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.

 

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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