A few Beestonian Blatherings. Possibly entirely libellious.

I promised you a politics-free month in the run-up to the elections, and I am keeping to that, as I am, above all other things, a man of my word. HOWEVER! There will still be updates on the Battle of Broxtowe at:http://beestoniabattleofbroxtowe.wordpress.com/

I have devolved responsibility to some other more talented, less-partial budding writers,  though will be editing it round my usual job-seeking/writing Beestonia/loafing activities. Wow, I’m already franchising Beestonia. Maybe I could take it further, opening Beestonias all over Britain: Leeds, Dorset and onwards, then international. Estonia first. Save on stationery.


All is quiet in Beestonia once the election is removed from the equation: The Great Stump Debacle rumbles on  in the pages of The Beeston Express, and it appears to have an axe floating over its head (if it had one. It doesn’t. It’s already a stump). I must also be all sorry and apologise to the editor of the B.E. for saying hello rather too loudly in the Crown at the weekend. It’s all these politicians buying me drinks, blame them,  awful people. Sorry anyhow, Sheila. NB: Wannabe politicos must note that I NEVER turn down a drink. Unless you’re Mick Shore, Broxtowe’s BNP arse. Only drink I’d accept from you is hemlock, and you’re sipping first.


I popped down London to have a little look at the TUC march the weekend before last. Was quite a sight, half a million marching down the Victoria Embankment towards Parliament, reminiscent of the final scenes of Frankenstein as it traipsed relentlessly towards Parliament. No kettles, arrests or observed trouble, I’m afraid. Just a lot of people annoyed and showing it in that great British tradition: purposeful striding and then a fulsome, cathartic rant in the local park.

Was good to see so many banners from the locale: the regional CWU and UNISON, and (bizarrely) the Notts Land Registry among many others. I thought I’d be all satirical, and visit the areas en route where apparently chaos was reigning: simultaneously taking photos and sending them to Facebook with appropriately incongruous tabloidesque comments. Swiftian, that’s Beestonia.

Unfortunately, it went askew due to the concentration of people there,   the messages got through  a few hours before the photos emerged from the ether. Bummer. However, I can report that while I was walking down Oxford Street with half a million people peacefully being disgruntled, the liveblogs on newspapers were assuring me that I was in a conflict zone. At one point, when that scaremongering, right-wing, agenda-fuelled arbiter of  Fox News-esque hysteria; the Guardian Live blog; was telling me Trafalgar Square was a hotbed of destruction and anarchy, I was standing there smoking a Mayfair and surprised how quiet it was compared to any other Saturday one might venture there.

I don’t want to bang on about how the media distort stuff, that’s so rife on the internet right now its just out-googlestatted BDSM porn and songs mentioning Friday. Its natural. A news organisation doesn’t send a hundred reporters and cameras overflown by a news chopper to film a group of worried nurses share a flask of coffee  and some M&S flapjacks while taking in a speech by an obscure member of the NUT. Simple economics.

The Black-bloc anarchists therefore make a huge impression. Ninja-attired window smashing, bin-kicking twats are good telly. They are probably the type of shouty twats you get on any march, whose egos demand they make a stir and act all so naughty so they get on the 48 inch plasma telly at their baby-boomer made-good dad’s house when they return home for ‘supper’. Possibly in a  position that leads them to assume that the arguments against the cuts are nothing but bourgeois blather, unlike the thrustingly urgent radical opinions, errr, non opinions they hold.  Not realising that most people do not wish to raze the land, they wish to keep their jobs, maintain their services, protect their communities. Faux radicals who revel in mindless destruction for the sake of destruction? In my day they called that The Bullingdon Club.


Is that politics? Oops.  Sorry. To be fair, not a lot isn’t right now. Cameron and Clegg visit Boots, The Labour Party hold an event at the Ice Arena, or whatever its called now. The staduim that is, not the party. Miliband then decides to get married here. Still, I won’t be blogging about politics anymore.


So I won’t be telling you all about my invite to his stag night. It starts in Long Eaton, then on the Indigo to tahhn for a crack at some grannies down Yates. He will be wearing a French maid outfit and have to be cut free from a urinal in the bowels of Wetherspoons. You didn’t hear it from me, ok?