Leading nowhere / Fountains of folly

Leading nowhere
As a kid travelling in the back of a Ford Cortina Estate on the way to visit my relatives, I’d watch the tame Cheshire pasture fall away as we crossed the A6 and headed into wilder terrain where the Peak District gave way to the more prominent peaks of the Pennines.
My aunts, uncles and my half cousins twice removed - one by under-age ‘marriage’, one by being sectioned under the Mental Health Act - would scrape a living doing things like running petrol stations equipped with pumps from the pre-war period or working with bobbins in mills undertaking tasks that are now just the preserve of re-enactors in National Trust Industrial Heritage Centres. I remember always feeling rather glad that I was adopted.
These places where they lived, from near Hyde to near Glossop and then further north by Saddleworth Moor, are locations that do attract a few day-trippers from the big city. But that’s not because of the view, it’s because it’s as far as their Greater Manchester pensioner travelcards will get them without paying any extra. This area is bleak but boring. It’s at the edge of the mighty Manchester metropolis but without even a murmur of edginess.
Us children would especially look forward to visiting our relatives there during Winter. It was guaranteed that we’d be able to sledge, although there was always the concern that we’d get snowed in again. It’s hard to predict who’d have been the survivors - us or the relatives - if we’d been snowed in for longer than a day or two as cannibalism would've been sure to have quickly broken out. The Moors Murderers and Dr. Harold Shipman both operated nearby.
And sometimes, when the conversation got just too bizarre with those who are now dead - or at least last seen in their coffins - I’d absent myself from their lounge and head down the hill from Charlesworth and the like to places like Mottram-in-Longdendale.
Village life
I’ve read that a new bronze plaque has just been installed by the council - Tameside MBC - in Mottram to serve inquisitive intruders ignorant enough to actually be seeking out local ‘tourist attractions’. It’s good to know that this plaque, which is a map of the village showing all the local sites of interest, is pressed out as little images in the metal. That’ll help illiterate locals to either simply look at the pretty pictures or even just run their fingers over the burnished bronze if they're incapable of computing shapes.
I can’t imagine that there can be much that could figure on this map. The highlight must be the former cottage of the artist Lowry. Other places reported as being listed include a former (supposedly historical) post office.
But there’s also another local feature that’s been pressed into the bronze undulations. It depicts a little lane and the house that is at No. 8. No, it’s not the site of yet some other terrible murder or even a house whose front room was where sheep were first crossbred with different species. This ‘tourist attraction’ is no less than the home of the Leader of the Council, Councillor Roy Oldham CBE.
You’d think that the councillor might have proved a little shy when the local paper asked for a comment about his entry on the bronze plaque. Maybe one of those ‘the councillor wasn’t available for comment’ responses. But you don’t get to rule a Metropolitan Borough continuously for 27 years - and earn an allowance of £50,000 a year (along with a good car) - through being coy.
The confusingly named Councillor Oldham (if he is that dedicated, you’d think that he’d change his name to something more appropriate - Councillor Ashton under Lyne maybe or, better still, Councillor Broadbottom) replied, "It’s like when a carpenter works in a church and carves a little church mouse on the bottom for an emblem. I don’t see why anyone should make a problem but there are sad people in all walks of life."
Leading in the wrong direction
I’ve met many council leaders, not a few of whom got to take their apolitical mediocrity all the way from chairing an Allotments Sub Committee to membership of parliamentary select committees. I’ve never had time for any of them.
I do however remember a period when you could tell the difference between leading councillors and leading council officers. For a start, they’d look different. Could Councillor Oldham then have been distinguishable from his council's chief executive through the former sporting a few stickers supporting some cause, or perhaps he may have worn a CND badge when he first took political control of that local authority in those early Thatcher years? I remember a London council leader who shaved her head, leaving just a star covering the top part of her skull that she then dyed red, before she attended an important council budget meeting.
The brief flowering of the Labour Left - of which she was part - was always anaemic and with short life prospects. The dye ran out and she grew her hair back quick.
Just a few years later I was present when a scruffily attired Labour councillor stood up at full council meeting at mayor making time and argued for the process to be abandoned. He proposed some radical sounding alternative measures including installing a ‘peoples mayor’ and the distribution of the mayoral hospitality budget to better causes.
When that councillor had finished speaking, he discovered that no-one would second his motion. He looked round to see that all of his many fellow Labour councillors were either closely examining their hands for possible calluses or taking an interest in the design of the very plain council chamber ceiling above their heads.
Another council leader of my acquaintance started his working life flogging seafood on a stall. He was well known for both his stentorian fund raising efforts in the local market for miners on strike in 1984/5 and his always shambolic appearance. The guy had also amassed a large collection of labour movement badges over the years. He was well known to his fellow train-spotters or 'collectors of Labour and TU movement ephemera' - who were the sort of blokes who’d sell Tribune and wear a red shirt and red tie to go with their ginger beard if they were ever to speak at Labour Party conference - for the breadth and depth of his collection.
But that was long before. When I last saw him he was now a suited and expensively shod council leader. I passed him in the Town Hall corridor as I was leaving for a lunch hour visit to the nearby picket line of a large strike that had just broken out.
Almost in jest, I asked him whether I could pass on the support of the council leader to the strikers. I did think I saw a short flash of the old spark on his face until the rigour set in and he shook head dismissively - either from the very notion of the idea or my impertinence in making such a request.
I walked a few paces down the corridor but he then called me back. "Yes?" I asked. "Do you think you could see if you could get hold of any of their strike badges?" he replied.
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Fountains of folly
It’s hot. So if I’m out locally and I want a drink, what’s on offer? In the Spar, Londis or similar owner-managed shops located within easy walking distance of where I live, the range on sale there is poor. Their soft drinks are usually simply sugar solutions with added flavourings or there is expensive tap water that was bottled on Huddersfield trading estates.
Our market economy clearly isn’t going to deliver cheap and good quality drinks for sale in local shops. So what measures could be used to protect kids’ teeth and stop us either being obliged to lug around bottles of water filled at home or pay through the nose for H2O. Or will retailers continue to coin cash from increasingly porky punters paying hand over fist for corporation pop? Why can’t drinking fountains be provided?
I remember seeing many working public drinking fountains in Italy. A measure that maybe helps contribute to the noticeable sveltness of Italians? I was told that the fascists installed them. Can we just have the drinking water but without a Duce?
Occasionally when a new park is built, or refurbished, a drinking fountain will be installed. But when you return six months later you find that it’s no longer functioning - petty vandalism has been allowed to wreck the facility and no attempt has been made to either undertake routine maintenance or repair any damage.
Planning gain
Councils are sometimes partially paid for their awarding of planning permission by the developer of the land providing ‘planning gain’. Maybe a housebuilder will be allowed to build properties on parkland as long as they contribute a pittance to a new community centre. These fountains can also be ‘planning gain’.
The benefits of planning gain are often no more than a line in a planning officers report or a quickly taken photo (before the facility is removed or falls apart) in the Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) section of a company’s annual report.
(The CSR section in an annual report is the part that stretches across more pages than the details of the company’s biggest division but is reporting on just an exceedingly small fraction of the company’s annual expenditure.)
I’ve never worked out whether the poor and often temporary nature of much planning gain is because of local authority incompetence, their legal powerlessness or simple corruption.
When a new Safeways supermarket was built in Stratford in east London, a sizeable area at the front of the new store was devoted to a crèche. This facility lasted about a year. The store now uses that area to sell newspapers, magazines and confectionery.
If you look around some supermarkets that have been built in the last few years you may still see the words ‘Bus Stop’ painted on the road where the taxis pick up. But quite possibly the only sign you will see of a bus service will be the remnants of a broken timetable holder.
When these supermarkets opened the company provided a free bus service - to local hard to reach estates, or to the locality where they shut a predecessor store - as part of the planning gain for the new site. But six months later, or a year perhaps, these bus service were quietly dropped in much the same way the fountains fall into disuse.
Free and clean
But it wasn’t always so. You can still become acquainted with the priorities of some of the Victorian industrialist philanthropists (and I suspect that these priorities haven’t changed in the values of their descendants) when you look at their funding of charities that ensured the availability of free drinking water in the streets.
You can still rarely see the remnants of the installations that performed this task. There are just a few left and nearly all are abandoned and derelict. They all seem to have the name of the charity lettered on their side in those distinctive fonts from a century or more ago and which you now only generally see on graves from that period.
Unlike other Victorian and Edwardian structures, such as railway stations which are still in use and so hide their age well, these fountains are one of the last remnants of something that no longer exists. A relic from a different life not unlike those Edwardian style ‘pointing finger’ signs that have been recently removed from use at polling stations.
But these fountains weren’t built at the normal height. They are just troughs resting on the ground, no higher than a person's knee. All that Victorian era charity wasn’t spent to enable a passing street urchin or costermonger to refresh themselves. They were there to provide water to those with more value - the horses - in much the same way rich widows dying in Prestatyn still leave all their fortune to the RSPCA rather than to relieve any human suffering.



