock win this garbage of a competition, I chanted to the Gods to deliver me from the pain and serve me up a minor heart attack so that I could lay down in bed and be excused from having to listen to the winner sing the rotten winning song again and weeping before the watching world proclaiming, 'this is the best day of my life'. The pain and anguish could have been lessened if only they'd chosen to warble their tuneless dross to me and the World in their own Mother tongue. At the least, I wouldn't have been able to understand why the goat was so loved in this small poverty stricken hamlet and why its milk was so appreciated by the villagers who choose to suck on this beasts teat to extract the milk. No such bloody luck. They all gave it to me in English, thus ensuring I was fully cognisant of the corny lyrics they'd attached to the surge of noise they'd shoved down my ears. As for the lyrics, moreoften than not they all held one common theme. The local wench dances around the old tree, a passing minstrel who owns a gaggle of geese and a herd of goats passes by. They fall in love. Run away and up the bloody mountain they go, never to be seen again. We've gotta get out of this European Union. If only to escape their music and the endless agony that's heaped upon us every single year they hold this unholy celebration of ' music you'll never buy and never wish to listen to again unless you are mad'.

And they wonder why people like us emerge and ask why? It's bloody awful. And it's all perfectly legal! It's so depressing and all so predictable. They've no shame.

It's like day thirteen in the Big Brother House here. Im bloody starving. Im living on Cod and chips. Her? She's feasting upon her Waitrose food while I sit and watch. Bloody rotten old cow! I've got next to bloody nothing in me High Town food cupboard and what I do have, I'll be damned if I cook it myself. I ain't giving her the satisfaction. Im disappearing. I went to shave this morning and I didn't recognise myself. And who cares? No bloody body. Well I'll be damned if I give in. I'll end up in some soup kitchen first. Never! She can feast herself stupid on her platter of clams and other juicy assortments of lovely food and it'll not make me shift my ground. Oh, I know what you all think. He's off again rambling on about some nonsensical codswallop. Well Im a man of principle and I don't give a jot about me own health and well being and what you lot think of the pigswill I shovel out! Mark my words, the High Town traders will get behind me, wheel me out before the Midlands Today cameras and I'll tell them exactly why I've allowed my ravaged body to become so badly neglected. I'll tell them, if they bloody bother to turn the camera and the microphone on, 'I'm a High Town man and Im bloody hungry'.

No I've never been a man to race ferrets. Never have been and never will be. Mind, I've no criticism of anyone who chooses to enter their ferret into a race. Nothing wrong in that at all. You'd be an odd sort if you did object to an organised race between one ferret and another. It's just not my chosen path. No, I like to watch the ferrets. Particularly when they decide, as they do very frequently, to engage in physical intercourse. Yes, it's fair to say Im a man who likes to watch ferrets making love. They are interesting little creatures. My male ferret is called Jarvis and my girlie ferret is called Morgan. Often I'll pick Jarvis up stroke him and whisper, 'ain't she looking cute today little chap', I'll shove a piece of pork rind in his mouth and sit back and watch the action. Course, Jarvis being as Jarvis is, is no sensitive lover. He's a little on the aggressive side if my views on ferret mating is worth a jot of notice. Little Morgan, cognisant that her mate is nibbling on the aphrodisiac pork rind, will begin to charge round the cage trying to seek refuge from the rampant Jarvis. Of course Jarvis being what Jarvis is, ain't as fast as Morgan so to aid the act of physical love and to stop little Jarvis from choking and dropping down dead from a heart attack, I'll pick up Morgan, tether her to their excercise wheel and allow this glorious snapshot of Mother Nature to take place naturally before my watchful eyes. No! Im not a racer of ferrets. Never have been and never will be!

Never! Not while I've got a repeat prescription for diazepam. You'll never see me slithering across sawdust shouting, 'Yee Har' and 'Well Hello little Missy, care to share a mule with a passing pilgrim'. Never! And as for Billy Ray Cyrus and his bloody 'Achy Breaky Heart', well he can chew as much tobacco as he wants, he'll never get me to dress up and line dance to his three chord tune. And as for anyone else who thinks its a good idea to get dressed up as Marshall Matt Dillon off of Gunsmoke, pop into the Commercial, order a pint of ale and see how long it takes before someone decides to attack you with a chair leg and turn you into a vegetable. The lads would kill me if ever I did it. They'd take my little lariat that was intended to be twirled during a dance sequence, thrash me with it and then tie me to a lampost where I'd be sure to be buggared by some passing opportunist who had a fetish for men dressed up as a cowboy wearing a tin star. No! I ain't going.

Well I ain't t taking this. Not even from my dear friend TwoWheels. I'll be damned if I sit back and take this. Im a smoker. I've allways been a smoker and unless Jesus takes me and I go hurtling off toward the heavenly light, I'll continue to be a smoker. Blast his eyes, both of them, for describing me and my brethren as 'stinkers'. I demand an appology upon these pages. I didn't get to rock bottom by accident and I ain't for sitting back and swallowing this latest critique aimed at those of us who choose to help pay off our gross national debt by smoking cigarettes. I demand my appology or else!