Will they Never Learn??

There is a ghost story involving a visiting dandy holed up in a Bradford house during the English Civil War. An apparition appears before him wailing "Pity Poor Bradford" The phantom must have been few hundred years too soon, because she must have known the quality of councils and councillors that this poor city would have foisted upon it. A town centre that had virtually no bombing raids during World War Two, had many fine Victorian and Edwardian buildings to proud off. But what Adolf never thought to do, the elected burghers of the 1960's carried out with joy, and gems such as the Swan Arcade, Old Empress Inn and Kirkgate Market to name but a few, were replaced by the most ugly carbuncles visited upon any city in the country. Most of them never made it past the 1980's, although anybody who has had the misfortune to go shopping in the Arndale, or arrived at the grim Interchange will get the picture.

Fast forward to the new millennium, and the wheel appears to be reaching full circle. Having chased away almost all investment in the city, Bradford City Centre has to be one of the most forlorn places on the planet. The big Westfield Shopping Mall that was due to regenerate downtown, has been a huge crater for pushing five years now, with no sign of any imminent building work. The much loved Odeon building is in danger of becoming a matching hole, as the idiots seemed dead determined to reduce it to rubble, so some pie in the sky, soulless complex can take it's place. Throw in the moronic "City Park" scheme, and you may as well board the place up.

If all this doesn't convince you the lunatics are running the asylum, this must surely do so. In a bid to get folk shopping in town, some bright spark decided to have a German Christmas market for four weeks. A good idea, and one that was adopted by both Leeds and Manchester. Being fans of all things Teutonic, me and Helmet went to visit on a Friday night. Oompah bands, fine German ale and Bratwurst were much anticipated, until we got there. First up no band. Instead we had Slade piped over a PA system. People. In the Beer garden there were two people. Me and Helmet. The beer. "Which beer would you like? German or Carlsberg?" asked mein hostess. "German" we chorused. As she poured, Tony asked what kind it was. "Becks" she said. Now I realise that technically she was correct, but we were both hoping for something that was not available throughout the beer drinking world. The wurst was all right, but the stalls were pretty tacky, and because it shut up at eight o'clock, nobody was around. It was supposed to last a month, but the stall holders, not doubt out of pocket, high tailed it back to the Fatherland after just a fortnight.

Now let's compare it to the one in Leeds. A proper beer keller had been constructed, along with a separate tavern, both a which sold beers like Paulaners, a proper Bavarian drop, and one that is a little more authentic than Becks. They were open till eleven, and were so busy that there was a queue to get in, and groups of lads were not allowed entry. We took off round Leeds, which was full of chain bars, such as O'Neils and Yates, that long ago packed up and moved out of Bradford. The place was buzzing, and made me realise just how far behind my home town has fallen. How to stem the tide? That is the question, and one that I do not hold a definite answer too. But I can tell you one thing. A mirror lake and a few trees ain't going to solve the problem.