bobby47

They'll knock it down 'H'. Either that or the Council will do some 'sleight of hand', put in place a scenario that allows 'asset strippers' to take advantage of a wonderful opportunity and knock it down themselves. But it ain't all bad news. Not while the 'suits' have their hands on the levers of power. You can be assured of two things. Firstly it'll create hundreds of jobs and secondly it'll present whoever with a chance to save millions. The only certain outcome will be, there'll be plenty of rubble to fill some other pointless and unwanted scheme that will get served up to us within the next few years. The only knotty conundrum that will need to be addressed is, what happens when Hereford Magistrates Court is to be sold off. And, yes, it is going to go. What will they do then. Which building gets flattened first? It's all a question of timing as to which building gets flattened first. Of course the 'developers' will have an eye on the situation as well. Whoever gets their hands on either of these buildings you can be certain that it'll provide you and I with nothing and huge financial rewards to the few who happen to know what is going to happen because of sources within the Council who'll be more than happy to help create something that nobody ever wanted. Course they could keep the building. Create something culturally wonderful that provides our community with a space and place to be who we are or they could do what they tend to do. Flatten it!

Alex is one of my favourite posters but on this occasion I'd urge you all to ignore him. No good will come of it if you follow his advice. Im all for not paying for something if Im given half a chance but this advice is a step to far. You must pay those lovely four cans of Carlsberg ale. And they are lovely. You'd be an odd sort if you thought otherwise but Alex's advice to not pay for them is simply wrong. By all means ask at the till if you can just take them and not hand over money. That's reasonable but simply to enter the shop, pick up the lovely four cans and walk out thinking they are yours and you are not required to pay is entirely wrong and I'll be damned if I get myself associated with this idea that you don't pay for four cans of Carlsberg lager. And I'll tell you another thing, if any of you lot confide in me that you are taking cans of lager from this shop and you ain't paying, then Im rolling over on you. I will bring you down, you'll be hauled off by the Constable who'll be within his rights to taser you, beat you with a baton and spray you with CS gas. That its come to this!

Stupidfrustration, Buddy if you ever had the misfortune to meet me you'd be very disappointed. Incidentally, I enjoyed your little 'war' with Roger regarding smoking. Im a smoker. I love it. The best decision I ever made was to become a committed smoker. My Grandfather was a committed smoker. Ninety a day. One after another and each time he stubbed his cigarette with his right foot he'd be puffing on another one. When he sadly died, the post mortem revealed two things. Firstly his lungs, both of them, were perfectly clear and unblemished by any tar or nicotine deposits and secondly the cause of death was Cancer of the right toe. My warmest regards pal.

Well I'll never walk upon this route to doom or drive upon it. Never! Im a Commercial Road man. Allways have been and allways will be. And if they ever choose to close Commercial Road in some sneaky attempt to get me onto it, I'll either stay in doors or walk around the City to get to the battle cruiser I choose to drink in. Im a man of principles and once I've got something into my head its near on impossible to get it out of my head. Mind, having principles ain't all its cracked up to be. This new shopping development has caused a huge divide within my wedded union. Now, because of this new economic reality, we have two cupboards in our kitchen. Mine is labelled the 'High Town food' cupboard whilst hers is called the 'Not High Town food' cupboard. And worse, she says, 'I ain't cooking the High Town food found within the High Town food cupboard. Whatsmore, this stance she's bloody taking has crept upstairs. I now find myself in another bed which she now calls, The High Town' bed. Mind, none of this scares me and I'll be damned if Im the first to step over the line and stray into her cupboard and start feasting on her Waitrose food. I'd sooner starve and by the bloody looks of things, unless she gives ground, I might just have to tolerate rapid weight loss in pursuit of my principles.

They've just left the house. Course she found her purse didn't she. She said, 'your eczema is playing up I see. Would you like a pot of ointment to aid your fascinating skin condition and ease the itching?' I said, 'you rotten old cow.' Cunning bloody woman! She then said, 'Mind if I get you the ointment, you know it won't be High Town ointment don't you?' Got me over a barrel hasn't she. I either sit here itching encouraging these two hand reared ferrets to mate or I prostitute me principles and accept that when it comes to the treatment of eczema I've gotta apply non High Town ointment to my fat face. I told her, 'whilst Im a High Town man and always will be a High Town man, given the dreadful circumstances I now find myself in, I'm reluctantly prepared to apply this ointment to the hives that now blight my fat face. Mind, don't bring me any of their food back. I'll sooner starve than eat it. And why would I allow myself to starve to death? Because Im a High Town man and until recently, I was wed to a High Town woman who apparently, is no longer a High Town wife.

Denise, She's going tomorrow with me daughter. You've interrupted us rowing. I've hidden her purse and she's upstairs searching for it. Excuse me for a moment Denise...' You ain't bloody going you rotten old bag. I'll be damned if you feed me anything but High Town food'. Sorry about that Denise....'basically we've got two cupboards now. One for High Town food which is mine and one for food that ain't from High Town which is now bloody hers. That its come to this! She's armed with bloody gift vouchers now. Waving them in me face shouting, ' you're useless in bed and Im no longer a High Town wife'. I've gotta go Denise. She's going for the frying pan!

Oh God! They say he does things for a purpose and who am I to question him but he's doing something to us for a purpose every bloody day. I'd sooner he sent some straightforward heavenly sign that said in clear language, 'I'm going to p.iss on you every day for the next decade', rather than this constant drip, drip, bloody drip, drip of bad news. It's bloody relentless! There's no end to it. Bloody Council! Im waking up bloody angry nowadays. Bloody Jarvis! This bloody pay off to Jewsons and the Royal Mail is going to be huge. The only doubt is, how many bloody zero's will we be forced to hand over. It says in the bloody Bible the meek will inherit the earth. Well its a bloody lie. We're the bloody meek and were getting slaughtered. Im a shell of the man I once was. I used to be someone of importance on the Hereford Times. I did. They'd all read me codswallop and cry, 'long live the King'. Now? It's 'clear off and take this Minus Twenty bloody nine gift with you. Be gone you boring, moaning Barstard'. Bloody button pressers, bloody Council and God can get stuffed! Every bloody day is like Groundhog Day. A bucket of slime poured over me head, a kick in the testicals and a demand to shut me fat face and stop moaning. Well I ain't saying me Lords Prayer anymore. I've made some personal requests to him and thus far, nothing! Not a single bone has he thrown my way. Jarvis never jumped in the Lugg. Harry ain't for changing course and Pat bloody Morgan's bus shelter is still standing. Well Jehovah ain't listening and if he ain't listening then I ain't praying any longer. Praying is a two way thing. Thus far, Im doing the praying and he's urinating on our heads. No bloody more! And worse, she, my rotten wife of forty years. Where's she going tomorrow? Bloody Debenhams and Waitrose. Well I've told her straight, 'don't bring back any food and expect me to eat it because I won't. I'd sooner starve. Im a High Town man. I've always been a High Town man and I refuse to remain wed to a woman who ain't a High Town woman. There, that's just a slice of what's on me mind and there's plenty more where that pigswill came from!

Aylestone Voice. Brilliant! I deserve it all and more. My warmest regards to you.

Well I ain't going to be one of them. Not me. Never! It'll be as K Butt describes, pandemonium. It's the only bloody outcome. It's no game of bloody chance and uncertain outcomes. It'll be bloody chaos on a scale yet to be witnessed within our once fair City. Think back to the days when they reversed all the traffic. Do you remember? Well multiply that experience by a factor of ten and you'll be halfway to understanding just how bad its all going to be. The whole things a dog and I ain't going. Never! Im a High Town man and I refuse not to be a High Town man.

Thank you stupidfrustration. I appreciate it.

Oh I know what they all think Denise! 'The fool doesn't mean it! He ain't going to starve to death! It's all talk'. Well it ain't all talk. I mean it. I'd sooner starve than consume food purchased from within that Empire of Dirt. I tell you now buddy, once the food is gone in High Town, that's it for me. I could be laid out on a bench up bloody Eign Gate and if some Good Samaritan approached me, quickly realised I was starving and I was offered a bite off a lovely cream cake and a generous slice of a fully ripened juicy Mellon, I'd say, 'show me the receipt'. And if that bloody receipt indicated that the aforementioned bits of lovely life saving food were the result of a financial transaction from say Waitrose I'd say, 'be gone with your cream cake and your bloody melon. I'd rather starve. Im a High Town man. Always have been a High Town man and always will be a High Town man.' Im a man of principle and nobody, no matter how kind and thoughtful they are will ever persuade me to eat a cream cake and a slice of Melon if they were purchased or purloined outside of High Town. In fact, Im getting myself so angry about this whole thing, if anybody ever approaches me with a cream cake and a slice of a juicy fully ripened Melon, I ain't going to take responsibility for what I might do if I happen to be in possession of a wooden mallet.

I'll be damned if I ever set foot inside that salty hulk of a new shopping development. Never! I'd sooner give up ale, quit smoking and stop nibbling upon pork rind than ever tippy toe inside that place and part with a single penny piece. Never! Ever! They can dispatch a team of highly trained negotiators to my threshold demanding that I come outside, stagger down to this monument to stupidity and simply have a look around. I'll tell them, 'clear off. Be gone. Go bother some other fool. I'm watching Whitecross Housewives on me web cam and I ain't leaving'. They can threaten me with a thrice yearly bin collection and it'll have no impact upon me. They can lock me in cupboard with Aylestone Voice and despite the hardship of it all, when they open the door after a week and say, 'times up', I'll beg them for another fortnight rather than accompany my wife into that shopping centre. And as for her, my wife of forty years, she was waving her ten pound Debenhams Gift Voucher in my fat face last night and I told her what Im telling you. 'We ain't bloody going'. It'll take more than ten quid off your next pair of knickers to get me within a stones throw of that bloody place.' Quite simply, I ain't going and anyone who does attend thinks very differently to me. Im a High Town Man. I've always been a High Town man and I'll always will be a High Town man. Even when all the shops in High Town are closed and there's clearly not a hope in hell of purchasing any food from our once beautiful town centre, still, even then, when there's nobody to trade with me, still I'll be a High Town Man. I'll starve before I ever visit that monstrous place. Never!

Thank you so much David. Your praise ain't wasted on this lady. Both you and I recognise 'leadership' for obvious reasons. This lady is a great inspirational leader of people and she and her staff are a credit to all of us. Thanks mate.

Well done Glenda.

Recently the Hereford Times were asking for nominations for a local Hero. Someone who does great things, inspires all those around them and is undoubtedly a local treasure. Obviously I tick all the boxes but I'll be damned if I accept the nomination from my good friend Ubique who understandably put forward my name to receive this accolade. No, the person I have in mind is a truly wonderful lady. An inspiration to all those who come into contact with her and someone who provides everything to her pupils, her staff and the parents and Carers of the children who attend Blackmarston Special Needs School. The person who I tip my hat to is the Headteacher at the School Mrs Sian Bailey who is quite simply a remarkable person who's driven to give her all for the little ones in her care. This is one 'mighty' individual who, whenever Im in her company, Im very aware that Im in the presence of greatness and its this lady and all her staff who are my hero's. To her, all that matters is the children and the education they receive. Everything else is of little consequence to Sian Bailey. This young woman is a long way from retirement but when her time comes to go, put her feet up and reflect upon her life and her achievements she'll have thousands of people forever grateful for all the things that she has done. What a woman! What a teacher and what a hero to the people of our City.

Silentbull, well done my good old friend. Next season Im going to ensure I attend more games. I could have done more this past season but, like many, I lost the will to be bothered. I'll bother this forthcoming season. As for Aylestone Voice and his view of the 'Pool' who I've followed all my life, he tells me on another thread that I depress him. Knowing I have this affect upon him makes me feel good about me. My very warmest regards.

Honestly! They'll say anything and if what they've already said aint enough, they'll say some more until we're all left with our heads spinning wondering why we ever bloody bothered objecting in the first place. The Records Office! Same bloody thing. Some fools empire was beginning to slip and low and behold, 'thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord! Lets build another bloody one. And while we're at it, lets shove it down Rotherwas where nobody will bother visiting and we'll pretend that if we don't build this new big bloody box all our records will simply melt away, be lost forever and it'll cost us millions to replace the whole bloody lot. Its all a bag of rats and we are expected to fund these vanity excercises that cost you and I millions that we haven't got. Madness! Complete and absolute madness and its all happening on our watch. Good grief!

With or without an 'e' is right. It's all a bucket of pigswill. They'll say all sorts to win us over. It'll be the finest Fire Station ever built. The slipperiest pole ever constructed and their water will be better water than any water that's ever been used to extinguish a chip pan fire. They'll also say how desperate their need is to build, never mentioning once that the only reason they're doing it is because that's what public services do whenever they're faced with cuts. They build. They allways do. Reason, sane thinking and commonsense go a flying out of the window when the idea of 'let's bloody build' takes a hold within their minds. It's all a matter of maintaining their own little empire and protecting their little area to p.iss in and that my friends is it. Nothing else! And when some fool begs the question, 'why is all this so necessary now when we are fiscally knackered', they'll look down their noses, suggest that you don't care about saving life as much as you should care about saving life. You'll be branded a reckless fool for not jumping on the bandwagon and that'll be that. It's all a pointless excercise and the only reason they're holding this event is to tick some pointless box that'll show that they've been open, honest and frank in explaining that if they don't build the Fire Station now the old place might fall down leaving the public at risk to a fire that'll destroy half of Hereford and place thousands of lives at risk. They'll do whatever they want and once they've done it they'll proclaim it all to have been money well spent and within a single Calendar year they'll add, 'it's paid for itself already'. They may even say it'll create a thousand jobs!

Good Lord! Three million quid. What I wouldn't do for three million quid. No form of depravity or humiliation would be to low for me to endure if some fool was ready to give me three million quid. I tell you buddy, I'd sit patiently in a waiting room the next time Kerry Katona gave birth to her latest 'love child' and I'd eat the placenta. I would. The whole lot and I'd howl with merriment as I swallowed each scrap knowing that I was soon to become the recipient of three bloody million quid. I'd sit on a tennis umpires chair in the middle of High Town on a Saturday afternoon naked masturbating eating a custard slice oblivious to the heckling, the insults and the shouts of derision that were clearly pleading with me to climb down the steps, cover my nakedness and hide my erection that caused elderly women to cry, ' you fat t.wa.t have you no shame'. What I wouldn't do for three million quid! Bloody Bramer!!! Why is it he ends up with three million quid and I get hit in the face with a frying pan? There's gotta be some reason behind it all. It's not just chance. He rides the wave of success, wealth and riches beyond our wildest dreams, whilst I shovel out this codswallop, without pay and not a single chance of ever escaping the gutter of mediocrity that I currently languish in. Bloody Harry Bramer. Him and his unusual and unique head that causes me such despair!!!

Dippy, you find it unsettling! Spare a thought for Harry and me. How do you think we feel? Unsettling ain't the word I'd use. Well I'll be damned if its me that has to carry this child for nine months and it ain't going to be me rubbing oil into my midriff to rid me of the stretch marks. The only way it'll end up with me in the labour room accompanied by two nurses screaming, 'push you fat fool' will be if Harry registers on these pages and writes me the role of Mummy. And if he does, and he's sneaky enough to do it, I'll write myself out of the dreadful delivery by having an abortion. It ain't going to happen. Never. He's having this child. If he's reckless enough to take part in this act of love without insisting I wear a condom then he deserves all he's going to get.

I'd guess that Dippy's well known expression, Council Maths, will at some stage be deployed to explain that whilst the money is still there, though the accounts may show it ain't no longer there, wherever it is and whatever they have or haven't done with it, it'll be a tale of vast savings and huge benefits to the poorer folk within our society. You can be sure of one single thing. They'll have held countless meetings, created a number of stearing groups, they'll be armed with a lovely graph that shows whatever they've set out to do is highlighted by a lovely red spike that soars off the chart leaving everyone to mutter, 'we'll that has sorted that little worry out'. Course, its all a game of funding the bureaucratic beast of burden our Herefordshire Council and little of that money will hit the ground and find its way into the mouths that it was intended for. My guess is, it'll have been pointed here, there, and everywhere only to be devoured by some rich suits who've done a Course that entitles them all to exclaim, 'we feel your pain, we're on your side and if ever you do consider devouring your mates leftovers because you are starved of food and hope, they'll have a lovely leaflet that enables you to claim some of this money that ain't to be found anytime soon because of Dippy's Council Maths.

And I'll tell you another thing Harry. I could just as easily get one of us pregnant. Despite the fact that neither of us has a womb for the featus to gestitate, its not beyond my imagination for you and I to begin some sick and sordid tryst, one of us becomes pregnant with child and your political career is ruined because you've delivered a love child or, as my old man used to call me, 'you little bar.stard'. Come on Harry. Lets end this madness now. Build the Firestation that we don't need elsewhere. I know your reading this pigswill. I've got your number. I know how you think. I've got you scared. I have! You're desperate not to end up in bed with me. Save the Working Boys Home!

I see from the Hereford Times Harry's still ploughing ahead pulling together this great deal for the people of Hereford. Fair enough! So be it! Last night I was laid in bed , again, watching the execution of Saddam Hussein trying to become sexually aroused when there was a tap, tap, tap on the window. I thought, 'funny! Tap, tap, tap on the window?' I said to the wife, 'were in bloody Cyprus. Who'd be tapping at this time of night'. She said, ' it'll be bloody Greta Garbo or that Scandinavian strumpet Britt bloody Eckland' I shouted, 'clear off Eckland, you gorgeous blonde beauty. Go back to bloody Rod Stewart we ain't at home to you and your bloody lustful wanton desires'. 'Its me' came the reply, 'it's Harry and Im clinging onto your drainpipe'. Shrugging me shoulders and accepting of the fact that both men and women can't keep their bloody hands off me, I said, ' Harry bloody who?' Course, the reply was immediate, 'Harry the head. Harry the wearer of a balaclava. Let me in. Lets make love and despite the fact that neither of us has a womb, lets make a baby'. Course, then I got bloody angry didnt I!. I said, 'bloody hell. Im on me bloody rotten holidays and the last thing I want is to hear you clinging onto my drainpipe demanding manly love in a foreign land. Clear off. Go bother someone else. I'll be damned If I disturb my holiday schedule to fulfill your desires to be made love to by me.' Course, as he scurried back down the pipe, I caught a glimpse of his balaclava and his tiny briefs that did nothing to hide the fact that this Councillor has a lovely body. And it is a lovely body. You'd be an odd sort if you didn't acknowledge that despite the head, the eyes, the bloody haircut and the personality, Harry has a lovely body. When's this bloody Councillor going to change his mind? Come on Harry. Throw me a bone. With the flick of the wrist, a blink of an eye and the tap, tap, tap upon my keyboard, I can make your head acceptable and your eyes further apart than they'd need to be apart. Save the Working Boys Home Harry and lets end this madness that sees you and I becoming the centre of some lurid and disgusting affair that'll only end one way. You and I in bed together!

Brilliant Dippy! Thanks.

An ode or poem Dippy. Titled The Old Boys Working Home or, if its simpler, Harry's got a lovely body. Thank you old friend.