bobby47

Not having seen the tree, mostly because whenever I stagger up Commercial Road, I get dragged into the Commercial and become deeply involved in a 'round', Im guessing the High Town tree is considerably less attractive than the Old Market tree. As for the latter, I'll never see it because I refuse to ever set foot in the place. I'll be damned if I do. Im a High Town man. I've always been a High Town man and I'll forever be a High Town man and I'll never allow myself to tippy toe inside that monument to stupidity and involve myself in one single financial transaction. Id sooner starve thank you very much indeed!

Wow! Wow! Now that little offering Flam blew the hair back on my head. Very, very good kiddo.

Actually, the mighty Cardin is slightly wrong with his figure. The actual cost for the entire package thus far is a little short of Three Hundred and Seventy Thousand Pounds. Yes! Three Hundred and Seventy Thousand Pounds of public money. Gone in the blink of an eye, secreted forever, so they hope, and never ever brought to the attention of the public. And where is it accounted for? Buried deep beneath a pile of mumbo jumbo jargon that's designed and intended to confuse any of us from chasing the chain. The very same Modus Operandi used by the crooked accountant who misappropriates funds from a client is being used to hide the truth from you. There's very little difference. The intention is to secrete and confuse. Oh they'll sack a humble employee who works down the recycling centre for retrieving a chair from a skip, taking it home and using it for themselves and honourable claim, 'this is a form of theft', but they'll turn a blind eye to this. Ain't it madness. And, given the seriousness of this bullying saga, what has the Chief Executive ever said to explain to us why all this was done and why it was so necessary? Absolutely nothing! He doesn't care and nobody surrounding him cares that we view them all with deep suspicion. They don't care because they know that nobody, other than us, is ever going to challenge their behaviour.

The Christmas Nativity didn't go well down the Commercial today. Oh, it started off well enough. Me and the lads supped a dozen pints, sang a few Carols and said our Lords Prayer, but once me and the cast got into our positions for the traditional Nativity scene, it quickly descended into chaos. Firstly, I said to the lads, 'lads thank you for nominating me to play Jesus for the second year running. Now, before I climb up into this Manger, wrapped in these nicely bound swaddling clothes and start snuggling up to Nora who's playing me Mother Mary, I want to make it clear that I'll be damned if Nora breast feeds me again this year.' I told the lads, 'lads, I dont want to be breast fed again, Nora is eighty and she cannot possibly lactate and whilst she and I fully appreciate your artistic direction, we've both agreed not to do the breast feeding scene'. Course, the lads weren't happy. The Shepherds, the three bloody wise men and the Angel Gabriel were just about to kick off when all of a sudden there came a hollering and a yelling, 'I'm King Herod and Im here to kill the first born'. Course, cognisant that we didn't have a bloody Herod in the cast, I raised me fat face from beneath Nora's busums and yelled, 'who comes yelling something about killing the first born, or in this case, bloody me laid here in this Manger?' And who was it? Bloody Bill Norman that's who. I said, 'clear off Bill. This is the Commercial Nativity Play and nobody cast you as King rotten Herod. Be gone. Get back to Plough Lane and join your own Nativity celebrations thank you very much.'

Very good Paul. Very, very good. Imagine for a moment that John Smith hadn't died so young. The liar would never have emerged, Unions would never have become infected with this ethos of no accountability and so many bad things wouldn't have happened to our remarkably great Country. Well done Pal.

They'll take your monthly subscriptions from your wage packet, they'll send you shiney glossy little booklets telling you that they are on your side. They'll even vow to fight your corner whenever you need help whilst your battling your employer and they've no problem in encouraging their membership to go on strike every so often because you've had no pay rise to keep up with the growing cost of living crisis that has impacted upon the working classes of our Country. They'll do all these things. They'll even grasp your hand, shake it firmly, smile sympathetically and say, 'we feel your pain', but, when the going gets tough and the so called tough stand up and fight their corner, do the representatives of Unison really want to stand shoulder to shoulder with someone who ain't getting treated fairly in the public service sector? Me? I've got serious doubts. I ain't so sure that our Trade Unions haven't gone the same way as our once great Labour Party, who, nowadays, thanks to the liar Blair, are a shadow of their former selves. Me? I actually believe that Unison have lost their way. Swallowed up by the madness of New Labour and becoming increasingly isolated from their membership, I believe that Unison no longer care enough about the little guy. The little guy who's perhaps getting a kicking in the workplace. It's easy to stand on a box and shout fiery rhetoric to the membership proclaiming, 'we'll fight your corner and we'll never forget our purpose', but are they really capable any longer of walking into a room full of 'suits' and defending one of their own and have the skills and the power of personality to trade blows with those who seek to demean, bully and undermine their staff. I fear Unison have had their power and purpose diluted by past political events and I no longer believe that they are deserving of our faith. In short, for whatever reason they've lost their teeth, lost their way and lost their ability to properly fight the corner for the little guy. As for more recent events within the public sector, namely the bullying issue that took place within Plough Lane, Id like to think that Unison fought the good fight and gave comfort to their membership, but realistically, I think they may have ducked it and left the bullied staff to fend for themselves.

Thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord, Im not alone! The blogger TwoWheels, with or without an 'e', has also been gifted a Calendar which is a load of worry off! As for the source, a disgruntled Middle manager who can't quite manage to crawl up the anus of his Line Manager and who cannot stop talking as we sit and sup ale together, he's been tasked to come up with a figure. Whatsmore, I've told him, 'I've a sweet tooth, I want my sugar and I desperately need to learn the true cost to us the payers of this rotten Calendar.' Furthermore, I've told him, if he's unsuccessful and despite the training ive given him in the art of eavesdropping, he cannot present me with the true figure, I'll simple pull one out of the air, pretend to myself it's accurate and I'll peddle it out upon these pages as fact. You can't get fairer than that!

They've just had my response! Yes! Despite this dreadful Siberian icy blast of wind that's whooshing through my back garden, I've been out, sprayed the bloody Calendar with lighter fluid and set it ablaze howling, ' get stuffed. Stop wasting our bloody money'. And whatsmore, I'll do the same next year and the year after if it's entirely necessary. I'll be damned if I sit back and fail to object to this monstrous corporate mindset that sees us serving them rather than them serving us. And as for the paperboy, who delivered me the bloody AdMag and the Calendar, Im a reasonable sort and I do not hold him responsible. He's a thoroughly decent young lad and none of this is his fault and I refuse to aim any critique toward him. Mind, if he's a party to the decision to produce this Calendar, shove it through my door, in the hope of seeing me act irrationally by starting a small blaze in my back garden in the midst of this awful biting wind then as far as I'm concerned he ain't getting a Christmas Tip from me.

The horrid thing was delivered with the Admag. I've had a chat with a 'source' and he tells me that one of the many Departments within the beasts belly had money left over from this years budget and so, rather than return it and risk getting less next financial year, they spent it and produced this pointless Calendar. I've tasked him to get back in there and find out how much this bloody thing has cost, come back to the Ale House, tell me so that I can get even angrier and then tell you lot. Somebody tell me if they've had one because, if Im on me own then it means the noose is tightening around my neck and they'll be preparing themselves to attack, drag me from my dwelling and thrash me senseless whilst I'm tethered to the Hereford Bull. Mind, I ain't scared. I'll be damned if it bothers me.

There's no bloody end to it. Who'll step forward and burst this balloon of wealth and rid me of this beast of bloody burden! The barstards! Utter barstards. The bloody Council! Fiscally knackered, bereft of hope and on the fast steep slope to oblivion, have kindly posted me a rotten Calendar. God knows how much this little slice of joy will cost us. Bloody Hell! The planning, the design, the bloody meetings, the printing and the distribution would most certainly have helped save a couple of front line public sector jobs that'd be of benefit to our communities and what do we all get? A bloody Calendar with the message, 'with the compliments of Herefordshire Council'. There is no end to it. The recession is something that happened to everyone but them. To them, it was no more than a rumour. Good Lord! Well they can get stuffed. I'll be damned if I even glance at it. Id sooner stab myself in the eye with a small fruit fork. Good grief! To think, even now, after all that's happened to our Country, our economy and us, the people who fund and fuel this madness, still they spend our money without a thought for how it'll impact upon me, my fat face and this bloody eczema. Bloody Hell!

Well, they're still at it. They were at it just a couple of days ago. They're selling loads of long and thin Russian cigarettes. Ghastly looking things. Mind, they've been disrupted by the Trading Standards. Now, they do not keep the contraband on the premises. According to my source, they use a near bye house or shop. The talk in the battle cruiser, which invariably is right, is that this particular shop up Eign Gate is the least of our problems. One shop, a few hundred yards away, is far more organised and prolific and yet they ain't getting done. The conclusion amongst the drunken fools that I mingle with is they are cooperating and getting rid of the competition. And if this is right, and nobody will confirm or deny it because they can't, it'll be interesting to see how this game of poker ends for all of them who are robbing my Country of its wealth.

Just done the job pal. I genuinely loved the song by the kids. Great work.

Well Dippy, I fear that your plea for an answer and your failure to get one probably, more than anything, illustrates just why bullying within the Council is allowed to flourish. Why would they worry? If I knew my political masters wouldn't 'go to war' over it and I was a bully Id probably feel comfortable knowing that nothing would happen to me because nobody cared enough.

Yes, good piece Greenknight. It's truly desperate ain't it. If there's one continent that can cause mass social discontent and create a recipe for a vast conflict, it's bloody Europe. And Van bloody Rumpuy walks off into the sunset with his not so significant smug face and six hundred thousand pounds and a huge 'thank you very much. I've enjoyed serving the public', tucked in his pocket, is enough to make my fat face glow as I race even faster to my headstone that'll read, 'here lies fatso. A life lived unblemished by any form of achievement'. The low tax receipts from this vast army of low paid, low skilled and highly expensive to maintain army of workers who pick our fruit, pluck our bloody chickens and wash me car, is certainly something that'll push us ever closer to a tipping point that'll see increasing cuts to our public services and at the same time make the rich and well to do very well off and the low and middle wage earners squeezed into a corner that'll only create mass social discontent. Why is it that my friend from Europe, a bio chemist in his own Country is here picking my fruit. Where's the sense and sanity in that little cosy arrangement. We get a highly intelligent man picking fruit for the minimum wage and an employer gets wealthier while his home Country are deprived of his education and the high potential that his great mind had before he decided to pack his bags and join the exodus. Madness! The greatest man made social engineering mistake made since bloody Hitler decided that the German people required more living space. And who pays for these mistakes? The poor, the weak, the vulnerable and a generation of young people who'll never know how it feels to think, 'I'm happy with my life and confident about the future'.

I am going to fight the Council. Yes I am. Bereft of hope that these huge management tiers and their vast salaries will ever be cut, I've invited Alistair Neill, Bill Norman and Geoff Hughes to fight me in a boxing ring outside Plough Lane on a date of their choosing. Yes, Im going to fight them and I'll fight them all at the same time or one after another. It's of concern to me. Why? Because I have no fear. I am a stranger to fear and I shall prevail. Oh they may think that they'll beat my fat face to a pulp but they're wrong. You see, when you consider, as I do, that you have a mission to represent the bewildered, the dispossessed, the possessed and the meek and the bloody mild who've no hand break to apply to restrain the mismanagement of our public funds, you become a very dangerous and highly motivated opponent. And that's me. Highly motivated and in fear of nothing. If they were with me now as I tap out this rubbish, Id say to them, 'have you ever in your lives encountered a complete tw.at. A headbanger who's detached from reality. Well that's me. Im your nemesis and I will box you all in the ring'. Course, when I announced this forthcoming bout to the lads in the Commercial, it wasn't met with the universal acclaim I expected. One of the lads whispered from the back, 'If during this fight they beat the living daylights out of you, will you try and negotiate with the 'management'. I said, 'I haven't heard a blind word you've said. Speak up'. Again he whispered, 'If during this fight....! I said, 'it's no better is it? I ask you to speak up so that the human ear, which is what I'm equipped with can understand you and you speak more softly. A strange response from a follower. A very strange response indeed'. Again he whispered, 'if during this fight.....! I said, 'yes we all got 'if during this fight.' We all got that thank you very much. What we want to know is 'if during this fight, 'what'. What during this fight. That's what we want to know. What during this fight'? Then, aided by one of the lads who was able to detect this inaudible whispering, I finally got the message which was, 'if during this fight Neill, Norman and Hughes kick the ever loving out of me will I try to negotiate with the management' I said, 'lads Im fighting the management. Not negotiating with them. If it were my intention to negotiate with the management I'd have said Im going to negotiate with the management. I've said no such thing. I am going to fight the management. Not negotiate with them'. Course, then it all gets out of hand doesn't it. Some of the lads start berating me, howling, 'he means to negotiate with the management. We'll be sold down the river'. 'Bloody hell', I yelled, 'I'm fighting the management. Not negotiating with them. I ain't selling you down the river lads. You'll not find me on a river, let alone selling you down it. I will never sell you down the river. If there's one thing I detest it's someone who sells the lads down the river'. And then, as the lads pull me pants down, throw me in a Morrisons trolley and wheel me away to be dunked in the Wye, the lads cry, 'Bobby come clean with us. Is there going to be a table in the ring upon which you'll be able to negotiate our rights to cover ourselves in our own excrement and gather outside Plough Lane protesting about God knows what'. I said, 'lads, we've been covering ourselves in human shi.te for years and I'll be damned if I ever allow myself to negotiate away this simple but highly effective democratic right. I promise you lads you'll never regret it if you allow me to pull me pants back up and finish me ale in the Commercial. And they did! The lads realised that I wanted to fight Neill, Norman and Hughes and not negotiate away our right to cover ourselves in sh.it and so, carrying me shoulder high, we all scrambled back inside the Ale House where I insisted we talked about women we'd like to cozy up to rather than bloody boxing the Council hierarchy.

Paul lad. You are a star. A working class hero. Getting banned from The Guardian, and disclosed with such humility and pride. Brilliant! What a lad you are. It doesn't get any better than that.

And as with all these things, this'll gradually disappear, nothing will bloody change, it may as well have never been reported on and nobody will ever know just exactly what our elected leaders ever bloody did to try and put right the wrongs of this tragic episode in recent Public service history. Stick their heads in the sand, close their minds to anything that'll create any unpleasant friction, hear and say buggar all and pretend to themselves it never bloody happened. This is the way of things. Nobody ever bloody learns and round and round we go stumbling from one steaming cow pat to another. The best that we can hope for? Some new suit comes in, replaces the bloody invisible man Alistair Neill and he says, 'lessons have been learned and I apologise for all the hurt that was caused', knowing full bloody well that it was never anything to do with him, nowt will land on his head and he goes home looking like some holier than bloody thou Saint. Theyre all cut from the same cloth. I know this, if I was a Councillor Id never let go of my grip. I wouldn't bloody stop. I ain't just saying it, I know that I would never stop. In fact, even when it was all resolved and all parties involved in this chain of events were satisfied that it had been properly resolved, still, even then Id moan about it. So, why can't our elected leaders do the same thing? Why haven't they got enough fire in their bellies to grasp this rotten stinging nettle and shake the establishment up and gain some respect and admiration. They won't! They won't because they don't care enough and like most nowadays, they can't be bloody bothered!

You know, you've always got the Lord by your side. That's what preacher Thornbury says on the God Channel. This evangelical preacher from Oregon is right and I for one believe him. You see, God is always by your side. He's there when you sleep, he's there when you wake and he's certainly with you every single moment of the day you live your life. In fact, every single decision you make has God behind it compelling you to carry out his will. You've simply got no choice in the matter. If God decides on something then that's it. There's no getting out of it. In fact, given that this unimaginably clever omnipresence is pulling your bloody strings every rotten step of the way, I've come to the conclusion that even bothering to think for yourself is an excercise in futility. Why bloody bother I say. Save your bloody energy and let God guide you where he wants you to go and be. See, nowadays, now I've grasped this reality, when I get out of bed and stub me bloody toe, in days gone by I would have shouted, 'bloody hell! Good Lord. The dreadful pain. Me Barstard toe!' Now, when I get out of bed and stub me toe and become overwhelmed by the searing pain that one gets when one does stub their toe, I hop about howling, 'Oh Lord you did it to me and you did it to me for a reason. Thank you'. Yes, God's ability to be with you, me and every single human being every single moment of the day is something that is beyond our imagination. I mean, whilst gifting me my stubbed toe, he's also got his eye on other goings on. Yes he has! Some young lad in the bush in say Kenya can suddenly become highly aroused, disappear behind a thicket of bracken and begin masturbating. What's God do if he's displeased with this lad pleasuring himself in the bush? Yes! He wills a pride of Lions to chase him away. This is what God does. He goes about his business in a highly unusual and roundabout way that always results in us doing exactly what God intended us to do. He doesn't deliver a mighty voice to the lad saying, 'you dirty little stinker. Stop it'. No! He gets the Lions involved doesn't he. Take 'The Syphilis' for example. We've got it in Hereford. We didn't want it. I doubt very much that some fool prayed, 'Dear Lord, please give us The Syphilis'. You'd be an odd sort if you did ask for that but God, in his wisdom, decided to give us the dreadful organism for a purpose. Because Jehovah or whatever you want to call him delivers us these things for a reason, it wouldn't surprise me if God concluded, 'goodness the Earth has an awful lot of unused latex rubber sap in my jungles of South East Asia. I'll make them use more rubber to get the stocks down and I've decided that it's Hereford who'll get The Syphilis.' And so, the lads, terrified of getting this dreadful organism up their pipes, begin to wear several condoms at the same time in case two or three split and low and behold, the rubber stocks go down because of the vast numbers of condoms being used. And so, from hereon, if you go hurtling up the street to catch the bloody bus to collect your food parcel because you've lost your job and you are fiscally knackered and the bloody rotten bus driver closes the door making it impossible for you to ride the vehicle, just think, 'God wanted me to miss this bus and if that's what he bloody wanted then that's good enough for me thank you very much'!

Joint Property Vehicle my right nut! What a bucket of sludge. Say what it is. Bloody buildings. For the love of God and all that's holy, how on earth have these idiots who communicate in this strange way been allowed to take root, germinate and flourish dominating all of our much cherished public services. I mean, in anyone's clear thinking, the bloody definition of a vehicle is a mode of bloody transport that moves from one place to another and is propelled by a bloody engine, solid fuel of wind power. Id like to meet the tw.at who first came up with this idea that bloody buildings could reasonably be described as rotten vehicles jointly used by these beasts of burden that clearly include Hereford Housing and their deep need to hang onto the endless boll.ocks. I'd have no problem whatsoever in stabbing him in the eye socket with a soft leaded pencil. What a load of rubbish!

What's the worst thing the bloody Council could do to you? That's the question I put to the tapping gathering as we huddled together in the Commercial. I said, 'we've done women we'd like to kiss, women we'd never wish to kiss and what we'd do for a million quid. Tonight I want you all to allow your imaginations to run wild and come up with the worst thing that the Council could do to you'. First up was Megilleland who said,'I'm riding me bike minding me own business when all of a sudden me and me bike disappear into a vast pothole. As I'm scrambling out John Jarvis and Roger Phillips emerge from a small privet hedgerow and urinate on me head'. Then the Gridknocker said, 'they abandon High Town, build another unwanted retail zone, demolish Rockfield Road and deliver us all near on two hundred million pound of debt.' ' Course, I said, 'yours is a strange response to my question. A very strange response. I ask what's the worst bloody thing the Council could do to you, with a strong emphasis on the word 'could', and you tell us something that they've already done.' Next up was Ubique. 'Im stood at the bus stop minding me own business when Jonathon Bretherton drives past, pulls up, quickly assembles a small hand held rocket launcher and dispatches me amongst a huge explosion'. Then it was Dippy's turn.'Right. Im at home. I'm feeling anxious. Thoughts of impending gloom overwhelm me. Aimless threads of thoughts race through my mind as it suddenly dawns on me that something unimaginably evil was about to happen. As I climb the stairs and open the bedroom door intent upon hiding beneath the duvet the whole room becomes engulfed in an unearthly chill. I think to myself, 'hi up. Something unimaginably evil and fiendishly satanic is about to happen'. Cognisant that I can hear voices chanting downstairs, 'we want to kill everyone. Satan is good. Satan is me pal', I dive into bed and tremble fitfully beneath the comfort of me duvet. And then it happened. Tap, tap tap on the window'. I said, 'who is it Dippy. Who comes tapping near the Witching hour?' 'We don't know Bobby. We're in bed hiding beneath the duvet and unless you stop interrupting I wont be able to get out of the bloody bed, open the curtains and report who it is that's outside tapping at the window. Anyway, Dippy continued, 'I finally emerge from beneath the duvet and I gingerly glance at me toothbrush and notice that it's hairs are all stood on end and there was now no doubt in my mind that the Council were about to do the worst bloody thing that they could do to me. I get out of bed and despite my fear that's frozen the ends of me bloody toes, I stagger to the window, open the curtains and the window and I howl into the night, 'who comes bloody tapping. Im a diligent recycler of rubbish and I dont appreciate being disturbed thank you very much'. 'Is it the Council Dippy. Have they come for you?' 'Yes, Bobby, it's Bill Norman and forty one Herefordshire Council Directors who burst in and empty all me rubbish from me recycling bin on top of my head, howling, 'we've come for you Dippy. You've tapped your last vowel and consonant and we've devised the worst bloody thing that we could do to you'. And then they dragged me downstairs where I saw the entire Council cabinet stood around a salt pentangle chanting, 'we want to kill everyone. Satan is good. Satan is our pal'. 'Good grief', I howl, 'bloody Satan worshipper's. That explains it all. What do they do to you Dippy?'. I'll tell you what fiendishly evil and devilish thing they do to me Bobby. Pat MORGAN is holding a sack and it contains a load of human flesh eating ferrets and these ferrets are ravenous screaming, 'get in the sack we want to eat you'. I ask, 'the ferrets can talk then Dippy?'. 'Yes Bobby they're human flesh eating ferrets that can talk. A variety of ferret rarely found within the British Isles. Anyway, they throw me in the sack and the ferrets eat me slowly over a period of several hours and that's the worst thing that the bloody Council could do. It's pretty bad isn't it? You'd be hard pressed to imagine anything worse than that.'

The Council do not want to know about Homes Of Multi Occupancy. They're to scared to lift up that particular stone and learn what lies beneath it. If they did, they'd quickly have to amend the real population figures in the City. Theyd sooner read the information provided by the Census than be forced to open their eyes and address this problem that's blindingly obvious to the Health Service, the Education System and all the other public services that have all been strained to the limit. Easier to blame the ageing population for all our woes than be truthful to themselves. It'll take another five years of social development before they'll ever get round to acknowledging that the ageing population ain't the real reason why we are all in trouble. For now, let's allow the ageing population to take the blame for the mounting piles of rubbish that are generated from homes that contain far to many people. It's much easier to do that and it rarely causes any offence.

Biomech, An excellent photograph of a cluster of black plastic bin bags. If ever there was a photograph available for the public to peruse that highlighted how and why I became a black plastic bin bag man, then it's this photograph captured by my dear friend Biomech. As soon as I viewed the photograph, I thought, 'hi up. That's a lovely photograph' and if I ain't very much mistaken, the image could easily be showing a cluster of black plastic bin bags numbering at least six or seven. Course, other than me, who's counting? Most viewers of this topic won't even bother to count the number of bags that have created the cluster and there's nothing wrong with that if anything I transmit is worth bothering to read. More fool me for even bothering to count. Whether the cluster contains six or seven black plastic bin bags or even five, it's of no interest to anyone but me because folk quite rightly couldn't care less and who can blame them. But, just because I choose to count the number of the black plastic bin bags that have created the cluster, don't start attacking me just because I like the photograph. Im perfectly entitled to count the bags. My point? There's nothing wrong with the black plastic bin bag. If the bag was good enough yesterday, it's good enough today and I'll never, under any circumstances pick up my cluster of black plastic bin bags, pop them in the wheeled bin and have them collected by the lads who drive the dust cart. Never!

Well, you'll not see me hanging out the bunting, twirling my majorette's baton and shouting, 'Hoorah!'. No Sir'ee. Not until I'm given some assurances that he ain't going to be prowling around at night on an Excercise, getting into my back garden and filling his bloody Bergen with my vegetables. If I ever pop outside during the hours of darkness to empty the cat Litter Tray and I see McNab pulling up my carrots and my radish as he makes his way to the rendezvous point located on the westerly slopes of Craswall, Im going to belt him with me hoe and scream, 'clear off McNab. You've no business creeping around in my back garden. Be gone. Go bother some other hapless gardener. I ain't scared of you'. And I ain't scared of Andy. Why would I be? I also once belonged to an elite unit who's motto was 'Dare To Fail'. Whenever a conflict was going badly my skipper used to call me forward and say, 'Bobby, the battle is going badly. We need a pointless futile gesture to give everyone a lift. I want you to leave your position, burrow beneath the wire, scurry out into No Man's Land and don't come back'. And if Andy McNabb is reading this utter rubbish and he suddenly gets it into his head to pop round here and punch my fat face until his knuckles hurt, tell him to do his worst. He won't find me wanting in the courage department. Andy doesn't scare me. Never has and never will and I'll be damned if I sit back and allow him to wander around in my back garden purloining my root vegetables.

Good Lord! There's no end to it. The barstards! To think, even now, in this age of so called openness and transparency, these people still feel able to carry out this illicit activity. My theory is, not that it's worth dwelling on, they know there'll be a day of reckoning and just so that they can cloud the water and make the criminal investigation that will one day take place very uncomfortable to pursue, they want to drag as many recipients as they can into the Dock to join them charged with obtaining a pecuniary advantage or a straightforward obtaining public funds by deception. If it doesn't feel right, it doesn't look right and you form the view it ain't right, chances are it ain't right and a huge shift in public service direction is required to halt this relentless slide toward wrongdoing.

In this age of poverty that sees good people reliant upon food banks, hand me downs and any help they can get from friends and relatives, isn't it crazy that the State demands that we all waste. It's true. It's madness but it's all entirely true. Nowadays if you live in Social Housing and you die and you've no surviving spouse or partner, you've no relatives and you do not leave a sworn will, every single piece of furniture, fixtures, fittings and household equipment gets removed from that home and it's thrown on the tip. No matter how good the carpets are, no matter how recently they were laid they go straight to the tip. It's the same with a lovely new three piece suite, a television or any other piece of household property that you can think of, no matter if it's only a few days old, it all goes into the Council refuse tip. And this ain't the fault of the Council. Im given to understand that because of agreed protocols at national level, every single local authority up and down the Country does exactly the same. It seems to me to be a madness that we can't allow our local authorities to judge the condition of a now empty Council house and make use of something that another family would love and appreciate. It makes no bloody sense. They tick boxes for this, that and the other to satisfy the EU that they are recycling yet they are compelled to throw away perfectly good stuff because of some silly and outdated rule, law or protocol that demands we throw away perfectly good property so that we can say, 'nobody has appropriated an advantage following the death of this poor soul. And that's all it is! Nothing else. We are throwing away vast quantities of household stuff just so that nobody can be critical at some later date. This is what I'd like you to do and by doing it you'll help the weak, the poor and the vulnerable within our society. Please contact your MP, either Mr Norman or Mr Wiggin and ask them to represent your view that this is waste on a grand scale and consideratiin should be given to amend this national agreed protocol and give our Councils some freedom to dispose of property in a more sensible way and allow commonsense to replace the madness that sees this activity going on every single day of the year My very warmest regards. Please help.