Bureaucracy, whether British, European or American, triumphs!

This man worked for almost fifty years in the White House, cataloguing and filing documentation for ten Administrations. Theororic C. James was a loyal, discreet and conscientious worker, and deserved the praise he received from Presidents such as Kennedy and Bush. But something ‘twanged’ inside his mind in his latter years, he became distant, morose, careless in his appearance and habits, and unwelcoming of attention and help.

His best friend, as well as his family, tried to get a multitude of Agencies and organisations interested in Theodoric’s problems, but all the replies came back the same, ‘We can’t intrude, and we cannot state if we did, because of ‘privacy issues’, ‘ DC Water also replied using the same words when asked if Mr. James still had running water. The classic ‘get-out-of-trouble-free’ card which was played time and time again with this troubled soul is much the same as in this Country, where action just will not be taken to help an individual, excepting of course when there is the slightest whiff of ‘Child endangerment’, when the heavy mob are wheeled out with no worry whatsoever to the agencies; not bothering about the parents of course, because they don’t count.

Theodoric’s neighbour did his best for his long-time friend, but he was found dead slumped behind his front door when the fire brigade battered the door down. He died from heat exhaustion!

On Wednesday, nine days after Mr.  James was found dead, someone from the city’s Department of Consumer and Regulatory Affairs affixed two $500 citations to the plywood board that the city put up to cover his front door.

One was for “Excessive vegetative growth.”

The other: “Excessive trash, debris, and unsecured vacant property. Hazard to human life. “

Anchor bolts, Batten. Corbel out

In this once pleasant Country of ours, we have many laws, many of which are the outcome of fevered debate, some are of the knee-jerk variety, e.g. the Gun laws promulgated after Dunblane, some are of the type which are favoured by the female jackals of the Harriet Harman persuasion, and then there are the Laws which evolve over some centuries of use, abuse and modification. I am writing today of the Planning law, and the repeated attempts by some to remove the protection afforded our countryside by Planning legislation.

We need more housing. we need more houses and homes because the Labour and Coalition Governments will not, and have not acted to stop the rampant abuses of the immigration system we have, so the hundreds of thousands who get in legally, have got to have somewhere to live; in shelter, warmth when needed, and with clean sanitation. We have long gone past the days when it would have been possible to barrier the terminals, ports and ferry points against the floods pouring through our ever-more porous borders. Any of us who lived in hope that we can somehow get rid of the millions of Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Indians, a veritable multitude of assorted Africans and the very occasional Brazilian should just step back and examine the logistics of attempting to enforce a policy of repatriation, and then quietly shut the f*** up! Partly because some of those same migrants are rapidly becoming the most productive of our residential population, and partly because the question must be asked, ‘who gives you the right to choose’?

But I digress from my original thought, which was of course Planning law, and the need to derogate or change the use of land from agricultural to residential. South Somerset Council has asked for comments upon a planning application which builds 3,700 homes right next to the village of East Coker, as a logical expansion of Yeovil, and the residents of East Coker, or at least some of them, along with well-funded associates, are dead set against the planned expansion. Not, nay never, perish the very thought; on the grounds of NIMBY-ism, but because the new estate would ruin the very ideals which made TS Eliot write his famed poetry.

‘Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto’