Monthly Archives: August 2013

Half Ounce And Chips Please

Friends and readers.

The police have raided Javits takeaway in West Granton Road as part of an ongoing campaign against organised crime in the North of Edinburgh. Rumours have been doing the rounds about Javits, and how they so easily received planning permission, how they managed to change a front garden into a car park next to the takeaway.

Many in the Community have complained about their seemingly flouting of the law. We ask anybody concerned to take a walk past this takeaway and see for themselves the reversing in and out of this make shift car park without due care. Who gave them permission to do this. We understand they were refused an drinks licence, thank goodness for that.

As for drugs, rumours have been rife for a while, this of course does not make them guilty of drug dealing, but certainly warrants a closer look. North Edinburgh has been plagued for years by the riff raff who think they can get away with what they like.  This particular part of Granton is in a disgusting and dangerous state. Takeaways, alcohol sales, bookie, pub, and no traffic control whatsoever. If the local police want a laugh then sit a vehicle discretely in the area and witness the mayhem of this area.

We are entitled to live in a safe Community, this kind of behaviour or the disgusting state of the area would not be tolerated by our friends in Trinity, or Cramond or Barnton or Ravelston but it’s tolerated in Granton. Leadership of our elected members is required here and a clean up of this fast becoming shithouse.  Recently a young mother was threatened by a couple of wasters who were hanging around outside Javits. A member of the public came to her aid and the two wasters ran off.

Not for us the glamour of the Edinburgh Festival and the coverage on the BBC2 culture show with those culture vultures with their heads up their asses. Why not cover the real city not some silly overpriced shows. Granton is a victim of neglect which allows crime to flourish, but that’s alright as it doesn’t threaten the tourist trade. But it seems it’s perfectly alright to allow the dregs of society to do what they like and then send in a few wooly jerseyed Guardian reader Social Workers to make matters worse.

This area of West Granton Road is a magnet for the undesirables, and keeps others away. The traffic lights are just there for decoration, as time after time the red light is broken, we witnessed a council vehicle break the red light and then stop further on only for the driver to go into the bookies. We have the vehicle registration. Not good enough, not nearly good enough, and apart from a brief period this Community has been dominated by the Labour Party, result, very little. Pilton Sucks has passed on information to the council about local problems that need addressed, result, nothing.

So wheather it’s drugs, gambling, alcohol, anti social behaviour, crime and unemployment, come to Granton fill your boots as no one in authority really gives a toss. We do and will continue to highlight the shortcomings of those supposedly in charge.

Silence Is Golden

Friends and readers.

It has reached the ever vigilant ears of Pilton Sucks, that the peoples party are to try and move some sort of cobbled together motion, sacking staff if they speak out, and the comrades don’t like it. So suffer in silence, or we will get rid of you. Edinburgh City Council is being run by a coalition but the comrades are the largest group.

If this rumour proves to be true then so endeth the freedom to speak out if you think things are wrong. Stuff that. This City is leaderless, spineless and without any idea in how to govern. Maybe comrade Burns should demand that 3 jobs Bruce stick to the job she is employed to do and not do so much moonlighting.

Maybe instead of trying to silence staff with threats of dismissal, start showing some backbone and hammer these second rate contractors who have gone from blunder to blunder in the farcical Tram system. Maybe stop officials doing what they like and sack them for doing as they please. Maybe get rid of SSE who mis-sold, lied to people about energy packages.

Maybe forget this stupid idea and encourage people to speak out, you just might find out what’s going on. It’s all good and well making threats and patting yourself on the back, but it is a road to nowhere. Sitting dreaming up stupid ideas mainly because you have no real constructive ideas, portrays an administration without leadership, and being lead by those appointed to post and not elected to office.

Party machines have left us devoid of candidates with real calibre, and given us people selected by a handful of members and then thrust upon the electorate with a party label. There is real talent out in our Communities, many of who have actually had a real job, and got their hands dirty, but would never get near public office, because they don’t have a party label stuck to their chest. It’s likely that most of the elected members of Edinburgh City Council were selected by less than a dozen hacks.

Politics is dying, being strangled by the party machines and candidates who say and do the right thing and have very little ideas of their own. Sitting in little closeted rooms moving meaningless resolutions, thinking they have reached that eureka moment. And so we reach a point when these party hacks who are frightened of saying anything that might upset the handful of hacks that selected them, come up with cock and bull ideas like sacking staff who speak out.

Certainly Labour party branches are controlled by a handful of individuals and that’s no secret, and the rest are only wanted when it comes to delivering leaflets. If the Labour Party really mean business then vast change is needed and a root and branch clear out. Surely you should have more life qualifications, rather than the ability to stack a meeting in your favour,  known as busing them in. If we are serious about leading then lead. Here’s two starters, either instruct 3 jobs Bruce to concentrate on her well paid job as Chief Executive or tender her resignation, and start using fiscal penalties against these Tram contractors who are just laughing at this City and it’s citizens.

It Just Gets Better

Friends and readers.

This is one we even found hard to believe. We had to rub our eyes in disbelief, bunting yes bunting has been put up along Constitution Street in some sort of sicky celebration of the completion of the roads that were dug up for the now abandoned Tram line, and of course the repairs are not completed yet, surprise surprise.

Some bloody idiots in the Council ordered this, who employs these people. Does our old mate, regular sucks reader,  pretty much chair of everything, inspired Tram champion and now pot hole supremo Lesley Prada Hinds know about this, after all she’s supposed to be in charge. It just continues to make you shake your head in disbelief and frustration at this utter mess.

Pilton Sucks has and is totally against this expensive, not needed, waste of time, money losing Tram system. The citizens of this city, wooly jerseyed Guardian readers apart, have suffered this nonsense for what seems forever, and we must be the laughing stock of Europe. The whole thing has been a disaster from the start and just gets worse. No leadership, no supervision, no idea how to make this crap work, just continue to spend taxpayers money and hope for the best. As the City looks for ways to screw us even further, it seems the dripping roast that is the Tram system suffers no lack of money wasted on it.

We are now just cash cows for a leaderless City, devoid of any ideas on how to properly run the finances of the City. Sue 3 jobs Bruce has got the right idea, get yourself a watertight contract of employment, get another couple of wee earners in Council Time, and then tell anyone who complains to fuck off. Where the hell is Comrade Burns in all this, just use the old excuse it’s the management system, bullshit he just does not have a clue what to do.

The ship is rudderless and without a course heading. Probably a better idea to hang the officials along Constitution Street instead of bunting. Have you in all your life heard such utter crap. The poor bloody taxpayers must be at their wits end with this mob in charge. Don’t vote for them it just encourages them. We need leadership, we are screaming out for it, where is it. Former Transport Chair comrade Burns is just a kiddy in a sweet shop but without any money to buy anything, so just licks his lips and tells everyone what a delight this all is and everything is great.

Yeah course it is, in fact let’s put a few bits of artwork and some more bunting, lets have a party all year round, forget the fact it would be hard enough for this lot to run a raffle never mind a City. But no dear friends we are all part of a masterplan, another one to add to the many that have been devised and binned over the period. YOU JUST COULDN’T MAKE THIS UP. WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG.

Fair Cop Guv

riends and readers.

Our shitty jobs series is giving our wide and growing readership a good laugh, and so to continue the mirth making, we have a punter who for a while worked in the graveyard legal services dept of Edinburgh City Council.

So desperate was I to get a foot on the legal ladder that I accepted a paralegal job with Edinburgh City Council for minimum wages. My sense of fair play being what it is, I decided to do as little work as possible in return. However my line manager had other ideas. If she was going to pay me minimum wages, she was determined to treat me like any other minimum wage slave, and give me any and every shitty task she could think of.

Just to add at this point, when I joined the Department which was full of half assed idiots who couldn’t spell legal, there were in a bit of a panic as a major bullying case had hit their desks. This involved a joker called Jimmy Hewitt and his side kick, a clown called Frank Kane. It was so obvious they were guilty of staff abuse and they should have been sacked, but we were asked to look at ways to justify what was clearly two cowardly bully’s who had systematically abused staff over a lengthy period of time. The evidence against Hewitt was overwhelming but his managers had wet their pants trying to protect themselves against a Health and Social Care Department that was riddled with tin pot bully’s of which Hewitt was one.

We had numerous complaints against this fat little turd but he always managed to hide behind someone. His statements along with his half witted side kick Kane were a tissue of lies, and these two jobsworth nonentities, should have been thrown out of the Council. As a matter of interest Hewitt is still in Post in that Dept, but hopefully staff will be wised up to this pig farming bully, and watching for his cowardly behaviour. It is my sincere hope and belief that shits like Hewitt will get theirs eventually, and their little miserable lives will get a taste of what they dished out, fuckin shithouses.

Anyway back at the ranch.  After about a month of fighting spiders the size of my head in the archives. [153,000 unlabelled boxes stuffed full of random papers], repairing photocopiers [ever tried to remove a split toner cartridge when wearing a white shirt?], washing cars and I kid you not, cleaning shoes, I finally got a chance to look over some legal stuff including the bullying scandal that had become something of a public nature, and where privately I hoped that that little no-necked fucker Hewitt would get his just deserts. At least I was doing what I was trained to do.

Luckily my college had trained me very well at sitting quietly and taking notes, as that was about the limit of my duties. Usually most of my day was taken up by reading statements and taking notes as that was the limit of my duties. Then I’d spend the evening writing them up into something vaguely comprehensible. This was apart from the day my boss arrived about three hour’s late, leaving me to calm a hysterical Social Worker who had fucked up useless twat, and taken up with a mindless thug less than half her age. My boss who had been on a course [aye a golf course] told me to ditch the case and run for the hills, that’s legal speak for run like fuck.

The Council is full of these know all do gooders who are in the wrong place at the wrong time and fuck it up for everybody. Dosen’t  help if your so called seniors abandon you to the clutches of the knuckle dragging low lifes of society who just take, abuse, threaten and generally fuck up your life. Apart from these kind of pathetic stories the one saving grace about the job was that every day at 2pm sharp, the boss would give me £20 and send me to the local off licence to get her 40 Benson and Hedges, and two of the cheapest bottles of wine they’ve got. Waverley Court is full of these secret binge drinkers.

Several hours into one of our meetings she stopped suddenly and left the room, quickly. My career path was settled the second I noticed the substantial dark patch on the chair on which she had been sitting. Lousy tasks for no money I could handle, hoping pricks like Hewitt would get their comeuppance made the job tolerable, but incontinence was above and beyond the call of duty. I was out of the door before she’d returned from the bathroom. For all I know she’s still in there.

Coming To A Door Near You

Friends and readers.

Just recently we heard that there maybe an application to build a Mosque in Granton, down around where Terry’s the Newsagent’s is. That’s all we have at he moment, but we understand although this is unconfirmed that those concerned with the application gave a presentation to the Management Committee of the Royston Wardieburn Community Center at their last meeting.

If we receive any more information we will let you all know.

Social Care And Instant Repair

Friends and readers.

How many of you curious readers of our’s have sat up nights wondering what the ladies and gents who scurry around the Community clothed in their Lilac jackets are actually doing. Well wonder no more dear friends for Pilton Sucks has been stalking our angels in lilac to find out exactly what’s going down.

All across the wilderness of the Community our friends scurry like the white rabbit of Alice in Wonderland, attending to the needs and requirements of our citizens in situ. Some by bus some on foot and some by no mileage allowance cars. This is the free personal care industry in action, and we have to say what a wonderful job they do.

Many of out elderly and infirm depend on the service that our friends deliver, driven by the devotion to duty and the odd cup of tea. Managed from that beating heart of activity at West Pilton Gardens by Peter stressed out Stiles our angels in Lilac cover all parts of the Community and beyond. From early in the morning to the coming out of the vampires at night the Lilac angels do all the things for those that the rest of us take for granted.

Moving swiftly from client to client, as if in training for the Olympics, maybe it should be an Olympic sport our Lilac cladded friends know every type of pill on the market, who gets what and how many and on what day, and even what colour they are. These masters of invention will know every bit of gossip there is to know and some, so if you are at the ham and doing a spot of work on the side early in the morning or late at night our friends will know about it and probably had a bit of work done themselves, nothing like employing local labour.

Not for them the work dodging support workers who are supposed to engage punters in the Community, but look and invent imaginary ways not to, no indeed my friends quite the opposite for our friends in Lilac, they go out into the Community and do all the things that a stand up comedian would pay to know. With their wire brush and detol kept handy in their Council issue tool kit, no greasy plate or suspect toilet is left untouched by that wire brush and miraculous liquid.

Yes dear friends the air is pungent with the smell of detol and Cillet Bang grease destroyer, as our angels set about their tasks with vigor.  No time for the odd Mars bar or  the sugar laden home made tablet, nor even hanging out their own teenage children’s suspect underwear as they rush from house to house or centre to centre delivering the famous package of care, while supremo Peter stressed out Stiles waits on the phone call telling him one of his angels is 5 minutes late for their next client and his world falls in and he reaches for the Vallium.

North Edinburgh is a beacon of light in the free personal care industry, and a fine example of good work done and mainly done un-noticed. So next time a flash of Lilac rushes past you with the strong smell of Detol which brings tears to your eyes, think of the poor bugger who is about to be given the Social Care treatment with a sprinkling of Cillet Bang and ponder on the thought of what a poorer place this would be without them and how unhappy the makers of Detol would be.

We Seek Him There

Friends and readers.

Our old mate and regular Sucks reader Ross Sur Mer McEwan has been posted missing. One Community worthy we spoke to thought he must have gone to ground or looking for dosh from the Council for some other hair brained scheme he’s dreamed up. Ah the heady days of outdoor swimming in sunny Granton alongside perfumed gardens and artists in residence is alas no more, but we can still dream of that utopian wonderland.

And what of the big Lottery cash, has that gone the same way as well, probably. The last sighting of our old mate, was we are told at the planning Committee’s passing of the application to build cardboard houses and handkerchief size gardens on City Park. One eagle eyed member of the disgruntled audience noticed our old mate Ross shaking hands with one of the Committee. Maybe of course our old mate is on his hols, pipe dreaming his next smash and grab scheme.

Well we do hope our old mate is fit and well and ready to try and con the Council with another quality project. In fact we are told that our other good pal and regular sucks reader, pretty much chair of everything, inspired Tram champion and now pot hole supremo Lesley Prada Hinds is looking for further inspiration now that she is jumping up and down at the thought of artworks all along the Tramway. Now there we have a match made in heaven, our mate Ross could add his numerous talents to further inspire our other good mate Prada Hinds and together they could make music together, as long as the taxpayers stumped up.

Hello Anybody In

Friends and readers

Our shitty job series is done for laughs and a few home truths, and this one is a belter, a door to door saleman in the fun filled estates of North Edinburgh.

I sat in a small reception room with six sorry looking souls when a spray on tanned man with a golden mullet burst through a side door. ‘Hi’ He was American, so off to a bad start. ‘My names Gary! Who wants to make money? YEAH YEAH. He came over and shook my hand rather too vigorously.

‘We’ve got a great job for you here, Colin. You like to work hard?’ I muttered ‘yes’ like a drone. ‘Well that’s great! We’re the best at making money here y’know! If you want to go down to the front door Eddie’s waitin for ya!’

A moment later I was outside with eight young lads, all dressed in suits and all eagerly sucking on Lambert and Butlers and not talking. A guy who looked like he’d had too many speedballs came over. I’m Eddie C’mon. He set off walking at such a pace that I momentarily forgot that I still didn’t know what the job was. We all got on a bus looking like a bunch of bloody Mormons selling salvation door to door.

Of course it was door to door selling, in and around the Estates of North Edinburgh. Eddie was going to show me how to sell deal leaflets for two local ‘restaurants’. Things didn’t look good at all. Every house we visited seemed to be occupied by Nazi pit-bull breeders or crying, fourteen year old mothers. We stopped at a pub for lunch and I saw a man eat a raw potato, cursing his luck that his last fiver had gone on a horse which had just got beaten on the post. While another sat laughing and pointing in a way that only the genuinely insane can.

My feet were bleeding but I persevered. I thought that once it got dark and the mutants came out to play we’d head home. We didn’t. When we finally got back to base, which was in fact a dingy damp room rented from the local Council on a short term lease, Gary was waiting for us. He counted in the cash from Eddie and the other ‘marketing executives’,  kept some for himself and gave the rest back out before congratulating each of us.

A perfect example of the whore/pimp nature of capitalism. Then without warning, a huge brass bell came out of his bag. He rang it so loudly I nearly shat myself. Over this clanging he started to bellow ‘ WHO’S THE BEST?. ‘WE ARE’ everyone shouted back. Over and over. I left the room to spend the next four months on the dole recovering from the experience.

Someone’s Watching You

Friends and readers.

Our shitty jobs series is alarmingly popular with our wide and growing readership. So just to add a little spice to the shitty jobs market, we offer to you something a little different. We won’t try and explain it to you just have a read and you will get the plot. Before we let our wide and growing readership read this little delight, we must tell you that the peoples blogsite Pilton Sucks has not signed the official secrets act so if MI5 or Special Branch get in a sweat and charge us with treason, tough shit.

After a glorious Comprehensive state funded third rate education, and by some unexplained chance my uncle started working for MI5 in 1962. His first assignment was to infiltrate the Communist Party, In reality a small club full of future middle class wooly jerseyed Guardian Readers. He was given a new name, a job working for the railways and the task of immersing himself in his new identity. After ten years he had worked his way up through the railworkers union to a position of influence within the Communist Party.

But his success was to be his downfall. He was such a good asset to MI5 that it became less and less likely that they would ever allow such a successful operative to ‘come out’ and be re-assigned to another mission. He had to live on the Rail workers salary so as not to draw attention to himself, he wasn’t allowed to pursue any interests that might conflict with his identity, he couldn’t have any time off from his new life and had constantly to lie to his family.

So throughout the next twenty years the only link he had with the intelligence service was a monthly meeting with his contact at MI5. In the end he went mad, his wife and children left him and he started to compulsively collect newspaper clippings that related to his original mission. The piles of paper began to take over his house. It got so bad that in the end he had to cut pathways through the piles of newspapers that had filled every room. Eventually because newspaper is made from poor quality paper, the paper dust he habitually inhaled began to shred his lungs with tiny paper cuts until one day he effectively drowned in his own blood.

The truth about his life only emerged ten years after he was buried. Most crap jobs steal some of your time, his stole his life.

It’s Cold Outside

Friends and readers.

We have had numerous accolades with our shitty jobs series and so we merrily march on with another corker. This time it concerns a poor soul who was cold calling in and around the delights of Pilton and Muirhouse. Lucky him.

After a string of bad temping gigs I came across an advert in the Edinburgh Evening News headed simply ‘Earn up to a £100 a day’. I already had a pile of non essential CDs lined up for the Record and Tape Exchange so  I figured I had nothing to lose. I called the number and with all the zeal and pride of the desperate jobseeker, described my many glorious achievements. It didn’t take long.

The voice at the other end of the phone was remarkably unforthcoming about exactly what it was that I’d have to do to earn up to £100 a day, but I was invited to an address in North Edinburgh for ‘training’ the following Saturday. So, three days later I shelled out a few quid for a weekly bus ticket and an hour later took my seat with a dozen others in a room, somewhere in Greater Pilton, that contained only chairs, tables and telephones. It smelt faintly of fish.

Confidently, I proved that not only could I speak English, but I could also count. I was then inducted into the talkative world of telesales, the company sold paper by the ream. I must say that I was also given the 50pence tour of the area in question, and boy was it a culture shock. I was accompanied by a seasoned professional on a cold winter’s morning knocking doors in the Costa del Muirhouse trying to sell paper by the ream to punters with printers for their computers. Please don’t laugh it’s true, only I didn’t know that these natives would pinch the sugar out of your tea then come back for the milk.

Anyway once I had been blooded back to the rented office I did go. This was a commission job only, no private calls, no deviation from the script, no conferring, nothing allowed on the desk, one hour for lunch, start Monday. On each table was a dainty little parlour bell, when you made a sale you picked it up and rang it. It was kind of medieval.

To earn a £100 a day, I now estimate, you’d have to be making a sale about every ten minutes. It took me 15 minutes just to work through the script. The other added delight, was that of an evening the team as we were grandly called had to go round the area from Granton Road through to Muirhouse Gardens hand delivering leaflets. Delightful job, we even got to meet some of the punters who greeted us with the standard ‘sad bastards’.

I did that job for a week, never deviating from the script – offering shit like free samples of crappy shampoo with their reams of paper, problem was no fucker knew what a ream of paper was. Needless to say I didn’t make a single sale. The bells pealed round me as pustulent sixteen year olds read their scripts with a winning mix of menace and charm. There was one tattooed knuckle dragger called Darren, aren’t they all, who just simply threatened anyone who didn’t want to buy his nicely varied coloured paper. Someone eventually punched him on the nose and he cried like a baby.

By Wednesday the twelve of us who’d started had been reduced to seven, and by Friday I too was forced to admit defeat, crushed by the following brutal equation. Outgoings £40 plus sundries. Earnings nil.