Kirklees’s Merry (Bin)Men Go Rogue

November is the coldest month, isn’t that how the phrase goes? For the good people of Kirklees we do believe it is so. Due to what the council have ever so reluctantly described as ‘operational issues’, thousands of residential wheelie bins lay cold and neglected by the wayside this Winter without a jacket or set of socks betwixt them.

What began as contained instances of domestic wheelie bin neglect soon grew into a district wide epidemic, with residential wheelie bins absolutely engorged to the teeth on household waste all the way from Meltham through to New Mill and Thongsbridge – from the meadows of HD9 and down endlessly through the recesses of time. At the time, ‘significant operational issues’ were the only given reason as to why more than 4000 wheelie bins hadn’t been collected. In what has been described by some as 2017’s worst kept secret, it has now, eventually, ultimately transpired that there was indeed a walk out by the bin collection services, though as of today the council have refused to say why, reports tell us only that between five and ten workers refused to finish their shift one day last week. Clocking off early for a trip to the pub – or shades of something more sinister, perhaps? Corruption at the highest level of the Kirklees waste department? Who can say? For some reason not the council.

At present neither Unite nor Unison (both major unions at the council) have been unable to confirm if they are involved, begging the question: why? If this were a justified and pre-arranged strike action one thing that is assured is that these bodies would be vocal. With everything taken into account, the logical assumption here is that the walk out is an isolated act perpetrated by a merry band of rogue bin men. Highwaste men. Vagabins. Makers of mischief singing rosily from the treetops as grey wheelie bins lay forgotten on the pavement below.

Oh, the Maiden of Haydock was ever so fair!
With a song in her hand and her scent ‘pon the air.
Alone now she’s wondered with ‘nerry a care..
Oh the bins? They must wait now, just wait ‘till we’re there.

*This may or may not have happened.

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Kirklees’s Merry (Bin)Men Go Rogue

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.

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

Confessions of an English Wheelie Bin Sniffer


Oh! Just, subtle, and mighty bins! That to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for ‘the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,’ bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent bins!
That with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purpose of wrath; and to the guilty man, for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure of blood…

If perusing the latest wheelie bin happenings on google ‘News’ throughout the month of April has taught us anything, it’s that the Metro are apparently running out of things to write about. In what can only be described as a Spring-time drought of wheelie bin related news, various outlets (though mainly the Metro guys), with cracked lips and rasping voices have been traversing the Sahara, thirsty for bin news, parched from lack of receptacle-press, desperately bleeding the same Oasis dry as sand falls from their weather beaten cheeks and the carrion vultures circle hungrily overhead. Regardless of The Metro’s fecklessness on this occasion (I mean come on team, the same article twice in the space of a week!), a pressing issue has indeed been raised and must be addressed: wheelie-highs and the dangers therein. Now I’m all for the everyman getting joy from a wheelie bin, after all, their primary function next to domestic waste-storage is to delight the human soul; the one thing I will not abide however is people setting bins ablaze so as to consume their very spirit essence in some ritualistic bin burning. Picture it now, the paved avenues of a quiet British suburb, oil lamps billowing in the night breeze as the shadows of wheelie-bins past morph through forms of terrible beauty. Local residents clad in dried leaves and tattered copies of The Mail gather in the cul-de-sac, household bins in tow as they prepare for conscious awakening and the bi-annual sacrifice to Imhotep. The tribal drums pound in the deep of Middle England as Mrs. Norris lays the sacrificial wreath at the foot of the 240 litre standard-household-size pyre. “Show us” the residents chime in psychedelic rapture as the soul-fire burns and the wheelie truth is inhaled deeply, ecstatically. In the far distance, plates gyrate as the Earth-Mother groans and you are destroyed entirely. Or something along those lines.

Whilst possibly less dramatic than this, articles in the Metro and Daily Star have brought to light the recent records of youngsters getting their “weird drug related kicks” by means of binhalation. On the surface I’ll admit this behaviour seems odd, though when viewed in the context of history these actions fall in line with many cultural modalities and rites of passage predating even the invention of the wheelie bin (if ever such a time even existed). Take for example the vision quests of the Native Americans (pre-Columbus), where long bouts of self-imposed sleep deprivation and fasting were used as a way to induce intense states of delirium. Far from being viewed as the actions of a maniacal bin-crazed pariah, these behaviours were the cultural norm for many years, often helping young men and women to find their place in life and in their immediate communities. Ancient cultures often contested the idea that perception is monophasic, an idea that is still prevalent in more isolated communities and one that often goes hand in hand with the use of psycho-active substances. With that said then I ask you: are these renegade bin-sniffers simply a post-industrialised attempt to reengage with our natural habitat? To understand oneself wholly in the context of the organic surroundings from whence you came, is that really so bizarre? How far detached from Nature we’ve come as a collective society where we would view breathing into one’s lungs the fumes of an incinerated wheelie bin as anything other than nourishing and proper behaviour. A cynical day indeed kind reader.

That is certainly one way to look at this – the other offers us a far more farcical take on humanities attempts to get on one throughout the sordid course of our inane history. The sad truth here is that for all the advancements in science, literature and the victories afforded us through a broader social awareness, humans are and always have been fatally single-minded creatures, and for as long as we’ve been walking this earth every culture and continent has had its sect of hopeful reprobates who dwell in that absurd place between brainless desire and simple-ingenuity. Put plainly, people are just as laughably idiotic now as we’ve ever been, the only difference is that in the modern world there’s more plastic to inhale.

So in the memory of those perennial binhalers, sleep-evaders and nutmeg sniffers – in the good name of those timeless and enduring dreamers who, in a way they couldn’t even begin to comprehend, represent all that is quintessentially human, we remember the age-old adage: “Humanity always finds a way”. A phrase which truly makes far more sense in this context.

Confessions of an English Wheelie Bin Sniffer

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