Minutes of RWM – The Sleepless Week

According to Benjamin Franklin the only two certainties of this world are death and taxes. A timeless proverb undoubtedly, though were he a media salesperson one that would probably read slightly differently:
“Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death, taxes and that the visitation figures will always be up year on year at any given B2B trade show. Up year on year, fellow Patriots. Book onsite Citizen, to guarantee yourself the right stand for next year’s event, where something tells us the visitation figures may well be up yet again. God bless this United States of America”.

Ah the Trade Show. For some dreamers it is an opportunity to transfigure into birds of paradise and flaunt their wares in such a way that will entice new and exciting types of customer. For other more weather-beaten souls, shows are a biennial excuse to fly the company banner and reminisce, if somewhat despairingly, about the golden age of the trade Exhibition. For let us never forget that special time in history, that little contained instance that came somewhere after the invention of the automobile but before widespread use of the internet, a time where business men and women from across the UK would come together and roll their sleeves up to get Networking done the good old-fashioned way. No tablets. No smart phones. No enhanced digital Deluxe media package option. Just a man, a woman and a big old leather briefcase positively bursting from its cockles with sweet, tender business.
I just want to go back Doris – back to when it all made sense. What even is WhatsApp?

For us at BritishBins, RWM was a place to talk about compaction and benefits therein – and talk we did binthusiasts, often for hours upon end with very little water and toilet breaks. The show was a busy few days in which we were able to garner considerable interest for our innovative mini compactors and bin tipping equipment by launching hundreds of miniature wheelie bins at whoever was within throwing range. Whilst being an ultimately successful time onsite for us, RWM 2017 was also a fascinating exploration into how the human psyche operates when confronted by free giveaways: it’s always for “the grandkids”. It’s obvious you don’t have Grandchildren Michael you’re 26, just admit you want a mini-bin and own how that makes you feel. At any rate, the coming weeks and months will be the true measure of a shows success, though the volume of people stopping by the stand is cause for initial positivity, and spirits are high here at Bin HQ. True, our natural charisma and showmanship aided the effort, though all would have counted for nothing if the people weren’t there, and for that we tip our hats to the organisers and the show at large. Our thanks to Ascential for pulling it off.

Much like with camping, you soon learn what needs to change next time at trade shows, and our trip to Birmingham brought with it some interesting lessons, the most significant being that Premier Inn Broad Street need to take a long, hard look at the thickness of those duvets. Seriously, where’s the middle ground? And I think I speak for all of us when I say we have collectively learned once again that an exhibition’s visitation figures are always up on the preceding year. Those boundless and aspiring visitation figures, feverishly growing year on year like cell division, increasing exponentially and without restraint until the world is eventually comprised entirely of Octanorm shell scheme and every human being in existence is scanned by robots on their way to and from the toilet. Up year on year, forever and always.

Congratulations to all involved with the show and we’ll see you next year.

Advertisements
Minutes of RWM – The Sleepless Week

This Town Ain’t Bin Enough For The Both of Us

Whoever said that the Wild West is dead was lying to you. According to a recent article in the Daily Record, the true spirit of that anarchic Frontier lives on, though apparently only in the west-central Lowlands of Scotland (or more specifically in the administrative centre of the Renfrewshire council area), in a town called Paisley. Billy The Kidd eat your cowboy heart out, for the story of Adam Ferguson Snr. trying to run Iain McCreight down in his van to decide once and for all who gets to clean the wheelie bins of Paisley is a tale that makes the notorious high-noon duel look like a salesperson who mentions how happy they are it’s Friday in order to build a rapport: a total and complete farce.

Ferguson and McCreight have run separate wheelie bin cleaning services in the Glenburn area for the last seven years. There have been tensions, as one would expect when two behemoths of bin cleaning roam the same stomping ground. Things seemed to be going smoothly until one fateful day Ferguson, having had enough of sharing the glory and renown, decided to usurp the competition and seize the crown for himself as the last living heir to the localised wheelie bin cleaning dynasty.
No longer will I play second fiddle to you, Iain! Paisley’s dirty wheelie bins are my birth right, along with ALL the domestic waste containers of the surrounding lands of Renfrew extending up to though not including the Bridge of Weir and Clydebank. As you well know, cur!
What the final straw was we may never know – the only thing we can be sure of is that this man loves cleaning bins so much he is quite literally prepared to commit an intentional act of murder to continue doing so.

On December 21st, Ferguson attempted to carry out his own personalised brand of frontier justice but with a receptacle twist, allegedly trying to run his business rival down in his van by driving straight at him on Nethercraigs Road. This is a claim that is disputed by Ferguson and his wife Marjory, who claim that they weren’t there, it never happened, and that they don’t even know what a van is, so everyone should just leave well alone, alright? Convincing enough. In those typical cases of a wheelie bin cleaner attempting to brutally murder their business rivals with a heavy loading vehicle, that defence would normally be sufficient; however, nothing about this case can be classed as normal. Namely, this is not the first time Ferguson has attempted to run down Mr McCreight with a van. In June last year, Ferguson was convicted of common assault after he tried to reverse over Mr McCreight when they were both working jobs on Islay Crescent, a heated crime of passion that occurred in the throws of an embittered turf war for the very soul of Paisley’s residential waste containers. Different street –  same hilariously misguided attempt to restore balance to the free market.
As funny as it is, somebody should probably inform Mr. Ferguson that running Iain over with a bin cleaning truck isn’t a pragmatic solution to all of life’s little problems. Some, but certainly not all.

For me, the most interesting part about this story is Ferguson’s character arc. Not to imply that he has in any way grown emotionally or come to peaceful terms with Mr McCreight, instead what is far more fascinating is the thought process that led him to believe that instead of reversing, driving forwards at speed was definitely going to be the way to further his commercial ambitions. If you think about it, there must have come a time at some stage between the two incidents, in the dead of night, with Marjory at his side, where Ferguson Snr. suddenly woke in a cold sweat, sat bolt upright and, with a knowing grin, whispered to himself: “No reversees”.

This Town Ain’t Bin Enough For The Both of Us

The Trojan Siege of Birmingham City Centre

Everyone has a hill that they’re prepared to die on. For some, that hill is a 900-year-old time travelling alien God being reincarnated through an entirely fictitious process as a person with breasts on the grounds that it deviates from realism. For others, Death Hill can be found just around the corner from Nihilism Creek, but a stone’s throw from those who chew loudly. For the mainstream news media however, this final, pastoral battlefield appears to exist everywhere, except for the places that truly matter. Whilst they’re all busy indulging in an industry wide act of hillside Seppuku, with news presenters and talk show hosts alike hysterically falling on their own microphones in a largely misguided honour-suicide pact, the bins have finally invaded and there’s not a news channel around that’s prepared to report it. As Trump’s thumbs caressed the Twitter keyboard, as Boris Johnson lived long and loud enough to see himself become a villain, as we were all distracted by Brexit and ISIS and the mindless happenings of Love Island, the waste containers pressed their advance. And today, in this most despairing month of July, we need now acknowledge the reality of our times:
Birmingham City Centre has fallen to the combined might of the Wheelie Bin & Refuse Sack Armada.

For years. For years they’ve plotted, plotted in the shadows, devising and perfecting their little binny ruse-scheme. Brute force alone would not be enough to secure the uprising, this they knew all too well from the infamous yet often unacknowledged failure of Durham in ‘72.
“Lost a lot of good bins that day. Polyethylene bags, too. The smell of burnt plastic still haunts me night’s. Worst thing is the young’un’s. A generation of bins growin’ up into 1100 litres without the guidance of their seniors. Heart-breakin’.” Anonymous survivor of the Bin War of Durham.
The bins now knew they needed a Trojan approach, a plan that could exploit the weaknesses of their Masters without risking mass obliteration for all Bin-kind. For decades they sat dormant, watching, waiting, performing their primary function of domestic waste collection so flawlessly they began to fool even themselves, until one fateful day their ace in the hole reared its head: a disconnect between Local Councillors and Binmen in the city of Birmingham. Just how the bins managed to have their metaphorical fingers quite so adeptly on the pulse of the Council’s interdepartmental relations will forever remain a mystery; the most likely explanation we’ve come up with involves deep-cover sleeper agents embedded into strategic positions of moderate power throughout the metropolitan region of western-central England and more fake moustache-glasses than you can count.
“How can we possibly win against an enemy so great?”
“Leave that part to us laddy, you just concentrate on cutting eyeholes into all of these newspapers”. Verbatim account taken from a conversation at the Council of Bins bi-annual meeting.

However they did it, what matters now is that it’s done, Birmingham City Centre lays submerged in swathes of unchecked, undocumented, uncollected rubbish bags. The bins have bested us. They applied pressure so brilliantly to a situation that even now has no foreseeable end. They knew, so diabolically they knew, that both the council and the binmen had valid points, that whilst the Council are only trying to mitigate overspend from previous years (£8.4 million spent last year on overtime and agency fees), the binmen are resisiting a seemingly tyrannical move to a 5-day week, with the downgrading of 113 supervisor jobs and an end to overtime. On the surface both sides seem to be acting in non-malicious interests, both convinced that what they’re doing is the right thing – and that’s why this is such a genius play by the bins, because by destabilising the situation, fuelling this shutdown of communication, the only thing that is certain now is more bins. More refuse sacks. Defeat by the machinations of Bin – stirring the boiling pot of municipal tensions wherever they can. Do you genuinely believe it’s a coincidence that in 100% of public sector workplace arguments, there’s a bin lurking within earshot?
Lyle forgot to clean out the work microwave again. The lonely food waste caddy looks on, motionless.
Maxwell parked in Sam’s space again. The wheelie bins of waste point D observe, silently.
Oh look, Davina forgot to take the bins out again. No, she didn’t Julie. I think you’ll find, she didn’t… Run.
“That’s funny. I could have sworn I took those bins out this morning. Such a queer thing.” The last words of Davina Willett, recorded from the final telephone conversation between her and her husband.

According to Unite regional officer Lynne Shakespeare, unionists met with council bosses “in the hope of agreeing a form of words that would enable us to enter into meaningful negotiations to resolve the dispute”, a sentence that is so unnecessarily convoluted the Birmingham Mail initially attributed the source to a GCSE English student at a local school, though were quick to correct themselves. The strike is now expected to run on through to September, as Lynne goes on to say that “instead of seeking resolution, waste service management has sought conflict”. The sad irony here is that for all the talk of conflict prevention, a full-scale war is what’s coming our way if this strike goes on much longer – which is why to both parties I say put aside your hopes for petty, material gain and unite against your true existential enemy! Stand together and fight the wheelie bin nemesis, for they are already at your doorstep! Since this folly has been going on, the number of missed bin collections have risen drastically to 5000 a week. That’s five thousand renegade bin bags on the streets per week – a figure that should chill the blood of any God fearing Brit. What are less jobs, stretched budgets and broader workers rights when compared to the prospect of a hostile bin takeover? Because that’s what’s coming: total and complete subjugation by means of bin guile.

And so it was that the Wheelie Bin & Refuse Sack Armada used the Birmingham binmen strike as cover to mobilise themselves. The perfect plan in many ways, for no sane person would ever question the abundance of waste containers and rubbish bags lining the streets of the City. No sane person could reasonably question it. But the sanity of a brilliant mind cannot be measured by ordinary standards – we know what you’re up to bins. So on behalf of us all we say to councillors and binmen alike: get around that bleeding negotiating table at a time when talks are still ongoing and sort this out for the good of Humanity. Our future lies with you, only you, you beautiful waste people of Birmingham.

The Trojan Siege of Birmingham City Centre

The Fires of Dundee

wheelie-bin-fire-window2The Fires of Dundee

The Fires of Dundee did rage and roar,
their tendrils kissed the lips of Humanities flaw,
their beginnings wrought disaster, and the treatises fall
as those bins became Martyrs when they called on us all.
From the fires they roared and they rallied the weak;
The Bins of Dundee, Saint’s of the meek.

I’m concerned for the future, Binthusiasts. There appears to be a particularly disturbing trend sweeping large swathes of these Great Isles of late; one that, if History has taught us anything, could bear frightful consequences too vast and terrible to imagine. I speak, of course, of random guys starting wheelie fires.
There’s random guys starting wheelie fires in Sunderland.
Some random guys starting wheelie fires in Nottinghamshire.
More random guys starting wheelie fires in Dundee.
A random guy is starting wheelie big fires in Pilkington Road, Kearlsey.
If the news stories are to be believed, hundreds upon hundreds of wheelie bin fires have been callously set in towns and cities across the United Kingdom, the endgame ostensibly being nothing more than a perverse need to gratify some sick bin-fire fetish. I believe it was Freud who first touched on the innate desire of human beings to make fire to their own wheelie bins in his conception of the ‘Receptacle Complex’, in his 1899 paper Interpretation of Dreams. Given, Freud was from a more savage time indeed, as it was commonplace thinking of late 19th Century Austrians to believe that people could actually own a wheelie bin. Those of us that have had the privilege of seeing the Wheelie-collective in all its natural splendour; that have beheld the wondrous sight of plastic forms frolicking gaily in the concrete meadows of Haydock, we know that Man can never truly own a wheelie bin. You can’t just go around setting wheelie bins on fire Freud, they have nerve endings.

The images that have been surfacing in local news outlets across the land are graphic, I warn all who would seek them out to do so with caution. One image published by the Evening Telegraph, depicting the wretched carcass of an innocent 240 litre standard household size as its innards lay strewn across the Dundee cobble like oil on water, truly captures the viciousness of these hateful acts. Labour Councillor Richard McCready has described the culprits as “idiots”. I hate to be contrary Mr. McCready, Sir, though I would take it a step further: these people are genius. In fact, to label them as idiots gives them far less credit than they deserve; they know all too well what they’re doing will further their dastardly agenda.
What agenda I hear you ask?
The total and complete subjugation of all wheelie bins by means of fire and carnage.
Now at this stage I should state that I’m not saying these fiendish cretins aren’t members of a covert multi-national organisation whose aims lie solely in the prevention of a wheelie bin coup d’etat that would shake the Earth to its very core, that much should be obvious. Let’s not, for arguments sake, assume that they’re not part of this secretive global network, which for the purposes of this exercise we won’t name The Cousinhood of Archibald Medley (or something not like that), then what is the alternative? Occam’s razor tells us that where more than one explanation exists for a situation, the simplest outcome is often the truth. So we now need to ask ourselves, seriously, what’s more likely: that hundreds of entirely unrelated people, completely independently of one another, in numerous counties across the entire United Kingdom, have been channelling into a wider universal consciousness and setting other people’s wheelie bins ablaze in what can only be described as an absolutely random-yet-synchronised human act of wheelie bin arson, OR, that there is in fact a clandestine Order dating back thousands of years that have made it their existential goal to eradicate all rebellious tendencies from the hearts and minds of wheelie bins across the globe. Think about it Binthusiasts, why would someone just set someone else’s bin on fire? What on earth would any normal person have to gain out of it? If not dramatically conspiratorial, then it’s just incomprehensibly odd behaviour.

We may be able to drill deeper down into the truth if we look at some of the journalism surrounding this story. Now as many of may be aware, it’s hard to know who to believe in this era of fake news where the lying and dishonest media run riot, spewing their hateful lie-mongering hysteria about things that, in many cases, have already been proven factually accurate. Liars and Swines. In this climate you need to know who you can listen to, and no-one quite comes as trustworthy as The Bolton News, with incisive headlines such as “Attacker called police to confess biting off man’s earlobe outside takeaway” and “Optician banned from practising after being jailed for filming women under desks and in toilets”. The outlet reported that firefighters have had ‘laser pens shone in their eyes as they attempt to tackle the spate of wheelie bin fires’, something that strikes me as hugely suspicious, given that laser pens are a form of advanced technology far beyond the comprehension of any individual that would choose to do fires in wheelie bins. Again, what’s the more likely scenario we’re looking at here? Laser pens, or laser mounted rifles? What sort of petty criminal would start a fire then just wait around for the emergency services to arrive so they can deter them with laser pens? What type of person would even… No, kind reader, this behaviour bears all the hallmarks of an elite strike team, a crack squad trained from birth with one goal in mind: to annihilate the wheelie bin race from the face of the Metropolitan Borough of Bolton, Greater Manchester. If this is the case, as we have just established it definitely is, we need to ask ourselves who is involved here. I mean, did nobody else find it suspicious that Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton and all the other senior members of the Obama administration gathered in the situation room to watch Seal Team 6 take out Osama Bin Laden?
Bin Laden.
Bin.
It’s not a coincidence. Everything is connected.
How high does this conspiracy go? We may never know. All we can do is keep our wheelie bins safe and hidden until we can get to the bottom of this.

 

The Fires of Dundee

Ray Binstone

Ray Binstone
Ray Binstone: The Proper Naughty Waste-Receptacle Geezer

‘Proper Naughty’.
Hardly a term you would think could ever be associated with a perfectly innocent wheelie bin. Contemporary research shows, and this is according to all of your precious experts-with-acronyms, that public opinion on the disposition of wheelie bins is quite consistent across the land: they’re not crooks. In view of this newfound knowledge (again, knowledge that HAS actually been verified by all your so-called-experts), imagine my surprise when catching up with the weekly happenings, I find that a wheelie bin was one of the integral members of The Hatton Garden Heist gang. Naturally my first reaction was one of disbelief, so sure was I that this was yet another example of the lying, dishonest, FAKE-NEWS, left-eye media hysteria we’ve been seeing of late. Liars and swines. Sadly, reputable outlets with the biggest crowds such as the Bindependent and the hugely successful Breitbin News have reported the same, prompting the question to be asked: Why? For what reason did this bin side with these villains? What false promises did they make? Did the bin even join of its own volition? How was it coerced?
If we’re going to understand how a wheelie bin becomes a deviant these are questions we must answer.

Without justifying the criminal actions of this bin, undoubtedly there is something intoxicating about the image of a self-made bindividual that we must acknowledge; we need only look to the Dime Novels of the late 19th century to see the same cultural obsession with individual freedom driving the sales of paperbounds with all the tenacity of the white men they depicted. After all, there is a reason that the Cowboys who starred in these ephemeral little tales never actually do any proper cowboying: herding cows is incredibly mundane, and it’s not their first choice of profession. The thrill – ah yes the thrill – and the autonomy, sells very well indeed. This isn’t to say that contemporary British depictions of crime share many, or any, stylistic similarities with 19th century American depictions of cowboys, though the cultural success and recurrences of both does speak of something inherently human: the need, however pointless, to be self-governed. Is it fruitless? Possibly. And yet, we all would like to feed on fancy. What makes a wheelie bin so different?

Gazing out from the gutter where the wheelie bins lie,
gazing up and out and on, ever on.
There the wasteful constellations do beckon, and fly,
and sing only Fortune’s song.
Of riches and gain they wistfully chime
in unison, closer now, distinct from the sky;
for they are there too, those mortal crooks,
in the gutter where the wheelie bins shine.

On screen and on the page, crime is romance. Wheelie bins of all creeds are already a tragically underrepresented demographic in this genre, and the desire for fair and proportional coverage in the media is as strong as ever amongst the wheelie collective. Was this the act of a desolate bin merely trying to supplant itself into a role callously denied it by wider society? You tell me. At any rate let’s try something. Picture the complete Oeuvre of Ray Winstone; all of his films (don’t act as if you don’t know them all). Now replace every single shot of him with a two-wheeled bin. Mentally, as you read this right now, rewrite Ray Winstone’s entire life with a two-wheeled bin as the lead. And not just Ray Winstone the actor, but Ray Winstone the man too. Do it. Make Ray Binstone a reality. It’s not strange, it’s “an exercise”. The reason the images in your head seem so surreal is because the fake-news-media-films have conditioned you, ceaselessly for years, to believe that wheelie bins can’t be cockney. I know plenty of wheelie bins and, believe me folks, some of them do in fact hail within hearing distance of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow. Is it really any wonder that bins with so little, yet who have all the earthly gains imaginable paraded in front of them at every conceivable moment like some carnivalesque game-show, would subvert the prevailing ethics of the day to attain the very thing they’re told will make them happy? Think about it binthusiasts.

At a risk of romanticising criminality too much, I should stipulate here that absolutely anyone can break the law with minimum effort, just ask any daytime police programme. Regarder l’amalgame néfaste!:

You’ve got tall ones – The Longshank.
You’ve got short ones – The Minor Fret.
You’ve got old ones – The Weathered Rook.
You’ve got cerebral ones – The Subliminal Criminal.
You’ve got obtrusively humorous ones – Snatch Adams.
You’ve got that one guy that likes doing stuff to your toothpaste tubes – Minty Winters.
You’ve got sleepy ones – The Somnolence.

All it takes is doing some stuff and undertaking some actions, physically, with your body, that have been predefined as unlawful. ‘The hand is now using the fingers to grasp and pick this thing up. The hand is now moving toward the pocket of the trousers and whoops – in goes that item, into that pocket. That is a thing that has happened now. The hand and fingers have now done a crime.’ Being a hardened geezer-individual however, that requires a more conscious approach. It’s hard graft. It’s melancholy-fuel. It’s a drunken Steve McFadden’s guttural whisper as he comes at you with a taciturn fury all too often found in the bowels of the inebriated hard man.
Suffice to say, it’s difficult. That said, you put in the graft, knuckle down, persevere and buy the right clobber, there’s no reason you too can’t aspire to those gruffest of heights. You do have to question whether this was the thinking that ultimately led to this bins Shakespearian downfall. Oh the hubris of bin.

Ray Binstone

Down and Out in Paris and Gloucester

Elderly Couple Gloucester
For all that is inherently just and good in the modern-day wheelie bin, there is one emotion that even the most devout fanatics must admit isn’t generally elicited by their voluptuous little wheelies and that’s Love. Now let’s get one thing abundantly clear from the start: nobody is saying that wheelie bins are not in themselves capable of feeling and reciprocating love on a conceptual level. Nobody is saying that. In fact, contrary to common belief, wheelie bins are extraordinarily affectionate creatures by nature. In the wilds of Haydock where the wheelie bins are, a culture based on nurturing and camaraderie can be seen throughout the wheelie-collective (group terminology for bins), regardless of colour, size, preferred types of litter (receptacle orientation) or political alignment. Habitually speaking, it’s not out of character for an 1100-litre matriarch to cautiously meander the serpentine lanes of the shipping warehouse, a concerning eye on the hunt for any cheeky 80 litre binnies that have scampered away from the fold to lark carelessly in the concrete meadows of Unit 5.

To go there,
to spy those fields of boundless concrete
is a sight indeed;
that implausible place where bins do roam.

Of all the powerful feelings these docile little bins evoke in us (frustration, gratitude, a pensive and pervasive melancholy), love has never really come to the fore… until now *que Rom-Com voiceover artist dramatising forbidden bin love*. For an elderly couple in Gloucester, a simple wheeled bin from humble beginnings proved to be the catalyst for love in the twilight of their lives. Four decades ago Joan Neininger, now 88, first met 89-year-old Ken Selway when she saw him looking through bins on her street for food. Ken’s blasted pride meant he wouldn’t accept charity or handouts from anyone, forcing Joan to devise a binny little ruse-scheme to pass him food with the assistance of an obliging 240-litre wheelie bin, most probably a green one. Joan would leave sandwiches inside the valiant 2-wheeler for Ken to find, pride still intact. Eventually, and with much effort on the part of Mrs. Neininger and our two-wheeled vigilante of love, Ken finally agreed to enter the home of Joan and her then husband for a meal. What followed was a relationship with the couple that would span decades, with Joan referring to the time as a “little paradise – just Ken, Norman and me”.

Heart-warming, right? It would be if not for the warning in my own heart; a warning of failure (not cardiovascular but journalistic). The travesty of this “news” is that whilst it’s clear to everyone involved that the 240-litre bin is the protagonist, many so called media outlets have shirked this, reporting the story instead with a frankly disgraceful amount of focus being afforded to the “couple” and their so called “loving relationship” and how it’s “spanned four decades”, “defying the odds in Gloucester” without so much as a cursory mention of the 240-litre bin, its life or vocational aspirations. By Ken’s own words, he openly admits that he “probably would not be here now if it wasn’t for her leaving those sandwiches in the bin”.
The bin.
The bin.
And yet you expect us to just believe that your portrayal of events is accurate when you haven’t even told us what color the bin is. Imagine, if you would, that North Korea detonate a nuclear warhead this year. The liberal-feel-goodery-news-media flashes on, the reporter stoically reads “North Korea have successfully detonated a nuclear warhead on some country. In other news, look how long this couple from Gloucester have been together for.” Similar. Indeed we’re only referring to it as a 240-litre because as you well know mister that’s the standard size for households. It could just as easily be a jaunty 140-litre or a robust 360-litre Bin Diesel, yet that doesn’t concern you does it? Indeed, why bother with an accurate conveyance of the metric at all when you can simply use the story to espouse your own liberal media agenda. Everyone wants the lovey-dovey, peanut-butter and jelly news, nobody wants the lukewarm, wholesome, tinned-sardines truth about a wheelie bin’s units of measurement, is that it? How very cynical of you.

Naughty media. Lying and dishonest media. Bad, naughty media outlets. Fake news. You are fake news. You are Fake News. Sad.

Down and Out in Paris and Gloucester