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.

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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

News and comment 16/11/2016- Dacre before the horse

 

In a particularly newsworthy week, it’s nice to see that the Daily Mail have their priorities sorted out. This week’s bin news and comment stems from the tabloid’s calm and measured discussion of what it calls ‘THAT PHOTO’. “What photo?” I hear you ask. ‘THAT PHOTO’ of course. There’s no need for a modicum of context; it’s ‘THAT PHOTO,’ and if you don’t know what ‘THAT PHOTO’ is by now then you may as well give up you out-of-the-loop cretin.

I’m ashamed to admit thorse-running-on-the-beach-wheelie-bin-stickers-panel-green-500x500hat I am very much an out-of-the-loop cretin, as I was initially ignorant of the photo-that-needs-no-introduction. I cast my mind to various possibilities: could it possibly be that stark image of Obama’s ethnically diverse staff, frowning stoically at Donald Trump as he visited the Whitehouse as president elect? Or perhaps the picture of said president elect- the apparent epoch of the anti-establishment- standing smugly in a golden elevator with Kermit the Farage. Well, as it turns out, my thinking was too narrow. Because THAT PHOTO, as I’m sure you’re very much aware, was obviously the photo of a drunk 23-year-old woman at a horse race in Melbourne pretending to ride a wheelie bin like a horse.

Upon viewing the photo, it all became so clear. Clearly this was THE photo; an image, or should I say icon, that will outlive us all. A picture may speak a thousand words, but Paul Dacre thinks that an image should speak two thousand words, so the image is accompanied by a thousand more words; words such as ‘tiny blue dress,’ and ‘antics’ and ‘shame.’ Quite what a 23-year-old Australian woman is doing being drunk at an event that gives out free champagne is so mystifying that the Mail felt the need to publish photos from every single conceivable angle just so its grateful readers really know what they’re dealing with.

And what they’re dealing with is a woman, a DRUNK woman, in a TINY blue dress, riding a WHEELIE BIN, like a HORSE!!!!!.

News and comment 16/11/2016- Dacre before the horse

News and comment 04/10/2016-Chariots of ire.

 

With great effort, Margaret prises her eyes open. An eerie light is piercing her blinds, and her bedside table is shaking violently. She manages to squint and just about register her jittering alarm clock before it dances off the side and crashes to the floor: 3:30 am. Mustering the courage to squint through her blinds, she sees, and suddenly, enveloped with dread, she understands. A horde of dark shadows, moving ever closer. The light begins to flash now, faster and faster, resembling a warning light, or a strobe. Rise of the Valkyries inexplicably starts playing from her tinny radio, and then, over the swelling crescendo, she hears those hallowed words: ‘DOOWN IT FRESHHEEER!’15574344-large

Yep, get to the bomb shelters unsuspecting residents, it’s that time of year again! The time of year where young people all over the country get to embrace new levels of academic rigour, finally discovering like-minded minds to discuss hermetic intricacies with over a game of chess and a nice cup of tea. Or, perhaps more typically, finally discovering like-minded minds to bellow 90’s pop songs down suburban streets at half three in the morning over dangerously cheap Sambuca shots.

The freshers have arrived, and, as always, they have graciously invited street furniture along for the ride. Though it’s not just the traffic cones; it seems that this year wheelie bins are getting in on the action. The Lincolnshire echo reports that barely a week after thousands of students arrived in Lincoln for the start of the academic year, locals have been ‘plagued by students chariot racing with empty wheelie bins.’ One of the students in question recently proclaimed that this is merely a noble if slightly abstract effort to drag the Oxford boat race into the 21st century, but to be fair he was a pretty pissed at the time.

Some residents of Lincoln have started the ‘Shush’ campaign, hoping to reintroduce ‘silent nights’ to the area, but these efforts have been branded a waste of time. Many residents now enjoy putting the early hours in which they are awake to good use, by reflecting contentedly on the spiralling debt and dire housing prospects these young folk will one-day have to face, before laughing diabolically and sticking the kettle on.

 

News and comment 04/10/2016-Chariots of ire.

News and Comment- 18/08/2016

Main-man-creates-his-own-EU-border-crossing-with-wheelie-bins-asking-people-for-passports

 

When it comes to geopolitical conceits and topical sociological issues you’d think that bin news wouldn’t be a particularly rich vein to plumb. Well, my presumptuous reader- (or am I being presumptuous in assuming that anyone is actually reading this?)- you would be wrong. Last month we discussed the septic sensationalism of the Brexit and Bremain campaigns, albeit through the lens of a t’riffic little tale about a traffic warden and a wheelie bin. And now- post-Brexit- in this period of eerie uncertainty, that beleaguered calm after the storm, we turn to bin news once more, for an altogether splendid illustration of the whole damn debacle.

The mirror reports that just three days after the Brexit vote, 22-year-old Matthew White (later described by a judge as ‘well in drink’), used wheelie bins to create his own ‘EU border crossing’ on a UK street, demanding that passers-by brandish their British passports in order to pass through. Funnily enough, the man he eventually head-butted had the most English name imaginable, but the victim- Mr Carrington Hunt- didn’t really go for this sort of nonsense, thank you very much.  The first thing I can take from this story is that I now feel obliged to introduce the phrase ‘well in drink,’ into my everyday lexicon. It makes drunkenness sound like some sort of place that you accidentally stumble to through no fault of your own. ‘Oh, don’t mind Steve, he’s well in drink. Even with fair weather he probably won’t find his way out till Tuesday.’

Mr White crudely constructed his barrier out of ‘wheelie bins, bits of fencing, a push chair, and children’s play equipment.’ Given how last few months has seen many people condense complex ideas into childish mental images of rudimentary blockades- as well as very much throwing their toys out of the proverbial pram- it’s almost as Matthew has intentionally fashioned a spectacular conceptual art piece: ‘I AM BREXIT MANIFEST- WITNESS ME!’

We are all now, of course, living Matthew’s hangover. The cold light of day is giving us a bit of a headache, and as texts messages start to flood in, we have to ask ourselves the question ‘what exactly did we do last night?’

Of course, as a nation it seems we agree that the only sensible next step is to employ the standardised, tried and tested hangover tactic:  turn the phone off, put the kettle on, and hope it all goes away…

 

News and Comment- 18/08/2016

News and comment 29/06/2016

Mac Cartoon

 

It has been a turbulent, vitriolic few months. It’s fair to say that the tactics employed by both the Brexit and the Bremain campaigns have been pretty Breprehensible. As we have seen so many times, when trying to rally support for a political cause, you need to locate and exploit a common enemy. For the Outees, it was immigrants and academics (heaven forbid if you’re an immigrant academic), and for the Inees it was Nigel Farage. You have to feel for all the reasonable and logic-driven advocates for leaving the EU. It can’t be nice having a guy who thinks he’s Admiral Nelson- but actually resembles a beerier, more bellicose Alan Partridge- speaking for you on the telly every day.

The surrealist picture painted by the EU referendum is ultimately one of disunity. It sadly seems we are a country divided. Perhaps we’ve lost sight of the true common enemy-an enemy we can all agree upon. The enemy who could unite a nation, the academics, labourers, Partridges alike.  I am talking, of course, about that object of our universal scorn: the nefarious traffic warden.

This week comes the news that a traffic warden has been caught out hiding behind wheelie bins, ‘in an apparent bid to catch out unsuspecting motorists.’ The Sun has published images showing the villain sneaking behind some 1100’s, before leaping out of the shadows and issuing a ticket, forked tail whipping viciously behind him.

Ahh, the hatred is so pure. Even the Sun didn’t report him as being an immigrant traffic warden, or a traffic warden who is on benefits. This simple tincture of classic, harmless hatred truly is a tonic in these times of wild-eyed hysteria. Our hero in this folk-tale- Mr Clark of Canterbury Plumbing supplies- had presumably heard cries of ‘He’s behind you!’ before storming over: ‘I went up to him shouting ‘Oi what do you think you’re doing.’

That’s it Mr Clark, let him have it.

Booo.

Hiss.

 

 

News and comment 29/06/2016

News and comment 25/05/2016

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

   deano

This week the world gratefully gorged upon yet another gratuitous super-hero smorgasbord, courtesy of X-Men Apocalypse. Don’t let the title fool you- an actual apocalypse would mean foregoing the endless cycle of sequels and reboots that we lap up oh-so greedily. Having worked in the waste industry for a while, it’s nice to see that Hollywood know a thing or two about recycling. ‘Believe us, this time the men are even X’ier!’

Yet from the North of England comes a tale of a true hero. There are whispers on the streets of Sunderland. They speak of a man. A man unfazed by trivialities such as sub-zero temperatures and infernal football rivalries. A man cloaked in a cape of green moulded plastic. They call him Wheelie bin man.

Despite having a name that sounds like an alias a drunk football hooligan conjures when trying to convince a Parisian policeman that he’s actually a local, 47-year-old Deano Franciosy is an admirable chap. The Wheelie-bin Man moniker was granted to him by geordies who spotted him train for a 15 mile run from St James’ park to the Stadium of Light with a 240l wheelie bin strapped to his back. Deano isn’t striving to fight crime-or grime for that matter. His endeavour is all to raise funds for the ICCU at Sunderland Royal Hospital, which cared for his mother in her final days.

Deano does something every year in his mum’s memory, just to raise funds for the unit, who he describes as ‘absolutely unbelievable.’ We don’t know about you, but that’s a kind of heroism we can get behind. Marvel should be taking notes. They’re bound to run out of ideas before long, so before Aubergine Man is finally unleashed upon the world, maybe Deano could get a silver-screen debut, replete with his own spin low-budget tv series: “WBM Origins- taking out the trash”

 

News and comment 25/05/2016