Christmas has been and gone, oodles of excessive packaging, bounded by gift-wrap, collate with ceaseless magnitudes of biscuits or mince pie boxes, and a massif of void tins and bottles, a testament to an enjoyable few days of merriment.
Now it’s the renowned month of misery, as dark as a heart-to-heart about Morrissey’s downturn with a flu-ridden goth. Yet you choose to read my causerie as if it’s going to help; oh my years. Take the bins out; far more entertaining.
I love being environmentally friendly, love the fact we’ve gone from sturdy metal bins that’d have lasted a hundred years to lightweight plastic ones which will luckily last five; sense in that?
Risking a rupture, I raise my right leg and pull myself into our recycling wheelie-bin, joining the foresaid rubbish mountain. Like a grape-crushing winemaker I stomp, squashing contents down. I lose a slipper, ones my daughter bought me too.
Now, at a lower level inside the bin, comes the finale of my party trick; amidst yogurt pots and milk cartons, I must locate the lost slipper with toes, slip it back on, then cock my leg like a ballerina at the Vienna State Opera and attempt to clamber out, distributing my weight to avoid it tipping and wriggling raised feet to avoid slippers making another break for it; opps, nearly dropped me fag.
Even compressed and refilled it’s still as light as a feather. So light in fact, that my efforts are wasted because, like everyone else in our town, I’ve failed to take heed of the Council’s yuletide collection modifications, mimicking the neighbour’s behaviour for assembling their rubbish for collection despite knowing they’ve no more clue than I. Consequently, it’s the wrong day.
Hello, it is winter; as if a force ten hurricane was unexpected. It sweeps my bin, your bin, and everyone else’s bin along the street, rocking them, tipping them, spewing rubbish into bushes and trees as they journey, littering our once green and pleasant land. If anyone wanted to remake the Dr Who episode “Attack of the Mutant Wheelie Bins,” (classic Tom Baker) they missed an ideal opportunity for filming.
Yes, I love being environmentally friendly. Guilt-ridden I pursue Fruit Shoot bottles down the street, recalling my childhood when the bin-man opened your gate, walked up your back garden path whistling a ditty, tipped his hat, threw your hefty bin over his shoulder, causally made his way to tip it in the truck and returned it back to your garden, still smiling.
No good being nostalgic, life cannot be like this anymore, we have to adhere to health and safety, have to consider there’s too many houses and not nearly enough bin-men, (sorry, refuse collection operatives) and if we employ more, our council tax would skyrocket.
Like the days police would arrive at traffic jams to direct vehicles, or the post arrived in the morning, these are memories as unattainably returnable as Michael Jackson being the epiphany of cool.
So, someone sulked, “I used to tip the bin-men, I don’t anymore,” as if it’s their fault. “Oi; Refuse Collection Operative; put that Christmas cracker down, swallow your last mouthful of turkey, kiss the nippers bye, get your flipping boots on and pick up my crap before the storm blows it over the downs….oh, and merry Christmas to you too.”
No one blames the toy companies who outsourced production to a sweatshop in some far-flung country, meaning products need to be endlessly bounded with plastic ties, gurt chunks of polystyrene and masses of uncalled-for packaging.
No one blames the media, stirring commercial frenzy in our feeble minds, telling us what we need to buy, how much we need to bestow to our loved ones so they know we love them.
No one blames manufacturing, blasé with exploring and funding innovative concepts in organic packaging in favour of keeping costs low. If you funded them, they’d be standard and costs will drop; idiots.
No one blames politicians, many of whom hell-bent on denying there’s an issue with the environment, convinced it’s a hoax, and only push greener originations to stop a few fuddy-duddy hippies from whinging. No worries, just shut up, munch your mini eclairs and throw the plastic wrapping into the impending wrath of climate change; some future generation’s problem.
Scientists predict a mini-ice age by 2030, yeah what do they know; they’re only scientists and, obviously, full of it? I can’t wrap my head around this ridiculous climate change conspiracy theory. Please tell me no one in Tory-Town Devizes believes this foolish fundamentalist bollocks?
Tell you what wise-guy, look around you; we’ve a few colder days but it’s supposed to be January for crying out loud into an unused snood. Nature doesn’t know if it coming or going. Plants are like “eh, what, is it time to bud now?”
Venture outside early and hear birds singing their spring song already, they don’t know if it’s mating season, migration or what to-buggery is going on. I wager they adopt the same ethos as me with the bins; wait and see what the neighbours do and when. They’re like, “hey Bob, we supposed to be migrating or what?” Bob is all like, “dunno pal, hoping you’d tell me.”
Forget not, these are the same group of ninnies certain the world is flat. Despite: YOU. CAN. SEE. IT. Climb a mountain, a skyscraper will suffice; you can see the curvature of the Earth.
Garth Brooks; I’ll tolerate. McDonalds; might munch one occasionally. But do we have to adopt this bonkers American credence? I’ll tell you what’s flat shall I? Your flipping brain is. Flat, and about the same dimensions as a postage stamp.
Take your flipping gear out of reverse, we must do what we can even if it works or if it doesn’t, least we can say we tried.
There, that cheered you up? I’m getting out of the wheelie-bin now.