bobby47

Course, when you're King, you can say these things can't you. It's expected of you. It's part of the job ain't it! I didn't get to become King by accident. I emerged from the pack and the howling mob because I could spot a rotter and a ninny and articulate what the bewildered, the deluded and the irrational thinkers were unable to say. That's why I became King. Mind, being King aint all its cracked up to be. My 'inbox' for example. Particularly on Facebook. I ain't King on there. Far from it. There are good folk out there, folk who can spot a fool when they read one and moreoften than not, I open my inbox and read their views of me and my writing style. Good grief they can get angry! They say, 'you sir are a rotter, a stinker, a ninny, a liar', and worse, 'you are a wan.ker'. My response, particularly toward the latter is, 'how do you know these things'. I mean, they must know that I masturbate. How else would they be able to claim that I am a wan.ker. It's either a wild stab in the dark or Im being watched. Whichever it is, I'd like to know how they know these things about me. Masturbation isn't something you do openly is it? You'd be an odd sort of fish if you suddenly started masturbating whilst fishing, talking with friends in the pub or waiting in a queue to get your large mixed kebab. Masturbation is a kind of solitary thing isn't it. You tend to keep it private, disappear into a tiny room and masturbate. It's rarely done when folk are present and you've an audience. With the exemption of perhaps six occasions where I've chosen to masturbate amongst folk who diligently recycle their rubbish, I can't think of any reason why these people would know and be certain that I masturbate. It's not like you tell people is it. I mean, when the wife shouts, 'darling Im home. Where are you', you don't say, 'Hello sweetie. I'll be down in a moment. Im just masturbating up in the attic'. Of course you don't. It's a private thing isn't it. You keep it to yourself, you do it alone and under no circumstances do you say to your mates, 'I've been masturbating. Who's for another pint'. No! I'm convinced that these folk who dislike my writing style are just guessing. Unless of course they ain't guessing and Im under surveillance by the Council and they've disclosed their findings to a source who's then put it out into the public domain in an effort to destroy me and out me as a wan.ker.

Ain't writing styles fascinating. If you look carefully enough and follow the styles of 'us' who like to tap, pretty much straight away you can work out what the tapper is like, what their philosophy is and whether or not you could possibly like them if you met them. Take the mighty Dippy for example. I've been tapping alongside Dippy for years and like all of you, it's clear to read that Dippy is someone we could all easily like. I've met Dippy a bunch of times and as soon as I met this blogger I knew that the writing style had disclosed all I needed to know about Dippy. Dippy is truly a joy to read. Kind, conciliatory, never aggressive and always polite. But we all ain't like that. I ain't and I wouldn't bloody wish to be. I've got my style, Im happy with it, its who I am and from time to time it does bring me I to conflict with others. My most recent set to, and there have been many was with my good colleague Aylestone Voice. This blogger took a swing at me, I reacted, we sort of fell out and then one day Aylestone Voice had written a piece that had me tied to the High Town Bull weeping because the new development was attracting a lot of shoppers. Of course, this 'piece' was brilliantly written and it stopped me sulking over whatever it was that made me take a swing at him. This is the way of things I think. We gather together on these sites, post our views and from time to time we fall out. The latest and not the last slice of friction that has revealed itself upon these pages is the interesting and frankly enjoyable battle between my good friend Stupidfrustration and our Roger, who because of their writing styles, have clearly displayed a need on both sides to beat oneanother to death with a heavy and blunt instrument. But, both these bloggers are good people who because of a issue of writing styles, now want to battle it out. Despite the fact that they do not know oneanother, its unlikely they ever will and neither of the protagonists really wish the other harm, they appear intent upon fighting it out. And why? Because ones writing style is getting on the nerves of another who's writing style is very different and now because of a sequence of vowels and consonants strung together in a particular way we now have a 'war' of sorts. Of course, with great respect to all, its a pointless excercise and good people like Stupidfrustration and Roger, me and Aylestone Voice should never go to war because we get on oneanothers nerves. Take Roger. This is a chap who served our community for thirty years, never sought to leave the bottom of the foodchain, get promoted and stop doing Police work, worked extremely hard, faced the pain and distress of dealing with a conveyor belt of shoplifters and after thirty years, hung up his whistle and stopped doing what he had been doing for three decades. Now take Stupidfrustration. This is one mightily impressive blogger who clearly is in a position of authority, well informed and who's writing style tells me that we are fortunate to have with us. I've pretty much worked out who this blogger is and its someone who is a credit to our City and a relentless opponent to the wrongs that are currently being poured over our heads by this unholy and chaotic Council Cabinet. Stupidfrustration is probably the most influential amongst us and wild horses won't get me to reveal who I think he or she is. So why are they at loggerheads? Could it be that Roger is cynical? Probably I think. But, if we'd walked in his shoes, done thirty years dealing with all of our problems, perhaps we'd become cynical. Is Stupidfrustration being unfair to Roger? I think so, but, and this is the thing, when you spend every hour of the day battling to make our communities better, its no wonder that from time to time your kettle boils and you tell someone who's writing style you don't like to 'get stuffed'. If I was up against what Stupidfrustration is up against Im pretty sure I'd be telling Roger to get stuffed. Of course the whole thing is pointless. It's as pointless as me fishing the Wye for barbel and listening to the endless, mind numbing dross that my fellow fishermen churn out when they want to outdo the rubbish that another has churned out whilst discussing the scale patterns of the barbel. Sometimes I sit there watching my quiver tip whispering to our Lord and Saviour, 'please Lord deliver me away from this sh.ite that's become my daily existence'. Of course, nothing bloody happens. Everyday I go down to the river and every day I listen to the rubbish and regret that I didn't bring with me a razor blade to open my veins and end the misery of it all. Stop bickering. No more. Pull yourselves together and end this squabble!

Course, its all getting out of hand now isn't it! She wants to pay! Wants to pay her slice of the debt and distance herself from me. She's been tearing around the 'gaff' sticking little labels on our belongings. 'His' and 'Mine' labels that'll make it clear to the bailiffs who owns bloody what. My stuff, a cup, a saucer, knife, fork, spoon and a bloody plate to eat my High Town food off is all neatly labelled up and stuck in the corner alongside me ground bait. She says, 'I don't want to be electrocuted and hung upside down'. I've bloody told her, ' its only electricity. Nothing to be bothered about and anyway I've watched Shawshank Redemption and I've not seen any woman being made to ride the lightening bolt'. Then she says, 'he escaped from Shawshank. Crawled through the sewers and made off to live by the sea. Will you try and escape'? I said, 'bloody no! The whole point of it all is to get in the prison and protest. Not to get out. Im trying me best'est to get in there. Not to get out of there'. Course, the pointless exchange continues in bed doesn't it! 'Say you don't like it in there. You'll want to escape then. How are you going to crawl through the sewer when you're hung upside down?'. 'Bloody hell', I said, ' can we stop all this talk of me crawling through pipes covered in shi.te and just get on with the intercourse. Lets have our orgasm and get to bloody sleep'.

Cambo, Sweet Lord, I hadn't considered the Bailiffs tipping up and taking me stuff. I've got some good stuff in here. Me Tanglewood six string, me Lee Oskar harmonica's, all me fishing tackle and my tobacco and ale. Well I ain't giving it up. I'll secrete it before they ever cross my threshold and say, 'sit down fatso while we take all your valuables'. Never! By the time I've hidden and stashed everything they'll be lucky to raise fifty quid. Thanks mate.

The Job Centre at St. Nicholas House, St. Nicholas Street in the City. God bless the poor staff who find themselves in that dreadful place. Cursed and shouted at daily by British and Migrant claimants, defended and protected by full time Security Staff, because the Police no longer wish to help them, the poor staff will soon have company that'll bring little comfort to them. All the rooms and space above the Job Centre are to be taken over by the Council. God knows which area of business will be moving away from Plough Lane and into this melting pot of social unhappiness, but whoever it is, they'll be provided with luxuriant working space. Yep! The Council are going to invest a big wedge of our money and do it all over again. Creating workspace and Offices for those that have managed to cling onto their jobs, are soon to be housed above the Job Centre directly above all the unhappiness and distress that's now associated with this unhappy place. My guess is the hardworking staff at the Job Centre, already tired and debilitated by the stress of constantly being berated and shouted at by those that want the money and want it now, will only be depressed more knowing that above them lives the land of milk and honey. The costings for this venture? Bloody thousands. Don't it make you want to stab yourself in the eye with a soft leaded pencil!

That's the question I ask myself nowadays whenever I see the New Labour front bench and the far left feminist lobby groups crying out begging the public to believe that 'Men are to blame'. What do the girls really want for themselves? I love women. I really do. They are extraordinarily beautiful, they listen, they're compassionate and considerate to all, they're highly intelligent, better than men in so many many areas of life and they are adequately gifted with cunning and guile. In fact, I'll go further, in the main women are the cleverer of our species and Im glad that our society is beginning to mirror the changes that equality brings. But, and this is the thing, in our thirst to make all equal and our near on hysterical obsession in trying to create the perfect society we now choose to ignore things that women were never designed to do. Fighting for example. And I don't mean scratching, pulling hair and twirling a handbag about. Im on about stabbing some human in the guts with a bayonet, blowing their brains out with a bullet and worse, wresting another to the ground, gouging their eyes out and doing extraordinarily violent things to ensure you survive and your enemy doesn't. And so, here we are today committed to allowing women to fight on the frontline during war and conflict so that the far left, 'Men are to blame' gang can celebrate another area of masculinity conquered in the name of equality. Course, the politicians and the mandarins at the top of the Armed Forces pile will say, 'only those women who have passed the rigorous selection process will be allowed to face the enemy and roll around in the killing and the blood. I promise you one thing, women will pass that selection process. They'll pass because the politicuans, the mandarins and the feminist lobby groups will demand they pass. In time the bar will be lowered ensuring that a seven stone woman will be given the opportunity to venture onto the frontline. Of course there'll be problems, the commanding officer will deploy this soldier a little further back from the front line than the feminist lobby groups would like, the army will get sued and before you know it the front of the battle, the killing zone will be littered with women who can barely carry their share of the load let alone fight and kill some deranged adversary who came charging over the hillock to happily find he was faced with fighting a young lady who represented Western Values that proclaim everyone is equal in the eyes of The Lord and our disfunctional society. Fighting on the front line is not some game that can be played out from a distance watching a screen and pressing a button to dispatch your enemy. It's a simply dreadful arena to be in and women are not designed to do this. By taking this step the lives of men will be placed in danger. Not because the woman lacks courage and bravery and not because she can't hit the bullseye from eighty yards. It'll be because she was not designed by God to do what men are often required to do. Kill and create havoc and then manage to live with it for the rest of their lives. There are difference between men and women and it has absolutely nothing to do with courage, how fast you can run a mile, how many press ups you can do and how good you are shooting on the firing range. The difference is entirely down to design and when Lee Rigby was slaughtered and the killer charged at the female Police officer, the stark difference in men and women was illustrated. The brave young lady Police Officer pulled out her Glock pistol and delivered a number of shots. These shots, and there were many and all delivered from very close range, all missed the target area of the killers body. Why? Because men and women are different and our society cannot be made perfect simply to accommodate a desire to get some young woman slaughtered and allow the left wing feminist lobby groups to create for themselves a hero for woman's rights. I say to all the women, you've got the vote, you've become more empowered in the bedroom, you've got lovely fitted kitchens to knock up a lovely breakfast, you are fully entitled to drive and now you've taken moreorless everything else from us, have a heart, show some pity and leave us with the violence of fighting on the frontline of battle.

And so it begins. Having thrown all three letters in the bin, the next one from the Council will be 'pay up or else'. Well this Council are going to find that getting money out of me is like trying to force butter up a hedgehogs backside with a red hot needle and, the term, 'or else' does not apply to me. I couldn't care less about the consequences. Fully cognisant of the course I've set myself upon Im more than content to wait for the Constable to arrive at my humble abode. And when he does arrive and begins to negotiate with me begging me to come out of the attic, I'll tell him,' clear off. Im busy logged on to Whitecross Housewives watching some Doris from Baggally Steet dancing and gyrating as I observe her sultry performance via my bloody webcam'. I ain't bloody paying. Never! And, as I surely will be, dispatched to serve my three months in HMP Hellhouse, I'll look forward to them shackling my ankles and hanging me upside down whilst suspended from the ceiling of my bare and featureless cell. I couldn't care less. They can visit me thrice daily, attach wires to my testicals and deliver me enough voltage to keep a small rural hamlet illuminated for a week and it'll have no affect upon me. Rather than squeal, ' at least turn off the water hose', I'll laugh through the entire experience howling, 'im having the time of my life. Teach me a lesson I'll never forget and fry my testicals'. I ain't joking! Im serious and whatsmore, once I've become accustomed to my surroundings, become used to being hung upside down and electrocuted three times each day of the week, I'll find and use what limited materials I can appropriate, build a laptop and a keyboard and I'll continue to communicate my progress whilst I hang from the roof of my cell.

Oh, I know what the troops at Plough Lane say when Neill is about. 'Scares us he does' and 'you wouldn't want to disturb him whilst he was burgling your house and rummaging through your trinkets of wealth and fine china'. Well he doesn't scare me! Never has and never will. As far as Im concerned being handy with your fists upon a Submarine that's berthed up at Southampton Dock is no qualification for being labelled tough. Bloody Neill should pop into the Commercial and try swinging his George Medal about and see what that sort of vanity brings him. My advice to the front line staff who's jobs are constantly under threat from this man and his fellow blue sky thinkers is to take a leap of faith, get yourselves angry, go hurtling upstairs, bang on his door and scream, 'Neil! Outside now. Im going to give you a good thrashing. In the backyard now you yellow bellied, canvas kissing rotter'. That's how you deal with Neill. If he had to fight the staff every day of the week you'd soon see him changing course or moving on to some other position that doesn't involve him boxing during his Tea Breaks. I mean, you'd be an odd sort if you enjoyed having to fight the staff. And another thing, if ever he did decide to go out in the dead of night intent upon burgling my house he'd be asking for trouble. If I tippy toed down my staircase after hearing my fine China tea set getting packed into his bloody holdall, I'd tell him straight.'Neill', I'd say, 'you are a trespasser and you've no authority to come creeping around my dwelling. I'd tether him to my chair, the one my wife sits me on whenever I've done wrong and I'd go to work on him ensuring that if he did continue burgling homes he wouldn't be quick to revisit me and attempt to purloin my valuables. That how you deal with this Chief Executive. If he's arrogant enough to think he can creep into our homes and steal our precious belongings with impunity then its essential he's caught, beaten badly and handed over to the Police for questioning. Scared? There's nothing to be scared of. He doesn't scare me and he shouldn't scare you.

And it's not just the mantra, 'if we want the best we must pay the best' that's biting us now. It's the lack of quality that the public service employ to lead our frontline staff. Since the emergence of New Labour, public services have been gathering up the dross to lead and command. These people who were cast out by the private sector because they were bloody useless, were quick to find a safe haven beneath the canopy of public service. The thick, the incompetent, the socially disfunctional and the runts of the management litter were all quickly hoovered up by the public service who keenly grabbed out at failed Solicitors who couldn't buy their way into a private practice and made them their Chief Legal Officers. No matter that they were bloody useless and nobody wanted their limited operational ability, public service had a home for them. Our Council is infested by these people. Truly, they are poor in quality and because of a slip and sliding culture that's seen 'them' move from the bottom of the foodchain to the top, they now make the rules, they spend the money and they are only answerable to themselves. The consequence to this disfunctional model of management is that the front line staff disappear and the suits are left standing promoting their odd way of thinking to a tiny few who have only managed to cling onto their jobs because the suits need a couple of staff to justify their existence. This is now the way of things. A top heavy, overpaid collective of incompetent bungling idiots who reached their personal level of incompetence the day the private sector called them into the office and said, 'your'e bloody useless and we can no longer afford to carry you. Pi.ss off and don't come back'.

Yes is the answer to the question. It's most certainly 'yes'. I've tried to stop. Lord knows I've tried. When I first quit and tried to break the cycle of this 'tapping', I instructed my wife to hide my keyboard in a place where I couldn't possibly find it and under no circumstances, despite my begging, should she return it to me. It's an addiction. That's what it is. I've become a slave to this activity. It's not to different to 'smack', except its free and Im not required to snort my laptop up my nose. Lord, the dross I've watched on the television in order to stop myself rummaging around to find the laptop. The bloody God Channel! Good grief! Some smart suited evangelical preacher with a southern Alabama drawl shouting, ' Jesus is with you. He's everywhere you are', which, given my predisposition to drink ale from the fridge makes you wonder why Jesus of Nazareth is lurking about inside a domestic kitchen appliance. Then this charlatan and Religous zealot, raises his eyes toward the heavens and pleads, 'Lord give me the power to do the healing'. Thereafter, this false bloody prophet shakes and shudders, no doubt because he's been overcome by the Holy Spirit and invites the bewildered,the sick and the club footed to approach the stage bringing with them two hundred dollars that'll go direct to God who's just rid you of your bloody harelip. 'You'all come on down. It's a fu..ing miracle'!!! Then there's the bloody Jeremy Kyle show. You get the ugliest woman who ever scurried out of the Mothers loins complaining that one of the six fathers to her satanic offspring was unfaithful during their relationship leaving you to wonder who on earth would ever wish to lay beside this gap toothed, she'll suited harbinger of doom in the first place. I mean, everyone has a right to be ugly. There's no wrong in it, but this woman I am speaking of was taking advantage of the priviledge. When this sweet child of humanity fell out of the ugly tree, she hit every branch on the way downwards. Which is why, I've found my laptop and resigned myself to my fate, fully acceptant and cognisant that I can't stop posting. I can't stop!

Look, Ive just seen this topic raised by Dippy and I've read some personal messages and truthfully, you are all very kind and I do appreciate it but, I don't want to look like some Prima Donna rolling around in amongst your kind words. I dont want to do this blogging anymore. I mean, Im bloody doing it now and I don't want to be doing it. I'm sick of it. Bloody tired of it all and I'll be damned if I do it anymore. It's bloody exhausting and so, from hereon, let this 'topic' die its natural death and don't send me anymore messages c'os I ain't bloody answering them. If I answer them, I get dragged back into this whole thing and off I go again, tap, tap bloody tap, tap upon the keyboard which is exactly what im doing now. From hereon, don't message me. If its three o'clock in the bloody morning and you've just succeeded in finding a cure for The Syphilis and its me you want to share the happy news with and give me a slice of your new found fortune, don't message me. If your house is burning down and Im the only person in possession of a hose long enough to attack the seat of your fire that's about to ruin your entire life, don't message me. In fact, if you find me in the Commercial slumped in my chair choking on a large piece of Pork Rind and I'm only able to communicate via the keyboard that's balanced upon my fat face and you're desperately keen to learn whether or not I can breathe, don't message me. Don't message me anymore c'os Im done with it all. I wish you all happiness, good fortune and the golden chance to thrash Jarvis with a pointy stick but Im done with it and I ain't doing it anymore and that's bloody that. So, stop posting this melancholy drivel and spend your tapping efforts in other more important areas. Take care!

I'll tell you all this, in the fullness of time, you'll all come to acknowledge the great work the departing Editor gave to the paper and to us the Hereford public. This lady is one mightily impressive journalist and I wish her good fortune and happiness in her new role. There! And anyone who thinks otherwise disagrees with me.

I read the piece as well and it ruined my entire night. I left the house moaning about it and when I staggered in with ale pouring out of the sides of my mouth I was still moaning about it. It's so bloody easy to become a visionary which is how Bramer and the others see themselves. It's an entirely different thing to be a realist and there is nothing realistic about this latest bucket of tripe. We are fiscally knackered. On our knees and its unlikely that we are going to become economically upright for many years to come, and yet, despite the bloody holes in our roads, the bloody grass that's up to our knees, the litter, the flaking paint and the rotten bloody traffic that blights our everyday lives, still, even now when any fool could conclude, 'we are in the shi.te', they continue to think in this strange way. And it is strange. There's nothing bloody normal about this at all. I dread to think where they're going to place the Big bloody Wheel. All Cities of culture get one and if ever Hereford are going to get through the first paper sift, they'll have to have a site and a plan in place to construct this bloody wheel that'll spin round loaded with folk all curious to see the extraordinary mess we are in from an elevated position. The High Town Eye! My God. By the time they've finished there meetings, spent tens of thousands on consultancy fees, borrowed this and begged for that, we'll end up with a monstrous wheel constructed out of old wooden pallets and before they tie you into the seat, you'll be required to sign a disclaimer of responsibility should you fall out, begin your dreadful journey downwards and land on your head in the middle of Capuchin bloody Lane.

Once again my old friend, brilliant! Well done Dippy.

How's the annual trip to Hay Festival going Dippy? Im guessing you'll have been there soaking it all in. And of course the rain....again...! My warmest regards old friend.

Breaking rocks holds no fears for me. I'd manage just fine being locked up for not paying my Council Tax. First thing I'd do once incarcerated? I'd seek out the biggest, meanest looking, tattooed beast who's physical appearance clearly explains why he can lift a small family hatchback on the end of his erect penis and I'd smack him in the gob. No explanations. No exchanging any pleasantries. Nothing! I'd hit him square on in the gob announcing that I was the new King of 'C' Wing Mind, I wouldn't be telling anyone why I'd been sent down. If you want to impress folk and aptly describe just how dangerous you are, you don't want to be saying,'I didn't pay me Council Tax'. You've gotta embellish things. Flower up your antecedent history to impress and you've gotta be angry with everything. For example, when they open your Cell door and some chap says, 'lovely day. Did you sleep well'? Smack them in the gob. In fact that's the answer to every single encounter you meet whilst holed up on 'C' Wing. You smack them in the gob. Everyone gets smacked in the gob and before to long, word gets about and folk soon realise that you are a very dangerous person who's likely to smack you in the gob. That's how you survive in Prison. Well, that and superb care and expertise from all the good people who work in the Hospital Wing of the prison who's job it is to put your face and body back together again when the bloke you've just smacked in the gob decides to smack you in the gob, break your face into tiny pieces and sees you sucking oxtail soup through a straw for the next twelve months of your life.

You're very kind my friend. However, I will not pay the Council Tax. I most certainly will not be paying any more of my deminishing funds to fuel the madness that has overwhelmed our public services. I'd sooner go to prison than continue this foolhardy arrangement between me and them. In fact, if it comes to it, and I do find myself locked away, then I've no problem in becoming the 'C' Wing Bit.ch. The Sisters can come a calling each and every single night of the week, pass me about like some tiny parcel and subject me to endless acts of manly love and despite the desperate situation I find myself in, I'll laugh my way through the entire painful ordeal rather than give in and pay this Council one single penny from my tin of money. I'm serious and I ain't for paying up. As for Its Our County, they've got my vote. They won it sometime back but I'd guess that the last thing they'd want would be me littering their FB page with my pigswill and codswallop. My very warmest regards.

I ain't paying it anymore. What's the point paying for something that you ain't getting. If I went to my local Fishmonger and said, 'A Kilo of your finest Cornish Clams my good man' and I then paid the sum of money required and he suddenly went all quiet refusing to hand me my Clams, I'd be within my rights to kick off and shout, 'You thieving Barstard of a Fishmonger. Give me my Clams'. That's the way of business. Two agents. One the Seller and me the customer and if one ain't getting what the other is required to hand over then its not a financial transaction you'd ever wish to repeat. This bloody Council have an agreement with you and I. In return for our money, the very least they can do is cut me bloody grass, clean me streets and empty me bloody bins and that's it. Nothing else. It's all very straightforward as far as I can see and if, as a result of fiscal difficulties, their money pot is slightly down then they should start culling the suits until there is enough money made available to deliver the things that they agreed to provide us. So I ain't paying them a penny piece more. They can dispatch me to Gloucester Prison and it'll be of no concern to me. I'll happily languish there without a single care in the world. And when they open the cell door and say, 'Your three months us up. Out you go', I'll say, 'Clear Off I ain't coming out. I enjoy being buggared every time I venture down into the shower block'. Im serious! I ain't paying it anymore. Why pay for something you ain't getting and by the looks of it, you won't be getting ever again. I don't want to fuel a team of Council employees investigating the mysteries of Carbon Emissions, Democratic Services, Drugs and Alcohol services, Reducing Crime and promoting Road bloody Safety and all the 'Partnership' gibberish they shovel out proclaiming its saved me millions. I want my bloody grass cut. Nothing else. I ain't paying them anymore money. I've got absolutely no problem at all in facing the consequences of my actions. They and I are done! I no longer wish to involve myself in a financial transaction with them. Not while I've got a repeat prescription for diazepam and the ability to still think for myself.

The whole 'beast' is out of control. The suits behind Customer Service for example. They ain't going anywhere anytime soon. They sit together, collate their views on who should get the axe and who shouldn't get the axe and they then get given other job titles. They slide to some other area of business that's highly interesting. They may get lucky, be given another area of responsibility and off they go. Upwards onto another and higher pay grade. Nothing except our money goes in and nothing comes out and round and round we go chasing shadows and a trail of debris that'd confuse the finest inquisitive minds. The FB blogger Harry Williams has been relentlessly pursuing the Council regarding the paperwork for Hereford Futures. Time and time again he asks and over and over again they say, 'of course we can't comment because its a private limited company. We respectfully suggest you contact them'. My good friend Harry, says, over and over again, 'How can I contact them they have ceased to be'. It's all madness and its happening now and being done in the name of public service. God help us!

Alcohol is a wonderful thing isn't it? Especially when you don't consume it as often as I do. Folk who limit their consumption to a few pints a week tend to lose all self control and start gibbering on about what they've heard at the Council. T'other day, I was sat in the Commercial holding Court and addressing a number of the Yazor Brook Toad Sexer's who were describing their confrontation with a particularly aggressive Natterjack Toad that did not want to open its back legs and display its sex. Whilst engrossed in this bucket of tripe of a conversation, there was a tap, tap, tap on my shoulder. Turning in the belief that my wife had tracked me down and was about to hit me in the face with her frying pan, I was met by a young suit who'd decided to pour his heart out about what he'd learned whilst at work with the Council. I said, 'don't tell me the Council are going to knock down the Cathedral because I won't believe you'. And then it started. He pulled up his chair, he was clearly out of his mind after consuming to much ale and he began to tell me things that made me nibble fast on my packet of Pork Scratchings. Basically the Department of Environmental Health is going to be released from the Council. Because they need to make two million in savings there is a discussion now ongoing that'll see it taken away from the Council, another Arms Length Company like Hereford Futures or Hoople may be created and it'll take with it, Licensing, Trading Standards, Noise and Pest Control, Fly Tipping and a whole raft of other things. Course, these were the ramblings of a drunken idiot and this information may be wrong but when he told me that Customer Services at Franklin House are to go as well, and be replaced by an online service that would require everyone, old and young to become Computer literate in order to be able to communicate with the Council, my immediate thought was, 'Hi up. This is so ridiculous it's probably true.' You have to ask yourselves this one single question. Given the limited areas of business the Council now are involved in, why on earth do we sit back and pay the Council Tax? Course, my source could be a complete idiot and as mad as me but somehow or other, I think he told me these things because he was frightened about his future and being required to step into the 'Pen' that collects all the good people who are next in line for redundancy.

I saw it Magic. The whole lot. The entire bucket full. And once the piece was finished, so desperate was I to do something to take my mind off of what I'd viewed and stop myself kicking in the screen of my own Television Set, I went on the Internet and watched the full and unedited coverage of the Execution of Saddam Hussein. To think that witnessing the death of another man made me feel a whole lot better about getting through the remainder of the day without moaning and groaning, on and on, about that unholy salty hulk that's become our shining beacon of hope for a better future.

Jonny lad, you've given the correct answer to your own question. We start again. Mind, before we do, there must be a political will to dismantle this design to 'manage' and that'll only arrive when a Local Authority goes bust, belly up and someone on high says 'lets say it as it is. This Council is bankrupt and there's no point pretending otherwise'. Then, and only then can they start again building slowly, sensibly and learning from the mistakes of the past. In short Jonny, we've gotta hit rock bottom before anything will change.

Ubique, Truly my old friend, I'd vote for Lucifer if he assured me that we'd all be delivered from this madness. I've done my bit for Queen and Country, so have you and I'll be damned if I sit back and play by the rules any longer. I've done that for as long as I can remember and every time I've posted my ballot paper I've been delivered nothing but slime. Each election I've sat there pouring over this, that and the other, studying their policies and then casting my vote which was based upon reason, commonsense and a sense of duty. Now? Well its all been thrown through the window. Commonsense and reason can get stuffed. I've joined the howling mob determined to be heard and have my Country, my heritage and my birthright protected from those who want me and my descendants to become permanent members of the EU and characters contained within George Orwell's book 'Animal Farm'. They can all get stuffed! And whatsmore, come the next General Election, I'll repeat my irrational behaviour again and vote the same way just to get out of the madness that allows me to have my car cleaned every fifty yards by good people that came to Hereford convinced that this was the land of Milk and Honey!

Ubique, God only knows the nature and the character of the candidate me and the wife have just voted for. For all I know he's the ugliest man ever born, has a clubbed foot and suffers with Tourette's Syndrome. For all I know he could be the most dangerous man ever born and I've voted for him. That its come to this! Voting for someone, you don't know, never likely to ever know, couldn't care less about his policies other than he will do his utmost to get me and my kith and kin out of this social engineered madness that is the European Union. Bloody so much for democracy and spending your vote wisely. My God! And I consider myself highly intelligent! Good grief, Im a disgrace to rationality and commonsense. Anyway, its done now and I wouldn't change a single thing. If UKIP don't win this then I'll buggar myself with the broom handle and give up ever trying to get my Drinks Cabinet fully stocked with the things I like to throw into the mouth of my fat face.

It's true. Apathy! I've just been and voted and the turn out described to me was, 'disappointingly low'. Now the bloody heavens have opened up on us, again and God has decided to urinate upon us, again and the bloody traffic around Aylestone Hill is as bad as I've ever seen it, we'll not have to wait long for the count to be completed. If UKIP don't win this then Im f.uck.ed and it'll signal my bloody end!