Dear Readers:
You know how excited I get when I have a guest post. Today, I’m pleased to present one from Disgruntled Danny, a lovely-despite-the-moniker person I met while pursuing my passion for a particular U.K. band.
He’s pissed about the lack of road repairs in Chell Heath, the borough he’s called home for 12 years.
Here he is, in rare form. Enjoy!
Beth
“Harry Pothole and the Tarmac of Terror” and other tales
Guest post by Daniel Harrowven
Misery, frustration and disappointment. For most British people these are our default settings, but on a Friday morning in early May these emotions were amplified.
The reason? I had just read the results of the local government elections and, as feared, my local councillor had been re-elected.
For the last nine years, since my councillor was first voted into office, Chell has gone from being “a little bit rough” to a town that can now offer visitors an experience akin to Kabul circa 2003.
How did this happen?
Chell Heath is a Safe Seat. Many of the families in the area have lived here for generations and they always vote for the same political party. They are afraid of change. As long as nothing improves, they can continue to blame all their problems on former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. (She was forced out of office in 1990 and has done nothing at all since 2013 on account of her being dead.)
I was inspired to act whilst driving home one evening. Listening to the latest CD by Jesse’s Divide, I suddenly felt my spine shatter, thumbs dislocate and the CD skip, causing me to wonder whether I had suffered a brief blackout.
No.
I had driven over one of Chell Heath’s impressive (and growing) number of potholes.
Danny recreates his death-defying drive.
In mainland Europe and the U.S.A., drivers drive on the right of the road.
In the U.K., drivers drive on the left of the road.
In Chell Heath, we drive on what is left of the road.
The following day, I went back to the pothole and had my long-suffering wife photograph me pretending to punch the pothole.
Disgruntled Danny, Superhero
I posted the photo to my Facebook wall and the Facebook page of my local council.
And became an Internet troll.
Lately, my trolling has taken the form of movie treatments and posters fitting the pothole agenda.
Here’s a medley:
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How much of a stir has this trolling caused within the council? Have I been asked to remove the posts? Been offered a meeting to discuss my grievances?
No.
I have had no response whatsoever.
Not even a “Sod off and bother someone else.”
But one person did take notice. Rathi Pragasam, the woman who ran against my councillor — the woman for whom I voted — found my pothole series amusing. So it came to pass (that sounds a bit biblical!) that Rathi visited me recently to discuss my rantings.
To be clear, she is not elected, has no power or authority in the ward, but within 24 hours she had contacted parliament (WTF!), arranged funding, and now the potholes are due to be repaired in the coming weeks.
All more than anyone on the council did.
I understand that there will always be bigger problems than some holes in the road, but little victories make life slightly more bearable.
And writing this has been a joy, because for 40 minutes I, a British person, have not had to talk about Brexit.
Once on the boat, it seemed like he would fall into last year’s freak-flag-flying habit of making a face in every photo:
And kept everyone up three nights in a row by coughing. So I got back at him in my own special way: by harassing him mercilessly:
But we Lysoled the place every day to reduce germs:
Observe and report 