Not In My Back Yard

My Dad has managed inadvertently to become a Town Councillor, in pretty much the same way that I managed inadvertently to become an organist. This means that he has to trot along to various town planning meetings and represent the views of various groups of residents, generally on planning permission issues. From what I can make out, these groups seem to consist of people who are opposing something being built (or kept open late) near to where they live.

Now I love the South East of England: the weather is nice, the pubs serve decent beer and so on, but occasionally people can be prone to sudden losses of common sense.

What on earth is the point of a kebab shop which closes at 11pm?

Do people not realise that this type of food is only palatable after five pints of Stella and a round of Sambuca? And moreover, at that time of night the only other place you are likely to find enough grease to counteract the near-fatal hangover you are shortly to experience is on the hair of the teenage attendant at the all-night garage...

Drunk people need lard and sleazy Turkish guys need to sell kebabs: accept that fact and everyone is happy.

Living on one of the main streets that links the centre of town and Kazimierz to the residential districts on the other side of the river, (and moreover having discovered the hard way that Polish people Love to Sing) I find it difficult to feel much sympathy.