6 Jan 2018

6th January 2018 Bøgger! Not again!

Saturday 6th 33-35F, 1-2C, light winds, heavy overcast with an inch, or perhaps two, of overnight snow. It was supposed to be sleet according to the forecast. Rather cold on the hands in the slight, northerly breeze when I paused for photography. The mink gulls did their best to make the distance look spotty as well as misty. Wet roads meant frequent visits onto the verge to avoid a free, salty shower. The field puddles are getting large and deep enough to be quite menacing. No doubt somebody is already planning a circumnavigation in one blue sock and one red sock. Thereby hoping to qualify for a new entry in the GBR tragic-comedy annual of premeditated, suicidal, attention seeking.

7 miles of shopping trip on wet, but not icy roads as a slight thaw rid us of the nasty white stuff. Returned safely but heavily laden.

After what seems like a century of sitting on their pampered, grasping hands, Gravely's Brexit-hungry MPs are considering putting a 25p charge on disposable coffee cups. McSlobs must be quaking in their solid gold sandals! What will McSlobs slobby customers do for a hobby now? Will the verges suddenly become empty of scattered detritus? No, of course not! There are still the vital 18 layers of serial packaging essential to furnishing every  McSlob with a weapons grade, McSlob's McSlob to take away.

It was similarly, some time ago now, that Big American Money forced the Danish government to end recycling charges on beer cans and compulsory recyclable glass bottles or face an EU firing squad! The forecast was empty cans on every verge. The forecasters were wrong. [As usual] There are now hundreds of cans on every verge!

Back then they had regular council litter pickers picking litter from the verges. You never saw any litter in Denmark twenty years ago. Now they have beer cans, cola cans and McSlobs' slobbery. A special class of impoverished Dane now wanders the roads looking for the few recyclable cans and bottles to eek out their heavily taxed pensions. No retiree may start their own small business. Like running a weekend flea market in their empty garage or attending a car boot sale. Not without getting permission from the centralized chief of police and informing the tax office in the centralized council offices in a distant city.   

Just to add to the Danish litter load there is a specially bred type of Dane. One which drives with a trailer to the village recycling station every Saturday without a cover, net or even a length of wet harvester twine to contain their load. You don't need me to tell you how all this ends up scattered on the roads and verges. All of which leaves this special "type" to discover an empty trailer when they arrive at the recycling center after their weekly attempt at the Danish GBR land speed for trailer towing. You can see them standing around and scratching their heads in wonder at the mystery of it all.

There follows a forlorn, wasted journey driving home at a slightly lower speed. Still wondering where all their recyclable crap went to. For some reason they seem completely unable to recognise their own recyclable crap while driving the opposite way. Perhaps they see the other lane as an alternative universe or dimension? Though that doesn't explain why they spend so much time on the wrong side of the road while driving <cough> normally.

Twenty years ago Denmark had council road sweeping lorries. Noisy bøggers they were too! They'd wake up every sober Dane [and unwanted immigrant] in the early hours, every, single morning on every, single rural road. It took us ages to discover why we woke at 5am every morning. To spend two more hours wondering when we could get up! Of course the bøggers had long vanished by the time we rose bleary-eyed and still very cross at ~7am.

Now they have no more sweeper lorries because they were all sold for scrap. This was to pay for a shed load of Danish modern daubery, Danish modern weldery and Danish designer furniture for the latest and even more sumptuous, centralized council offices. Just so that the [millionaire income ] council chief could enjoy <cough> working life in the style they so richly deserved. Think of Trump office style but with proper hair and a bog standard, stubble goatee. Of course their high status means they enjoy a fat bonus whenever they change their jobs titles, mid week, even if they never actually left their own, palatial office.

Impoverished, elderly Danes now need to travel for miles kilometers just to see the modern "art" and the designer furniture exhibition in the centralized Louis 14th  palaces council offices for themselves. Here the lowly citizens can sit about for hours waiting for their number to come up on a large screen. Before being rebuffed by the specially trained staff. Often being forced to leave just in time to have missed the last bus going back home to their creosote reeking, chainsaw screaming, rural hamlet, that month.

It's no wonder, at all, why The Danes left for Gravely Blighted all those years ago. I suppose it was an early form of brain drain because they never seemed to have returned. Legends are still told of danish hamlets, said to be still reeking of wet firewood, being burnt badly, all over the backward backwoods states of the USA. I bet they still have their own marauding Master Chimney Sweeps coming round to bully them into being allowed to polish the creosote in their stinking chimneys, to this very day!  😉  [Humour alert!]

Click on any image for an enlargement.


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