Welcome to Midsummer Beeston, and the joys it brings. A spell of less than crap weather, everything green and verdant and bursting with life, England doing surprisingly ok at a major football championship and pub gardens doing a champion job fulfilling the role as Best Place In The Universe.
Well, I’m glad you’re all enjoying it. I certainly would like to, but am so wrapped up in so many things now I make a beehive look like a stoned sloth colony. Slothony.
At the weekend, I donned my Oxjam Market co-ordinator hat, and pootled over to the Birmingham to attend a conference on how to make October’s takeover the best yet. Despite being one of the oldest there, it was a cracking experience, and not just for the free biscuits/hotel room. I won’t bang on too much now, but if by September you’re not chomping at the bits to buy tickets to what will be the BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO BEESTON, EVER I’ve not done my job properly. Prepare to be spammed to high-heaven.
I returned home to complete my house-move, and I’m now fully away from my previous Palace of Power on Willoughby Street. When I announced my move on Twitter, a few Beestonian’s quizzed my new location, and the veracity of my claim that it was ‘still Beestonia’. To be fair, I was fairly unsure myself, so announced that Attenborough is technically ‘West-West Beeston’, just as Sat Bains is a Michelin-starred restaurant in East-East Beeston. This failed to convince some, so I did some research into my precise location and lo! Behold! It turns out, even by the low-ambition and imagination of civic cartographers, to be STILL IN BEESTON. As such, I shall sing:
Don’t cry for me Bee-eston-i-a / The truth is I never left you….
Not that living in a place away from where you represent really matters that much. I didn’t give us much as a gnats guff where our erstwhile MP Nick Palmer resided when he relocated to Mapperley: it was generally acknowledged that he still did his job effectively, whatever your political stripe. However, others thought this was a betrayal, and promised that if they were elected, they would immediately ring CP Walker and hot-foot it over from Gedling to become a true Broxtownian. Hurrah! We all cried, and keened to have this political luminary in our midst: how many of us didn’t think during that heady April in 2010 that we might get to pop round for a cup of sugar from our now dear leader, and abandoned all sense in this intoxication and marked our X so fervently on the ballot paper sparks did fly from the pencil’s graphite, threatening to ignite that paper where Palmer, Watts, Mitchell, Cobb and that meatheaded BNP twat’s name also cried for our vote? Such was this tsunami of love, Anna Soubry swept in with a truly incredible majority of 0.7% . A mandate, a cast iron mandate.
We’re not that far off being halfway between General Elections, and, as far as my sources can tell, we’re still to be waiting for her arrival. Last time I wrote about this, her partner Neil Davidson of famously awful builder’s Persimmon demanded I retract the piece as the house was on the market and the reason it had taken so long to get this done was entirely due to ‘personal issues’. Fair enough, but the reason Nick Palmer left Broxtowe – to get married- is definitely something that could be counted as ‘a personal issue’. Of course, you’d be a communist or worse to suggest that Our Delightful Leader is a hypocrite of the worst order, so I urge you: especially you, Javid, to hold your tongue. She’ll be here soon, and we shall welcome her with a procession of palms.
And we’ll all be happy until she does one and boggers off to Rushcliffe in 2015 to cement herself in the inevitably retiring Ken Clarke’s domain.
Ah, enough of your easy-picking sarcastic tone, Lord B. That’s what I here you cry. Then you tell me that I can’t be that against her, as, being a GreenBelt loving man who spent his childhood ‘up woods’, or fording streams, or sitting in swaying fields watching nature…well, you can’t be against her, she’s championing the Greenbelt, you eejit! Plus, just not any old Greenbelt, Greenbelt right where you grew up, Field Farm, between Stabbo and Trowell. She’s your Boudicca of Bucolia, Beestonia, stop the snidiness for a moment and throw your inconsiderable weight behind her!
Oh, I do, I really do. I support her whole-heartedly. I’ll be the first to chain myself to the bulldozers when they roll in. But how honest is her support? Is this just a cynical ploy? If she blocks all moves by Broxtowe Borough Council to identify and consult on sites – and she’s already furnished her newsletter recipitents with the wrong method of getting their voice heard (then blamed this on the complex red-tape of the consultancy process; despite being a system dreamt up by the Tories that she, ooops, voted for being put in place) – then Central Government find that the Borough has not come up with a coherent strategy, it then sends Eric Pickles rolling up the M1, and, with the help of crap developers , concrete over anywhere they fancy without out any local say-so.
Is this what she actually wants? I’m not a conspiracy theorist, though I do think Prince Philip faked the shooting of JFK on the Moon, but when she gets home from work and shares a pot of tea with her partner Neil (did I mention he is a senior bloke at Persimmon?) does she ever question the fact that he is behind stuff like this?
Just a thought.