Ilkley Rocks

So farewell then, Richard Whiteley.

‘Today’s crucial countdown conundrum is…’ was your catchphrase.

Well, today’s crucial countdown conundrum is…

‘umeonpain’

Whiteley was a regular around town of course. Our most famous resident. Well known for a very red face, for getting very tipsy in our local bars, for having an eye for the ladies (and something of a reputation as a serial harasser, but this probably goes with the tipsyness). The Guardian did a very nice article, and YorkshireSoul (who is getting far too many plugs from me)  did a good tribute as well.

Though it might seem he’s another example of Yorkshire crapness, I didn’t look at him like that. While genuinely very intelligent (A Levels taken at 16, Oxford, etc.), he seemed to prefer to bimble his way through life. I’ve never heard of him insulting a fan, and the countless times I’ve seen him stopped and chatted at on the streets of town imply he must have budgetted four or five hours just to pop out for a loaf of bread. Just a pity that his death is taken over by that idiot Vorderman rather than his genuinely rather sweet partner Kathryn Apanowicz (sp?) (once Dirty Den’s girlfriend, and one of the few actresses to have been in all of the top three soaps).

He’s always reminded me of Elwood Dowd in Harvey. There’s a quote in there where Stewart says, 

"Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" – she always called me Elwood – "In this world, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. And you may quote me."

Whiteley to a tee.

I love Yorkshire. I’ve lived here, by choice, for nigh on twenty years. And choice is better than birth (which is why Greg Rusedski beats Tiger Henman hands (and chins) down).

Yet. And yet. I still have to wonder. Why are we so crap?

It’s not just Ian Mcmillan. Though that’s part of it. It’s the whole self-hating, ‘we don’t take any notice of the southern elite’, nonsense. It’s the Yorkshire Society featured in the Gusset recently. That prat at St Mags–wimpy, never hurt a fly Anglicanism (give me Lancelot Andrewes and Archbish Laud any time, there’s a couple you could really chop the heads off and respect afterwards), with his insipid smile in the local paper all the fucking time.

It’s Ashley fucking Jackson. Our patron painter. ‘My mistress the moors’. Well just fuck off Jackson, you can’t paint! You have no emotion, no desire in your art. For fuck’s sake, Damien Hirst was Leeds-born, the most exciting artist in Britain since the Bacon/Freud lot and he’s run off to Devon because we were all so ‘chip on our shoulder’, ‘oh, do you call that art?’, Sun-reading twats.

That’s what it is. Yorkshire as tabloid-county. Plain-speaking? No, just obvious-shite-pissing-in-the-wind-ing. So proud of saying what we think? No, just not willing to think.

There is nothing in this county that’s avant-garde. Nothing that’s cutting-edge. Nothing that’s leading anything (okay, excepting the home of UK electronic music in Sheffield, but everywhere else in the county Sheffield is thought of as Midlands, not Yorkshire at all. See what I mean?).

Well, I’m sick of it. Yorkshire was one of the major homes of literacy during the ‘Dark Ages’ (not that good medievalists can use that term) and I don’t see why its understanding of xianity, art, music, poetry should be condemned by the middle-aged white cunts who currently take the name on board. If you hear someone say ‘I’m Yorkshire, me, and proud of it’, there’s only one solution.

Glass them.

Unless they’re bigger than you. In which case, do the Yorkshire thing and run away, before turning round and whinging from a safe distance.

Sometime in March this year, it was decided to do some work on the streets around town. Obviously, the decision was taken because there was a pile of money left at FY year end, and nobody really knew what to do with it.

So they decided to tuck in a road here, put some chicanes over there, generally fuck up the nice flow of traffic. And, yes, the general busybodies in town had a word or two. And the Gusset listened. Because, without busybodies, the Gusset has nothing to report.

So, what’s the result three months later? Well, the good news is that we finally have something approaching a pedestrian crossing at the bottom of Brook Street. The town’s busiest intersection. Only, it’s not really a pedestrian crossing, because no-one without 20/20 vision can actually see to the other side of the road to see whether the little man is green or red (and weren’t they a t’riffic band? Sixteen ways, what a song. But I digress)

Elsewhere, around the Town Hall, we have those wonderful new stones that councils insist on putting everywhere, only now sticking out into the road and meaning that every rainfall, the pavement turns into an icerink (never mind they’ve covered the drains up) and pensioners fly towards the traffic, breaking hips left, right and centre.

But the piece de piss has been the work on the Brook Street and Station Road zebra crossings. After three months we have narrow, not complete, confusing for motorists, dangerous for pedestrians, crossings. The pavements aren’t done properly (just count how many slabs are broken already). They appear to be in the wrong place. They’re still not finished. No-one knows where the crossings actually are. There will be more deaths because of the re-arrangement.

All in all, it’s a total fucking disaster.

And who is responsible? Step forward Councillor Hawkesworth. Well done. Another triumph for local government. Another total waste of money. Next time ‘something really must be done’, why not just fuck off to the Seychelles like we’d expect? Like the man said, government is too important to be left to plutocratic ladies-who-lunch (or, just to be not-sexist, gentlemen-who-dine).

Someone went through the railings next to the Panorama Stones on Thursday night.

Presumably they were trying to emulate the Scantlebury scenario.

Only without sitting on someone’s knee in a two-seater without a seatbelt on and wondering why you’re flying through the windscreen.

Obviously.

Hey, at least she gets the memorial of dead flowers around the tree. More than I’ll get.

Last year Ilkley won Britain in Bloom. A well-deserved prize (albeit with more than a little help from Bradford Council).

Any other small town winning such a prize would dedicate every entrance to the place to celebrating the fact. Yet, as of now, there’s nothing in Ilkley that mentions it. Given the amount of money the PC have from our council tax, perhaps they could find just a few quid to celebrate Ilkley being the best in the country at something? Just a little sign perhaps?

Or even, God forbid, one of those stone planter troughs on the Skipton Road.

Well, once again today we had the trains cancelled out of town. That’s the third time this week. Wednesday I had an exam so ended up catching a taxi into Bradford. Obviously I’ll be claiming that back.

In fact, I’m claiming everything back. One of the wonders of the passenger charter is that, if you don’t use your tickets, you get to claim the money back (-£10 admin fee). Which means if you go to, say, London and you don;t get ticket checked, you just tell ‘em you didn’t use the tickets and you get a £10 trip.

Not that this has happened to me.

More then three times this year.

Happens a lot on the Leeds-Manchester line (tip–buy an Iklkey-Leeds ticket which WILL be checked, then get a separate Leeds-Manc. one which is very unlikely to be cos the train will be so unpleasantly over-crowded the conductor won’t dare come out of his cab hahahahahahhahahahahahahahaha)

And, yes, I AM a cheap bastard.

Finally we make it on technorati. That took, like, five attempts…

Not that I care about publicity.

Oh no.

(mumbles to self…dogging, swinging, Yorkshiresoul, kicking old ladies downstairs (I swear someone’s come here on a google for that before now))

Harrumph

Thankfully, the Council have now limited the amount that can be given out to community groups to £500. I’m sure this will mean no further large grants for pet projects of the councillors themselves.

Doesn’t it? Or are they exempt?

After finding the general level of cheap-ish places to eat had gone way down hill, we’ve re-discovered Escape. Sure, the waitresses aren’t really interested in much but flirting with the waiting/bar-guys (except for the inestimable Kirsty who seems to be running the place), but the food has definitely taken a turn for the better.

Walked past Bar T’at last Saturday evening and there was hardly anyone eating downstairs. It used to be impossible to get in on an evening even midweek before their chef left for his own place in Otley (my brain is teling me the Curlew Cafe, but my brain is unreliable in these things), so that seems to be losing its reputation.

Which is good news for Escape if they’re really making a come-back. The plates are still cold though. Oh, and Escape now has one (count it) pump for proper beer. Wa-hey, as they say in North Korea.

A recent column of the ‘Times Past’ column in the Gusset had a news story from 100 years ago, when a particularly forward-thinking entrepeneur was suggesting setting up two artificial weirs in the Wharfe at Ilkley in order to provide the power to run the town. Was this the first attempt at eco-friendly power generation? Why wasn’t it taken up? What happened to the inventor?

Anyone who knows is requested to get in touch.

And while we’re on the subject, congratulations to the Gusset for managing to cover the arrival of our regular Roma visitors without the overt racism of previous years. Well done all round! Perhaps that visit from the Police helped mellow them out (full story can be found here).

They do however, state that these visits are greeted by ‘howls of protest’. Which is true. Such howls coming, almost in their entirety, from the staff of the Gusset itself. Ah, such a wonderful thing the classic ‘it is alleged’ technique. Who alleges? Well, our editor…

The rest of the community greets the arrival of the Roma with a) bland indifference and b) mild curiosity.

When you don’t post? Used to be on the second or third page for google searches on ‘Ilkley’.

Currently, I’m not on the top fifteen pages. Fame is fleeting, webfame doubly so.

I’m pleased to say that, for once, we at Ilkley Rocks completely support a campaign of the local rag. They’re quite right to call for support for local shops and businesses. One of the things that gives Ilkley its distinctive ambience is a number of shops you just don’t get anywhere else. Which, really, is down to the number of tourists.

Yet, can’t help feeling the Gusset is really too late in its campaign. It suggests that The Grove and Brook Street are ‘full of independent shops’. Well, up to a point, Lord Vasey. The Grove, yes. But, Brook Street?

Off the top of my head, Brook Street is home to McKays, BHF Shop, Going Places, Woolies, Martin’s, Greggs, Dotty P’s, the Co-Op, Blockbusters, a chain opticians or two, Boots, Bookpages, Holland & Barrett, Thorntons, Clinton Cards, Lloyds, Barclays, and on and on.

I believe that leaves Spicy Pepper, Michaels, a jewellers, a camping shop, Leaves and Linens and Modus as independent shops. And the latter is closing, possibly as a result of Fat Face coming to town.

Rather than the usual exhortations to shop locally (not always possible given the prices charged–two lumps of cheese from Rock Valley at a tenner? No wonder people go to Tesco’s), perhaps the Gusset should be looking at some real solutions? Reduced business rates for local shops (a LD policy I believe), stricter planning controls (second thoughts, scratch that, nothing would ever get built), making businesses pay proper road-miles on transportation.

Hell, given the coming of the peak oil situation, we’re all going to have to be shopping locally (probably from market stalls) in a few years.

Ilkley is, we are all agreed, one of the nicest places to live in the known universe.

Not that everyone seems to agree. There seem to be a number of people who delight in being, well, arses. Time to name and shame. Obviously, anyone who’s tried to buy a sandwich in the town knows about the legendary ‘girl from Gregg’s‘, who may have now cheered up a bit. Oh and the guy in the train station who seems to have been told to smile (rather painfully like dropping e after having a wisdom tooth extracted) or get out.

Following them along, though, are two middle-aged women. There’s the lady who works in Rocky Valley. Not the owner, Sarah, who’s always been delightful, but her main assistant, 40-something brunette. Never seen a smile out of her. Barely get an acknowledgement. Given the prices they charge (see above), you’d think they could afford to grin a little. They used to say a smile set the world alight. Remember the fire at Rocky Valley? I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Then there’s the very similar lady at WH Smiths. Staffed for years by bimbling schoolgirls, they now have a fierce and large matriarch on the main tills. Never a please or thank-you as she takes the money. Indeed, I stood there after buying my Gusset on Thursday, and she eventually said, ‘anything else?’. ‘Oh, just waiting for a thank you, some normal politesse,’ I replied, before hacking her to pieces with an axe I had to hand. Which will teach her.

And some people concentrate on world politics in their blogs! This is the important stuff y’know.

Sorry about that. Post-election blues. And my hit rate dropped from near 1,000 down to about 20 per day. Let’s try this–"Abi Titmuss naked", "Paris Hilton naked" oh and with WImbledon coming up "Maria Sharapova naked".

Not that it matters. With exams for the next three weeks, then two weeks of sleeping to recover, then a lot of Ashes cricket and then a new job starting (not in Ilkley) in September, this blog will be in inevitable decline.

Move along, nothing to see here!