Wouldnt buy a used car from this guy.

Daventry Local Elections 2014–John Gale

daventry-mb21-01One of the differences with local elections that I have noticed here in Daventry is that the local candidates like to shove leaflets through the door.

In Brierley, I think we only had one or two leaflets through the door with the majority of local political news coming from the Barnsley Chronicle.

Here in Daventry, the local press The Daventry Express or “The Gusher”, is as political as The Beano. I understand that such is the fate of local newspapers.

I’ve also noticed that local candidates here don’t seem to use the internet effectively. So as a favour, I will examine each of the candidates that shove leaflets through my door. Right here….On the internets…..for ALL to see.

 

Today is John Clifford Gale

Full of wind
Full of wind

 

John Clifford Gale is, according to his leaflet, my UKIP candidate for Daventry District Council Weedon Ward. He has lived in Northamptonshire for 35 years and has worked on the parish council in Brington

On the front of his leaflet:-

We Don’t Just Need a Breath of Fresh Air. We Need A Gale

Really? We need strong winds in the area? Damage to trees, chimneys and rooftops? I don’t think so

Not only is this country governed by Brussels – your local councils are governed by their political parties.

Curious. There I was thinking my taxes went to fund booze orgies for the privileged in London. So what’s with all the goings on in London then? If the country is being governed by Brussels why am I paying for Cameron’s cronies?

Then you say that my local councils are governed by their political parties…

Ok, let me look at the list of candidates again. Yep, UKIP, Tory, Labour, Libdem…nope….I can’t see any parties from Brussels there. Christian Democrats? Nope can’t see them. Social Democrats? Nope. Oooh ooh LIBERAL DEMOCRATS! I can see them. But they’re only a weak ineffective wedge in government and hardly swamping us with ineffectual laws and policies.

On the reverse of the leaflet:-

John Gale believes that:

The new housing development planned for New Croft Weedon should be questioned

Really? The residents and the buildings? The planners? Or the people on the council who allowed it? Well, it’s UKIP so I suspect he means the residents. Drag them in for questioning! Why do you not conform? Why?! Why?!

We deserve a review of our local bus services

Why? There are more buses here in the Daventry district than anywhere else I’ve lived. Heck, there’s even a bus that goes past my house once a week. Unless you mean that the only thing we deserve is a review of local bus services. You know, so you can carry on with your sinister shenanigans in the council chambers unbridled.

Let’s see more Police around our district

More police? Oh yes of course, because as a member of a local council you have control over police budgets and policing levels. No doubt the need for more police will be so that Mr Gale and his jack booted friends can make sure the electorate are conforming and doing as they are told.

Dog fouling is out of control

John Clifford Gale is Full of shite
Shit shit everywhere

Out of control! That must mean that there are heaps and heaps of dog shit filling the streets. Poor little urchins wander through the lanes and byways of the region, knee deep in festering poop crying and begging for a small morsel of food.  Oh the horror. The smell. The humanity.

The only shite I’ve seen around Norton is this leaflet Mr John Clifford Gale has pushed through my door. That’s out of control.

Wind farms will ruin our stunning local landscape

 

Oh the railways/canals will spoil the countryside and go through our lands”. That’s what your lot said about the railways Mr Gale. We dun’t liek change round here

millsnpylons
Which is nicer?

Windfarms will bring lots of lovely cheap energy and remove the need of marching pylons in the area. Moreso than a high speed white elephant stretching from London to Birmingham sucking all the regional talent away from the areas that need them most.

There should be more Local Surgery Facilities

 

Really? Is this so your jackbooted friends can perform labotomies on those that don’t conform? Or do you mean Surgeries run by the local politician? Or perhaps you mean more facilities in the local surgeries? You know like slides, snack bars, bingo for the over 60s…that kind of thing?

Pot Holes: Enough is enough

I had a pot hole once. Curiously it was filled the other week.

I’m sorry Mr John Clifford Gale, UKIP candidate in Weedon ward, Daventry. Your beliefs as advertised on your leaflet do not appeal to me. Tell me about what you’re going to do about the shit broadband speed in the area. Tell me about what you are going to do about the speeding idiots that pass my house every day? Tell me what you’re going to do to encourage employment, education and facilities in the Daventry area. Dog shit, windfarms and coffee shops at the doctors aren’t going to cut the mustard.

Come on. John Clifford Gale, UKIP Candidate for Weedon, Daventry. Take me up on my challenge and tell me face to face why I should vote for you.

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Out

While rambling through Howell Woods yesterday I mused on how trees are natures factories. This time of year they are beginning their annual processes spurting forth green shoots in preparation for the busy summer months of photosynthesising. Then in October/November they begin cut backs and shed jobs (leaves) before becoming derelict and barren in the dark winter months.

I also mused on the number of very happy squirrels lolloping about in the undergrowth. They seemed so peaceful and happy, probably because they are mostly left undisturbed by man. My detective skills got a touch of virtual WD40 too as I noticed little tell tale signs of badgers. Such a lovely woods. So peaceful.

The woods come under the control of Doncaster Council. Doncaster Council are notorious for being lazy money embezzelling wasters, apparent from the poor state of the signage littered about the woods. Most of this signage looks like it last saw glory days in the early 90’s. The faded and vandalised information posts detail local historical facts. I was unaware that South Kirkby has an iron age hill fort. I knew that Brierley has a stone circle of sorts. It seems this region of South Yorkshire is a veritable mine of ancient historical monuments. Now mostly crumbling away. Uncared for by the governing council bodies and forgotten about by the locals. A shame really.

The only indication that the woods were there was a tiny little damaged brown sign on Common Road gesturing that I cut across fields rather than take the purpose built access road. Potholes and tractor damaged hedges illustrate the need for more money and affection from governing bodies. Indeed the car park had seen better days too. Resembling a litter strewn crater, the car park is obviously a favourite night time haunt of local youths complete with burnt remnants (possibly of vehicles) and broken glass.

Sawn and naturally fallen trees indicated that some forestry had gone on at some point. Though it was possible that the sawn trees were just kids messing about with stolen chainsaws. Furthermore, there was indication that the area is used for other purposes. Yesterday’s picture showed the “Archery Area” warning, but I also witnessed signs telling the casual visitor that the discharging of firearms was forbidden. Probably ignored judging by the tell tale dimples in the sad and sorry metallic sign. Likewise, the sign forbidding the use of off road motorcycles was similarly ignored by the helmetless youth who noisily sped past it bound for his one day fatal date with a head on collision.

But beyond the shabbiness the woods were tranquil. The woods were haunting. The woods teemed with wildlife and promise of better days. Maybe this is the wood’s winter. It certainly looks like it once had a burgeoning spring and a busy summer visitor wise. But I hope it survives it’s current winter of mismanagement.

Grapes

Spring flowers are blossoming everywhere lately. The Camilia at the front of Gnomepants Manor is a shock of pink and looks very pretty. Furthermore, the well tended gardens at the front of the town hall in Barnsley are awash with fragrance and colour. As the daffodils of March die back, the tulips of April thrust skywards bold and proud and here and there blue flowers mix with yellows and light reds. It’s such a lovely sight to see.

Such sights remind me of childhood haunts. One being the hidden garden in Reynolds Park, Liverpool. The garden is a walled enclosure which traps the variety of strong fragrances and the warmth of the Equinoxal sun. Paths lined with memorial benches twist and turn between the flower beds. The benches remind the living of those who have passed before and how much they too loved the area.

Indeed, the gardens in Liverpool’s Calderstones Park, though a shadow of their former self, also pay tribute to those who seek sanctity and serenity in such locations. If you know where to look, there are walled gardens and forgotten Victorian hot houses brimming with fragrance and colour.

It should also be noted that at this time of year the colour green is a lot more vivid than at other times. The new leaves of the privet and yew hedges are striking and the twists and turns of climbing rose bushes ready themselves for their May blossoms.

Do you have a secret garden near you? Do you visit gardens such as these? If not why not? Simply saying “I don’t go to such places because there aren’t any near me” is just a cop out. Get out this weekend. Go see natures show. Rest a while in the sun, breathe in the scents and think momentarily, how people love these places.

Scandal in the Lane with no Name

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.

Scandal

If You’re Not Clean, I’ll Kill You

It’s funny how we take things for granted. Today I have learnt about 3 granted things.

The first and second being the gear stick and clutch of a manual transmission car. G, of the human dog persuasion, wanted me to take him down to Thurnscoe (a very sinister part of south Yorkshire with weird, out of place council housing estates in the middle of nowhere) so that he could retrieve his dilapidated motorhome from a storage place. This involved me having to drive his beast of a people carrier (a Chrysler) which is automatic. I have never driven an automatic before. I’ll be jiggered if I could find the clutch or the gear stick (yeah yeah I knew there’s no clutch and the gear stick was in the steering column). Cue much swearing and cries of “ARRRRGH HOW DO YOU DRIVE THIS THING?!”

The third thing I took for granted is water. The house is devoid of water ever since it was attacked by water stealing aliens and transported to a distant arid planet since the plumber discovered that the bathroom his the focal point of a labyrinth of mysterious old lead pipes. So here I am, devoid of water (well not me personally; the house. If it was me I’d be like one of them creatures from Night of the Big Heat), with naught to make my tea and wash up with but a pan and a kettle of cold water. Toilet time is fun too. We have to use Mrs Owen’s outside jig (thats an outside loo to you Merrycans. Yes it is outside, in the middle of the lane with no name so that all the people from the club can see me pooing and weeing. No srsly it’s in Mrs Owen’s shed so it’s kind of an outside inside loo only it’s outside not inside, but then it is inside but outside of the house. If you get my meaning. You do? Good. I’d confusing to be hate) which is a nice outside jig but it has no light in it meaning we have to have the door ajar.

So with the plumber here, Gnomepants Manor resembles a building site.

And this is what it looks like now

Shocking

Because Brierley is made of cheese and the electricity is generated by bees in a sock. We frequently have powercuts. They are frequently badly timed.

I’m afraid I have still far too much work to do so postings will be kept to a bare minimum. Of course you know how to get hold of me should you need to.

Now sod off, some of us have got to write about Public Service Broadcasting.

Conspiracy

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.

Christa Ackroyd

No need to adjust your colour balance here.

Us neighbours. Our neighbours are a funny old bunch. When we moved into our house from Liverpool last August they were all over us, offering us help and kindly advice and hinting at long standing unwritten communal rules like You don’t park there because Mrs So-and-so likes to brush her hair there on a Thursday or Mr Thingy likes to have the gate closed to the tune of the Dambusters on a Friday except in October when he prefers it covering in weasel fur. As the months have passed I’ve noticed how they each have their own little feuds, tollerations and dislikes for one another and how each are as two faced and as bitchy as a room full of stereotypical switchboard operators from the seventies.

Old Fish wives