So last night I was in my old bedroom at my mum and dads. Weird thing was the gerbils I used to keep were still there even though nobody thought to water or feed them in the past 20 odd years. Anyway, while I’m fussing with the poor malnurished blighters an aeroplane flies over head out side. I look out of the window and see a little parachute dart being thrown out of the plane. It opens and falls onto the bit of the garden where the conservatory is now but never used to be.
On my road in Brierley is a lovely Georgian hall with a horrid 1960s extension that, until recently, was used by the council as offices.
In Barnsley Council’s unfettered intelligence, towards the end of last year, the offices and hall were vacated and put on the market. It was very sad as the hall is lovely (apart from the horrid extension) and rumours abound that developers were rubbing their hands together at the prospect of more land to build houses on.
However the hall, being a historic one, is listed and demolishing it would prove to be expensive and controversial. When I saw the boards going over the windows I said “Well it won’t be long until that burns to the ground will it?”
True enough, this morning on my way into uni I espied 2 fire appliances in attendance and policemen busily closing off the road. Yep. Some horrid bastard scally has set fire to it. Gone is the historic flooring; gone will be the lovely panelling and gone is any chance of the council meeting the reserve placed on it when it goes to auction next week. Call me cynical but I wouldn’t be surprised if now the whole thing gets razed to the ground and a lovely featureless warren of cloned houses get built on the land.
Thank fuck I’m not going to be here when the village gets ruined.
It’s kicking off in the Lane with no name (Lwnn). For those who don’t remember the Lane with no name is the lane that runs along the back of Gnomepants manor and connects the other 4 houses to the outside world without having to use the front steps which nobody uses which are steep. In times past it was also used as access for brewery vehicles to the Village Club but they don’t use it any more as they have better vehicles these days.
So last night I donned my tartan pyjamas, picked up teddy and hopped into bed at a respectable hour as opposed to “ungodly o clock because Warcraft is addictive”. The reason behind the early night will become clear after the weekend (because I like to add a dash of mystery to my entries these days). Anyway, I had but just nodded off, the opening credits for the nights dreamingses were starting and went something like this:-
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne
and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts
Steamy Sex Orgies on Underground Trains Vs the Binbaggers and that woman with the green poison VIII
In soft focus
Avril Lavigne – Ooh Thelma Blair, Liv Tyler and Hayden Panettiere come and help me rub this olive oil into my pert nipples while I do rude things to Kirsten Dunst with this cucumber. You fuckin bastard I fuckin hate you you fucking cunty bastard sweary sweary bum bum
Shouty Man on street out side – You fucking bitch I fucking hate you I’m going to smack you yadda yadda yadda shouty shouty shouty
Back to real life with a start
At this point I woke up. Very annoyed. I mean just what rude things did she mean? What a point to start and end a dream! Vexxed and annoyance levels heightened by the fact that my bedside alarm clock revealed I had but been asleep for 20 minutes, I looked toward the window in response to the shouty man on the street outside who was still shouting, wtf was going on?
Shouty Man on street out side – I’m fucking gonna slap you just fuck off fucking fuck fuck fuck slap hurt bitch arrgh toilet roll fucking pot noodle
Shouty Woman – Just fuck off you fucker
By the window Mrs Gnomepants was peeping out down onto the street with all the subtlety of a flamboyance of flamingoes in a blizzard. I shuffled grumpily toward the window listening intently. There on the street was a car, the doors wide open and a rather shouty shouty man shouting at some woman, getting rather rough and slapping her about a bit. Obviously drunk (the police in South Yorkshire don’t give two flying fucks about rural drink driving so it is rife) the man was seriously and scarily shouting at everyone in the street that he had roused from their slumber, who had obviously also started to peep out of their bedroom windows, instructing them to “FOKIN MIND YO’ ORN FOKIN BIZNIS”. At which point I shrugged and thought well fuck it then, and climbed back into bed.
Mrs Gnomepants called the police. Not to inform them of my disinterest in local drunks fighting it out on the street, but because she was concerned that a woman had been assaulted (Believe me the woman was giving that bloke a better slapping than he was giving) and that there was a drunk driver on the street and could the police come. Shouty man and Shouty woman went separate ways, shouty woman headed towards Grimethorpe still shouting at shouty man even though shouty man had driven off noisily (and dangerously) toward Pontefract Road.
As I desperately tried to get back to the sticky girl on girl action in Dream Theatre, I could hear Mr Shouty Man squeeling about further up the road and Mrs Shouty Woman screeching like a banshee in the other direction.
Honestly, it’s people like that that give booze a bad name.
Eventually I nodded off:-
Avril Lavigne – (Licking buttercream off her fingers while zipping up the all in one tight fitting pvc catsuit over her rather curiously large voluminous comedy inflatable breasts) Right then Drew, Lets get him
Drew Barrymore – (Brandishing a rather large hypodermic syringe filled with green liquid) Ok but don’t forget to bring those bin bags
Bastards. I always seem to miss the best bits.
It could only happen in Barnsley.
As a happy ending, the people who own the field behind the “lane with no name” took a trip to an equine fair this weekend and purchased this lovely chestnut mare
Behind the field behind the lane with no name is another field (separated by a patchy hedge and some skilfully placed barbed wire). In the field behind the field behind the lane with no name there are two other horses and a donkey, together with a collection of tatty farm machinery.
One of the horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name is a white and black patchy horsey. The white and black patchy horsey and his friends the donkey and the white horsey all came to say hello to the chestnut mare.
I think the white and black patchy horsey was pleased to see the chestnut horsey (judged by the size of it’s dripping widgy). They all stood round looking at each other over the barbed wire fence. I suspect they have a lot to discuss.
The horse in the field behind Gnomepants Manor died last week. It was quite sudden.
G the Human Dog told me that he suspects foul play. No. He was sure it was foul play. In that some third party, notably a shifty chap that holds a grudge against the people that now live in the house at the end of “The lane with no name” who own the field, had on numerous occasions left the gate open and, in one final act of revenge, fed the horse poison. The motive, is as yet, unclear. But G is adamant that this unscrupulous character had committed the act.
Of course G has no proof to support these claims. It could just be that the horse has eaten something that didn’t agree with it. But village gossip being what it is, such a scandal as a equine poisoner at large, will no doubt keep tongues wagging for some time.
It was the switching on of the christmas lights in Barnsley last night. I didn’t go, I wasn’t told about it until about an hour before hand. I also didn’t go because it wasn’t me that was asked to switch on the lights, which of course, I am deeply bitter about. Still. Who wants fame eh? Frightfully awful people with bad cocaine habits and questionable taste in sexual activities probably.
It seems that there are two sets of rules in this country. One for the plebs and one for those who run multinational companies.
Barrett, a housing construction company, it seems, have the privilege to ignore the rules and start building before planning consent is given. Case in point; The land behind the workshops across the road from my house. Earlier this week we received a planning notification about a “proposed” development in Brierley. On further investigation and much planning officer chasing we discovered that 2007/1691 and 2007/1688 have already commenced construction (the plans and things are at the bottom of the page if you’re interested (you can even spot next door’s house).
Others have complained it seems and Brierley is once again a hot bed of political and local news activity. Dearne FM (local independent radio) have sent round reporters, the Barnsley Chronical has thought about a couple of lines on page 32 (under the bit about the dog up a tree) and look! Here on the internet!! I am talking about the injustice of it all! The small sleepy South Yorkshire village is fast becoming (as predicted) a thriving and over populated housing estate. Fuck! Even in Grimethorpe every single piece of land is being crammed with slum dwellings.
So in protest we are going to write letters. Letters of objection and complaint.
I have a theory.
As some may know I love a good conspiracy theory. Sometimes I’m spot on other times I’m waaaaaaay off the mark. But recently I’ve thought of nothing else so I guess I’ll share it here.
Let me begin by outlining two “issues” in Britainland ™ today.
Firstly, there is a housing shortage. Allegedly there are too few houses in Britain for all the new comers (immigrants and those reaching adulthood) to live in. As a result house prices in some areas are through the roof. Twenty years ago a house in my mum and dad’s road would have set you back a princely £60k now you’d be lucky if you could get change from £250k. The solution? Well instead of arranging a mass cull to reduce the population, the government cries “Let’s build more houses!”. Because more houses means jobs in the construction industry, money for those supplying materials to such industries and miles and miles of paper work for the plethora of solicitors & accountants and stacks of wedge for your chaps in the mortgage and loan industries. Money = Jobs and Jobs = wealth. Capitalism at its best.
One problem though is Britainland ™ is very small. Compared to vast super countries like the USA where to go from coast to coast in a day is kind of optimistic, in Britainland ™ you could do it in a couple of hours, weather and traffic permitting. Fear not though! Britainland ™ has a wealth of old unused ex-industrial land or Brownfield. With me so far? Good. So there we are building houses in places where once was industry and in someplaces where there was destitution, poverty and unemployment because the industries have all fucked off to China or India where labour is cheaper leaving behind handy plots of land. Unfortunately, this land is rapidly running out and people are starting to realise that cheap housing usually means it’s in Chav central or built on an old toxic waste dump.
Secondly, we have had several really bad “agricultural” disasters. First there was the price of fuel. “If the price of fuel goes up how can we power our 4x4s tractors and combine harvesters?” cried the farmers. So they blockaded the oil terminals and managed to bring our attention to the shockingly high fuel prices. Then, within a year Britainland was closed. Closed to visitors. Why? After several years of Mad Cows disease, foot and Mouth disease had reappeared. , farmers cried “Oh woe is me! All those animals I’ve bred for you to eat have had to be culled because they are infected. How am I going to afford to feed my children?”.
Some livestock farmers saw the light and switched to growing crops. “Ha! I’m not going to let some livestock lurgy spoil my childrens Christmas” they said in a similar manner to those that said “She’s Unsinkable” about the Titanic. 2007 was the wettest year on record. Flash floods and torrential rains brought many crop growing farmers to their knees as entire fields were laid waste with fields polluted or washed away by the waters. Catastrophy! Then, just as you though it was safe to go back into livestock farming BAM! Foot and mouth (albeit a governmental laboratory version of it) strikes again, this time with BLUETOUNGE from Europe! Will the torment never end?
So, congratulations if you’ve spotted where I’m going with this, farmers are on the bones of their arses. Supermarkets paying shit money to buy their scran, Disease and floods. Today is not a good day to go into farming and with many farming families calling it a day, sons of farmers giving their father’s career choice a miss for better paid city jobs and the man on the Clapham Omnibus too content with his 4 bedroom house and shiney car in suburbia to swap it all for a life of early mornings and hard physical graft, farming, once the choice of the workproud, is waning.
But fear not! Help is at hand! Britainland ™ needs your land! Mr Farmer, sell us your land, we’ll give you a princely sum and all you have to do is sit in your farm house and enjoy your new Land Rover. Problem solved. Planning restrictions? Fuck them, they went out of the window in July (sorry were you not paying attention?). Greenfield sites you say? No! They are agricultural industry land perfect for building houses on.
Not enough land available to buy? Oh dear looks like we’ll have to make a few more farmers destitute then. Let’s have another “leak” of infected water from our laboratories, or how about a spot of flooding? Turn on the Weather control machine (yes there is one, it was developed by the American Government along with the Seismic weapon) Sorry we can’t afford flood defences. That’ll teach you for bringing the country to a stand still in 1999. Ha! Ha! Bit too devastating for the people that make money out of tourism of the countryside? OK let’s have a bit more Bluetongue, that way we can blame the midgies and gnats.
So remember this. Remember that Britainland was once known as a green and pleasant land. As well as a nation of shop keepers we were a proud agricultural nation. The birthplace of the agricultural revolution, crop rotation, seed drills, Turnip Townsend, Jethro Tull (not the progrock band though I think Ian Anderson is British) Now? We live in a time of rapid change and no doubt I’ll be telling my grandchildren how I do remember when all this were fields; how there was a colour other than brick orange and that the green grass of the lawn is nowhere near as vivid as a field of turnips, the yellow of daffodils dulled by the bright colour of Oilseed Rape, the beige of emulsion paint artificial compared to brown of ripeining barley and wheat. The smell of Widnes The smell of rotting garden compost less fresh than silage spread on fields. The low monotone of new music fainted by the dull distant purr of a combine harvester.
Next time you see a field, take a good look, because next time it could have houses on it.
Just like this one in front of my house. Well…the one behind that garage thing.