As you know from time to time we like to take a trip down memory lane (or more accurately nightmare alley) and keep up with ex-Wirral Council alumni.
Today’s subject is serial cheque-trouserer Bill “Spiny” Norman – who left behind a trail of devastation at Torbay and Wirral Councils and now finds himself suitably ensconced in cider country.
Clearly from reading the reports in the press and blogs in Hereford Mr.Norman is proving to be as popular with the local populace as he was with Foulkesy.
However we’d like to draw our readers attention to what must be one of the finest commentaries ever committed to a local blog (other than our own).
The writer clearly models his writing style on Monty Python characters Doug and Dinsdale Piranha and employed a combination of “violence and sarcasm” but somehow it sums up the frustration and anger felt by many people fed up to the back teeth of town hall tyrants plundering the public purse and imposing their will on local people by means of abusing their power.
http://www.herefordvoice.co.uk/topic/1383-when-is-a-director-of-law-not-a-director-of-law/
Bobby 47 (whoever you are) – we salute you!
“It’s bloody desperate isn’t it! How the bloody hell do ‘we’ ever deflate this ballon of wealth and rid ourselves of these bottom feeding tics who feast upon our public funds. There’s no bloody end to it. One pile of rubbish falls and another springs up in its place. It’s bloody relentless.
Why can’t the Council elected leaders say, ‘No’. Why? I’d have no problem in telling them all to clear off, be gone, on your way and you’ll get no gagging money from me because I couldn’t care less who you tell. Go tell the world for all I care. I couldn’t care bloody less.
Why has it got to be this way? Bloody hell! I bloody hate them. I do. Bloody intensely. I hate them more than any of you. Oh, you might think you hate them but compared to me, you simply dislike them. I bloody hate them.
I’d love to fix up a fight with Bill bloody Norman. Just him and me. I’d tip up outside Plough bloody Lane, park me handcart and its load of rancid melons and I’d fight him. I would. And he could arm himself with any offensive weapon of his choice, it would be of no concern to me and of little use to him.
I’d bloody hurtle toward him screaming and gibbering in biblical tongues and frighten the life out of him howling, ‘Bill. I bloody hate you and today I’m going to punch you once for every pound you’ve managed to take from the public purse’. That’d make him think, ‘Good Lord that’s a lot of punching’.
If Bill bloody Norman is reading this, and lets face it, its highly unlikely I want him to agree to fight me so that I can deliver Hereford from his controlling grip that sees him and his colleagues getting wealthier and us getting bloody poorer. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, not that its worth repeating, Council staff have got to start leaving their work stations, knocking on the doors of the high and the bloody mighty and asking them out for a fight. That’d sort them all out. Imagine going to work everyday knowing that you had to fight the staff. They’d soon get tired of that. I know I would!
If I had to fight the staff daily I’d be looking to work elsewhere at some place where I didn’t have to fight the staff. Before I agreed to take up the position of Head of Legal Services on a salary of an eye watering sum of money I’d ask, ‘do I have to fight the staff’.
Mind, I’ve fought them all in my dreams you know. The theme of the dream is pretty much the same every time. I tip up, women scream, ‘we can’t keep our hands off him. Lets clap our hands, stamp our feet and jump up and down bra less all over his fat face’ and then I fight them. It doesn’t last long. Basically I dance about avoiding the punches, bobbing and weaving until the opponent gets exasperated and then I belt them over the head with a large wooden mallet and the crowd cry, ‘that’s a bit out of order. Hitting someone over the head with a mallet’. Then I wake up, have a cigarette, another can of ale and hope I can get back to sleep to continue beating these Council Leaders to a pulp and be cheered on by women who faint with pleasure because I am the most desirable man they’ve ever seen with a handcart selling rancid melons.”
Wirralleaks 