Fashion is merely a form of ugliness so unbearable

that we are compelled to alter it every six months

- Oscar Wilde

It was a Saturday early in 2010 when I began writing this. There was a fashion feature in the Guardian. Both this newspaper and its stable-mate, the Observer, have lately begun to indulge in a little social egalitarianism in their magazine supplements. This is represented by the use of much older models than the po-faced pre-pubescent size zero catwalk waifs. This Saturday two rather elderly, grey haired and very thin models appeared incongruously in the adolescent line-up of the usual spiky-haired suspects. The slightly bemused septuagenarians in question were attired in a collection of what appeared to be ‘distressed’ clothes, including half-mast drainpipe trousers. I wondered what my late parents might have thought had they been asked to appear as an approximation of two dispossessed earthquake victims who had stumbled upon the first UN air-drop of randomly collected emergency charity clothing. Then my eye wandered to the prices of the individual items worn by the hapless models. Crumpled trousers; £289 from somewhere in Bond Street. Jacket £367. Silk scarf, £120. Cotton shirt, £256. Leather sandals, £148. Gingham blouse, also from Bond Street, £482. Leather belt, £79. This horrendous list of figures eventually totalled almost £1,950 for two people.

I looked closely at those old people. What kind of life have they had? How did they end up in this ridiculous situation, standing before an over-paid photographer in a studio, kitted out like a couple of Chipperfield Circus clowns? Is it because of where they lived, how they were born, where they were brought up? Are they educated, did they have brilliant careers, do they have families? Where do they live now? Do they know anything about life north of Watford?

I also begin to ponder over the curious media mind-set of the people who put these photo-shoots together. What is the message they are attempting to impart? Is it (a) you can look like this even if you’re old, providing you have the cash, or (b) we can’t abide old folk who make no attempt to look like us, so here’s the way they ought to look? In any case, they might argue, fashion is for everyone. Yet that’s the view from their side of the gulf. It’s the gulf of reality, the gulf between the rich and the poor which continues to expand, thanks to lack-lustre, materialistic politicians who have long since lost any decent convictions or a desire to improve the world, and will persist in their political inertia no matter who wins an election. The world of fashion, populated as it is by vacuous prima donnas, self-serving celebrity air-heads and over-pruning martinets, exists solely to sell to and entertain their own rapacious, gormless celebrity class. Whilst they continue to indulge in their mutual, design-inspired onanism in their elite, hermetically-sealed magazine feature world, the rest of us will continue to keep out the cold courtesy of Tesco and Primark, with many of us grabbing a suitable bargain from Oxfam, Help The Aged or the Heart Foundation charity shops. If there is some kind of heaven, and the departed generation before mine are looking down, then only the rapture brought about by their death could relieve the vision of despair they might witness down here on 21^st century earth.

If my ranting here seems a severe observation, consider the Blair family. In her autobiography, Cherie Blair makes the staggering claim that she remains ‘a socialist’. This is a woman with a £3.6 million house, whose husband, elevated to his world status by the old Labour Party and the contributions of thousands of hard working union members, has taken on a six-figure deal to promote Louis Vuitton handbags. The deal appears to have had its genesis on board the luxury yacht of another paragon of compassion, the rock star Bono.

Tony Blair – harbinger of war and Iraqi tragedy, part-time ‘peace envoy’, committed, squeaky clean ‘Christian’ who chose to take his holidays with his natural soul mates Silvio Berlusconi and an embittered ‘not famous enough nice guy’ Cliff Richard. A week has passed since I began writing this. Now, on July 10^th, there’s another fashion spread in today’s Guardian, this time for women’s beach wear. There’s one particular anorexic waif posing on a flimsy cotton top, the size of a tea towel, some sandals and a pair of derriere-hugging shorts. The total cost of this thoroughly un-noteworthy collection of garments, including the two wrist bangles (£210) is around £1,200.

HERE'S THE DETAILS FOR THE PHOTOGRAPH;

Top £320, by ­Christopher Kane from Browns.

Shorts £205, by Eres, from Selfridges. ­

Bangles £100, and £120, by Elke Kramer, from asos.com.

Sunglasses £169, by Yves Saint Laurent, from ­Safilo, 01423 520303.

Sandals £285, by Nicole Farhi.

Go on, girls. Get your Barclaycards out and head for Bond Street. Let’s face it, according to the media, that’s where we all shop…

I rest my case.

WRITING CONFERENCES: THE ROAD TO NOWHERE?

No doubt most of us have done it. In order to assuage the loneliness of the long distance writer, some of us surrender to the temptation to attend weekend writing conferences. The basic premise of these events – that catch-all word, ‘networking’ - is laudable. There’s also an element of self-assurance. Whilst sitting in a university lecture theatre listening to the keynote speech given by some successful novelist who is achieving far more in life than we could ever dream of, we can scan the audience of fellow scribes to see how many of them look as old, as overweight or as weighed down by life as we are. Then there are the bookstalls, packed with unfamiliar names employed by unfamiliar publishing houses. You’ll meet familiar characters – that bloke from the Arts Council, the woman from the Library Service, and a miscellany of mid-range poets and playwrights.

Yet for all these advantages, despite coming home with a re-assuring raft of new contacts and vague networking ideas, chances are you will remain as lonely as ever.

In 2009 it was the ‘Life’s a Pitch’ conference at Leicester’s De Montfort University. For aspiring screenwriters this offered something very exciting. Seven film/video producers would be in attendance on the day, and if, prior to the event, your proposal for a movie was chosen by the adjudicators, you would be given the chance to pitch your story in five minutes to each producer. I was one of the lucky ones. My film was set in the 1930s, and told the true story of a family of Derbyshire train robbers. Depending on the level of interest each producer had in your pitch, they would contact the conference organisers to organise further contact to take your pitch that stage further. I was amazed to discover that four of them were interested in my ideas. So, I e-mailed them all and said I was looking forward to further developments. A year has passed. I’m still waiting.

March 6^th 2010 saw me up bright and early for the East Midlands Writing Industries Conference at Loughborough University. The somewhat ominous theme this time was ‘The End of The Print Age’ with assorted seminars on subjects such as the Kindle, putting your work on line as a download, writing for video games and the state of the publishing industry in the 21^st century. Yet there was in irresistible draw which made the £42 attendance fee seem worthwhile, similar to the one at ‘Life’s A Pitch’. Ten top literary agents and editors would be present at the event. If you submitted a synopsis and three chapters of a proposed novel, if your submission passed the judges, then the chosen few would have the privilege of a 30-minute 1 to 1 meeting with the agent of their choice. As had happened at Leicester, I was again one of the lucky ones. Having terminated my contract (a bad mistake) with my own agent in 2006, (the result of his usual reply to my phone calls “Will this take long, because I’m busy…”) I’d been floundering about in a creative no-man’s land with all routes leading to the inevitable slush pile. This seemed like the perfect way to get back into the loop, and, as my synopsis and sample chapters had made it through the golden gate, then the chance of at long last securing some proper representation seemed high. 41 writers had won the Willie Wonka tickets. Sessions began at 11.30 am, yet I noted with some dismay that my session with (I’m not naming the agency, but they are high profile) was the last at 4 pm. Like an anxious patient waiting for the dentist I sat in the corridor, and at 4 pm precisely knocked on the door. The previous bright, smiling young female interviewee exited, and I was ushered in. However, the session began with me being told that the agent I was booked to see was ill, so the person interviewing me was a junior replacement from the agency.

In retrospect, I suppose this pleasant young woman was at the end of her tether after being locked in a room for the day with a stream of other literary wannabes. Now she was faced with an un-photogenic, fat old hack with ideas above his station. From the moment I sat down I knew this wasn’t going to go well. We discussed my series of published non-fiction books to date and my aspirations as a fiction writer, then the atmosphere changed. I learned that I couldn’t write fiction. My synopsis was great – exciting, even, but my three chapters were riddled with problems. And she didn’t like the way I described women. I asked if they’d still be interested if I re-wrote the work. The reply was an indefinite maybe. With only 20 minutes of my session expired, I knew I was wasting her time and she had a train to catch. Crestfallen and dazed, I pushed my untalented way through the chatting throngs of bright, gifted authors in the foyer, staggered outside to the car and drove home, as agent-less as ever.

There are other such events on the horizon. The next is something called Writer’s Marketplace, a promotional bazaar where authors and local publishers have the chance to set out their stall and impress potential literary consumers and the odd industry professional who may be attending. Yes, this is what they call ‘networking’. Yes, I suppose it’s a good thing. But I’ve cancelled my application. I’d be better off spending my time re-writing. Unless you’re a paid guest speaker, then the conference road seems like the road to nowhere. Upon arriving home, the words of the playwright and screenwriter Lillian Hellman (1905-1984) emerged from my subconscious:

“If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don't listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.”

Tell us Another One, Andrew …

It may have been easier to issue the Observer of Sunday February 28 as a paperback entitled The Rawnsley Files. As a retrospective blurb aimed at showing us, pre-election, what a ‘sensitive’ human being Tony Blair is/was, it may well have fooled many readers. Oh, the sorrow, oh, the sheer pity … those sleepless nights, that troubled conscience. (I particularly liked the bit about Blair sweating in bed…) Surely, now that we realise what tragic, heart-searching New Labour have gone through, we have no other choice at the ballot box. Alastair Campbell couldn’t have done a better job.

No, we don’t want another 18 years under a new, toff-led right wing Tory government. Yet there are a few points Andrew Rawnsley’s massive coverage failed to address, so let us remind ourselves.

Blair, infected by Thatcher’s “What would Winston have done?” historical conceit, is the man who sucked up to the worst, dumbest and most right-wing U.S. President ever. He talks about ‘having a contract with the British people’ yet with staggering arrogance, ignored the largest public anti-war protest in Britain’s history. This is the man who claimed that Labour would never be tainted by the stench of sleaze which emanated from their predecessors, yet chose to take his holidays with Silvio Berlusconi (we can almost forgive him Cliff Richard’s villa vacations if it improved his guitar playing). This is the man who, utilising a tissue of lies, helped to start a pointless, cruel war, resulting in the deaths of thousands of innocent Iraqis, only to later set himself up as a Middle East ‘Peace Envoy’, yet flexes his macho ego at the Chilcot Inquiry, claiming that he’d do it all again, in between sporadic bursts of work on his ‘Faith Foundation’.

Cherie Blair, with her £3.6 million house, outrageously declares that she remains ‘a socialist’, whilst swanning around on Bono’s yacht with other paragons of international ‘compassion’ such as Bernard Arnault, aiming to top up their already bloated bank account by promoting Arnault’s Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey company for a six-figure sum. Still, it’ll keep her in Moet Chandon and handbags, (you can get one second hand on E-Bay, £1,350).

New Labour incinerated the hopes and hard-fought principles of a once great party on the altar of avaricious capitalism. So here’s a thought to bring on the night-sweats, Tony. There’s a space waiting for you on the High Street pavement in Wootton Bassett when the next military funeral cortege passes by. If Cherie takes her handbag, make sure you’ve some complimentary Hennessey cognac in there. You’ll need it.

MANSFIELD’S YEAR OF DECISION …(Or is it indecision?)

They’re all limbering up now. The councillors, the politicians. There’s an election in the offing and the search is on for some real campaigning cause celebres.

Of course, those of us in Sherwood Ward living on West Hill remain in no doubt what one of those causes should be. Stop yawning at the back there – the derelict Mansfield General Hospital site may be a bore to anyone on Berry Hill, but it’s a continuing pain in the collective backside here. 16 years, and where are we? Nowhere.

In September 2009 Mr. Mumtaz Hussain Adam, proud owner of the Hulk of The Hill, learned that Mansfield District Council would be serving him with a 215 Order under the Local Government Act. This would stipulate that the site, which remains an ugly mess and an eyesore, should, among other requirements, be tidied up, fences secured, vegetation cut back, rubbish removed and windows/doors boarded up. Of course, the residents were delighted. At last, he wasn’t getting his own way. And, of course, let us not forget his repeated claims that he would have the site sufficiently ‘developed’ by Christmas for the first of his planned luxury apartments to be occupied.

No one was surprised when almost nothing happened. Yes; there was one spurt of activity in October when a few windows were covered, and a few more have been tackled since, but the ‘development’ is as far away as it was ten years ago, and the site remains as one of Mansfield’s ugliest civic disgraces.

In a recent response to a letter from a West Hill resident, Mansfield Council’s Chief Executive, Ruth Marlow, repeated the mantra that the Council had no intention (or the financial ability) to wrest the site from Mr. Adam’s grasp via a Compulsory Purchase Order. The 215 Order remains far from being fulfilled, with Adam launching an appeal to Magistrates in January for an extension to the order. Naturally, he got what he wanted. He always does.

The chances for selling this 4 ½ acre prime brownfield site to developers have all been and gone, and with the current depressed state of the market and the total lack of concern shown towards this by local government, the future looks bleak for all those poor people who have to face this blight through their front windows. The Mayor, Tony Egginton, has had countless meetings with this man, and all to no avail. Our MP, Alan Meale, suggests that a CPO is possible. His opponent in the forthcoming election, the Independent Forum’s Andre Camilleri, has made some promising noises over this as a possible centrepiece for his Parliamentary bid, but if Alan Meale, the Mayor, the Council and over decade of campaigning by the residents, including TV, radio, petitions and demonstrations, can have no effect, and the way in which the owner seems to be able to confidently stretch a 28 day official order to any length which seems to suit him, all we, as residents can ask is this:

IS THERE SOMETHING WE AREN’T BEING TOLD? Is there some larger plan for this area which has already been decided behind closed doors?

One thing we do know, and that is that sometime in 2010, officialdom has to face up to this problem and finally tackle it head-on. Procrastination is the thief of time. Yet to those who live beyond the sight of this rotting carbuncle, time doesn’t matter.

Worse still, as far as local government is concerned, neither do we – the voters.

So, when they come around with their election literature, if it doesn’t include a promise to sort out the hospital site, then thrust it back into their hands, no matter what party they are. This mess will go national this year unless it is dealt with. It will become the proverbial hot potato, and a political football. So let’s make sure we know which politician has the right boots to kick it into touch.

I received this e-mail message today. It certainly brought some memories back.

The Working Class Movement Library marks the 25 anniversary of the Miners Strike 1984-1985

The Working Class Movement Library will be holding a meeting to mark the 25th anniversary of the Miners Strike 1984-1985. On Saturday 21 November at 2.30pm speakers Granville Williams, editor of Shafted; the Media, the Miners’ Strike and the Aftermath (2009) and Paul Kelly (Ex-Agecroft Miner) will look back at the personal, political and economic effects of the strike.

What a different country Britain was back then. As workers we actually had the temerity to think that, because we were the majority, we could influence the social and political structure for the better. But things happened during 84-5 which would make us realise how powerful capital really is, and to what unprincipled lengths it would go to strengthen itself further.

With Margaret Thatcher’s undying admiration for torturers and despots such as Chile’s General Pinochet, had the Miners looked like achieving a victory, I have no doubt that Britain could have tipped over into the kind of fascist bloodbath we witnessed in Santiago in the 70s. As well as the bully-boy brute force of thousands of sinister, so-called ‘policemen’, what marked the Miner’s Strike was the huge use of dirty tricks – something the British establishment are skilled at. All that education at Eton and Harrow never goes to waste.

For some of that period I was working in London and hitch-hiking home to Grimsby every Friday afternoon. One sunny August Friday I was dropped off by a helpful driver at the services just outside Grantham on the M1. In need of a coffee and the toilet, with still several legs of my hitch home to go, I wandered through the car park as three coaches were parking. From these poured about 150 men in military fatigues. A kind of Army day out? The TA en route to a training weekend?

I waited until they’d all gone into the restaurant and as I walked past one of the coaches I was amazed to see what else they contained. Hanging on racks between the aisles were police uniforms. I discovered later that there had been another huge confrontation between the ‘police’ and the NUM that morning in South Yorkshire. What always puzzled me was the sheer number of ‘police’ available for confrontations during the dispute. Thousands of men, ostensibly from every force in the country. Yet seeing those soldiers confirmed what had until then been a kind of urban myth or legend – Thatcher was using the armed forces of the realm to subdue the working population.

   Towards the end of the strike I was playing with an acoustic band, formed especially as a kind of agit-prop outfit to support the Miners’ cause. The Expanding Wallets, as we were called, travelled extensively throughout Yorkshire and the North East playing at rallies and in Miners’ Welfare Clubs. One night we were due to play at Hatfield Welfare near Doncaster. As we came onto a roundabout on the M18 to turn off for Doncaster, the road was barred by a line of police in riot gear. As it was dark, they looked suitably sinister and threatening. There were five of us in a Ford Sierra, with a double bass strapped to the roof rack and guitars and a snare drum in the boot. One of the storm troopers approached and tapped on my driver’s window with a huge truncheon.

I rolled the window down. He looked up at the double bass then peered into the car with a flashlight.

His language made us realise that this was no Dixon of Dock Green.

    “Where the f*** do you lot think you’re f***ing going?”

I told him Doncaster. We were a band and we had a gig.

    “Not in Doncaster, you don’t! Get this crate off the effin’ road and back to where you came from!” I attempted to remonstrate with him.

    “The car’s taxed, insured, we haven’t been drinking, we’re on the Queen’s highway and we’re not breaking any laws. What’s the problem?” Bad mistake. He poked me in the chest with the black stick and we could see, despite most of his face being obscured by the helmet, the laser-like hatred in his eyes.

    “You’re going no-where but back up the road – or you’ll have trouble! Got that?”

We were allowed to drive round the roundabout, past the blocked off slip road to Doncaster, and back in the direction of Grimsby. We paused eventually on the hard shoulder and consulted the AA Ordnance Survey road map. I found some tricky B roads off the next junction, and by cutting across some farm tracks and through a few farm gates, 45 minutes later we managed to get to Hatfield. The gig was a huge success, but there would be other incidents, and one of the band definitely had his phone tapped as he was a member of Militant.

    The Miners’ Strike has left a sour taste in the air and polluted the social infrastructure for ever. Although I have much admiration for Arthur Scargill, I have reservations over his Stalinist background, yet it was appalling when so-called investigative journalist Roger Cook and the Daily Mirror tried a major hatchet job on Scargill, packed with accusations which were mainly spurious, un-founded propaganda. The sequestration of the NUM’s funds and the resulting tightening of the screws on anti-union legislation are shameful episodes. One would have thought that the Labour Party would have sought, on eventually coming to power, to overturn the draconian legacy left by Thatcher, yet ‘New’ Labour was no longer anything to do with the working class and the ideas of socialism had been ditched. The political landscape so carefully prepared and manicured by the Tories between 1979-97 was ideal for the new generation of Blairite ‘suits’. 
    

    So who are the working class now? They’re still here, still struggling, but held back in the chains forged by Whitehall in the Miners’ Strike. What did the children of the last great struggle get? The system gave the population mobile phones, DVDs, X-Boxes, Adidas trainers and baseball caps, dumbed us all down with pixar movies and the X-Factor, and have made us into the infantile, malleable mass Maggie so desired. The difference is that with Thatcher, what you saw was what you got – she did what she proclaimed she would. In her own way, she was a revolutionary. At least even that is a cut above the insincerity, the abandoning of principles and the continuing knee-jerk arrogance of New Labour. Now we must brace ourselves, because after the next election, we’re in for an even rougher ride.

M Y    G E N E R A T I O N

Although the world never seems to be in any condition other than teetering on the brink of disaster, once we reach a certain age we can take stock of life and despite the recurring statements of gloom, celebrate.

No generation can celebrate more, I believe, than mine. Why? Well, although now past the mid-sixties age barrier, with far more years behind us than remain ahead, it is those decades we have been through which inspire such positivity.

To begin with, I was born on April 1^st 1943. The war against Hitler was at its height and Hull had been bombed flat by the Lutfwaffe. Yet as a mewling baby I was far too small to ever worry about bombs. I was fed, clothed, cared for and loved. And the great thing was – I never had to bear arms – that sad duty fell to our parents’ generation.

Once the war came to an end, something wonderful happened in Britain. The post war Labour landslide was the catalyst for all kinds of social progress; the National Health Service, the nationalisation of the railways and the mines, to name but three. Although rationing went on into the 1950s, the Atlee administration were perhaps the only British government in the 20^th century which had politicians who genuinely wanted to change their world in a positive way, in an attempt to lift everyone up. (Yes, Margaret Thatcher changed the world, but not as an act of social compassion, but one of destructive revenge, corporate greed and bitter spite…)

By the 1950s we, the war babies, suddenly had a new designation. Unlike the adolescents of the 20s and 30s, who, in sartorial terms alone, resembled little more than miniature cloth-capped or turbaned versions of their fathers and mothers, we were able to adopt style. A new word had been applied to us – teenagers. Suddenly, some anonymous social marketing genius had realised that kids between 13 and 19 had a different attitude and a different energy to the younger school kids or the more staid, 20+ group. From within the teenage ranks came all kinds of fashion innovation. We wanted to be slightly outrageous. Teddy boys, drainpipe trousers, crepe soled shoes, bootlace ties, sideburns and Brylcreemed hairstyles which looked like a heavily polished duck’s backside. But then, to top it all, around the mid 50s the USA gave us rock’n’roll, and being young meant even more than it had before. It meant James Dean, rebelliousness, Levi and Wrangler jeans. We had Little Richard, Elvis, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis and Buddy Holly. And as we grew out of our teens, something even bigger and better took over.

Gone was the austerity of the post-war years. The 1960s seemed to offer a dream, (dippy as it now seems, in retrospect) that we could alter the world simply by love. Long hair, beards, sandals, endless summers, we had the blues, the psychedelic bands, we even tried drugs. It was an age of experiment and discovery.

Yes, it went a little pear shaped in the 1970s. Disco looked like killing our culture off, but if your heart was still young and still open, then by the mid 70s we had a new wave of teenage attitude – punk had arrived. Of course, hot on its heels, in 79, the Thatcher government tried to turn us all into mini-capitalists, but her venomous hatred of the working class created yet another form of counter-culture. Music became more colourful and artists became more spectacular, the glamour of bands like ABC and Heaven 17 mixing glorious love songs with anti-tory politics. 

    The Miner’s strike was undoubtedly the final defeat of the British working class, but it did politicise people, and made them realise just what governments were capable of and how far they would go to over-ride democracy. Of course, my generation celebrated loudly in May 1997 when, after 18 years of corrupt misery, the Tories were forced into a humiliating defeat by the victorious New Labour. But it was a short-lived euphoria. What a different breed of politician exists at the sunset of my life, compared with the dawn in the 40s. Then we had giants like Churchill and Atlee, great reformers like Aneurin Bevan, a cabinet whose socialist credentials would cause today’s labour party to vomit. Led by a duplicitous, 2-faced pro-Washington Thatcherite lackey, Blair, a man for whom the title ‘War Criminal’ hopefully lies in wait, New Labour have now destroyed every last vestige of socialist hope. Perhaps, as New Labour-supported capitalism doesn’t give a fig for the environment, it doesn’t matter, because global warming is going to finish everyone off in the next 50 years anyway, so why campaign for a better world?

But, my generation, we’ve got our pensions – and we’ve paid dearly for them – and when the seas start flooding across the once-green English countryside, we’ll all be dead. All our memories, everything we did, everything we hoped for, will be under water.

But, smug though it sounds…. what a good few decades we had.

If you stumble across this blog at random, chances are you don't live in Mansfield, and you'll be wondering why there's so many pages devoted here to one particular subject - the four and a half acre derelict Mansfield General Hospital Site. Well, scroll down a little and read 'A Civic Disgrace' and all will be explained. The hospital site conundrum offers a perfect example of the way capitalism - our system of 'living' - works. 

    As the old Biblical adage has it (I quote loosely - I'm not getting the good book down from the shelf to look it up) To those that have, more shall be given'. Thus we, the dumb proletariat (how long is it since you heard that word in a political context...ooh, sooo 'unfashionable'..) have given billion upon billion to profligate bankers, who  as I write, are divvying this windfall up among themselves for record bonuses. They have devised a very neat, Satanically perverse system - Reward for Failure. The more mess you create, the more you're rewarded. Whilst the Royal Mail workers are striking, not for more money, but (a) for better working conditions and (b) to try and stop the conspiratorial Lucifer Mandelson's grubby little privatisation plans, Adam Crozier, CEO of Royal Mail earns £1Million salary plus £2million in bonuses and Royal Mail contributes 48.2% of his earnings to his pension. 
    
    Looking down the scale of outrage, in the above context, perhaps our fight to demolish an old hospital has no connection. Yet the man who owns this crumbling, disgusting pile of weeds and rubble feeds on the same greed as the bankers and plc executives. Owners of massive commercial properties straddle them like obscene, giant spiders, watching the FTSE index as they wait for the right price and the right time. And it matters not what effect their 'property' has on the hapless saps who live with it on their doorstep. The owner of our miserable pile of woe could have made millions on his meagre investment of 15 years ago, yet there has never been quite enough of those millions to satisfy him. Unlike us, the residents, the ordinary occupants of the 60+ households which face Mansfield's blighted heart, he is regarded by the safely distant civic bourgeoisie (there you go - another old 'leftie' word - look it up), those so-called public servants in control of planning, as someone to whom we must, at all costs, 'be fair'. In short, what he wants or needs from the system of local government to continue to sit on his web of rotting 'investment' - he gets.
 Capital is untouchable. Posession remains 9/10s of the Law. There's something rotten here. So, for your entertainment, here's our latest missive to the local press.  

THE GENERAL HOSPITAL SITE: SMOKE & MIRRORS      Letter to Mansfield CHAD October 22nd

Undoubtedly, most of your readers, including us, are keen followers of the Chad’s ‘Sort It’ campaign, none the less we feel it incumbent on us to reveal the reality behind the current sleight of hand going on over the derelict General Hospital site. The smoke and mirrors routine going on between officialdom and the site owner, Mr. Adam, beggars belief.

Based on the Chad’s announcement that if Adam had not completed the work required to tidy up the site by the 22^nd October, then some kind of action would ensue, I was somewhat mystified after briefly meeting the Mayor, Tony Egginton, who mentioned another date – some time towards the end of December. The West Hill Residents, seeking some much-needed clarity on this, wrote on October 10^th to Phil Cook at MDC’s Planning, Community Safety and Regulatory Services, asking a series of questions. Had the 215 order been served? If not, when? What were the timescales, and what were the consequences for Adam should he fail to comply. By the day everyone expected the work on the site to be completed, October 22^nd, we had received no acknowledgment of our letter. It was yet again the intervention on our behalf by Andre Camilleri which triggered a response, not from Phil Cook, but by telephone from the Council’s Mike Avery. This is what he tells us:

The 215 order was served on October 20th. From that day, Adam has 28 days in which to complete the work. If he does not complete the work (presumably by November 17^th) he then has a further 28 days before the Council will take action. And here’s the salt in the wound: as Mr. Avery says,

“We must be fair to Mr. Adam”.

He did not commence work until the morning of October 21^st. Since then a few windows have been boarded up. But, why worry… he’s been allowed plenty of time left to do the rest. And, let’s not forget, Mr. Adam has claimed that the first residents will be occupying his opulent up-market apartments by Christmas. We wonder which boarded window they’ll be living behind? All this begs a further question. If it takes this much time to tidy and secure the site, how long will it take to get the first ‘luxury’ apartment ready? Mansfield’s high flyers and millionaires must be eagerly waiting, cheque books in hand, queuing up to move in.

So, this sorry saga continues. Behind us, a 15 year trail of false hope and stalled ‘beginnings’. Ahead? Well, it’s obvious. Even if the Council are forced to move in and complete the tidying operation, that will simply provide the man we must be ‘fair’ to with official permission to potter around for another  15 years. So, might we suggest that the Hospital Site be set aside with a new campaign title: instead of ‘Sort It Out’ how about ‘Pull it Down’?
But then again, that’s not being ‘fair’, is it?