A rebel without a clue.

The building of the bypass between 1986 and 1988 signalled the beginning of the end for this middle England, middle English, middle Yorkshire market town. Slowly but surely all the symbols of Wetherby's local mercantile trade were erased until by the end of 2010 Horton and Hollander's, toy shop extraordinaire, vanished on the High Street. All pubs, with the exception of the Crown, have been face lifted out of existence or else banished to be replaced by wine bars, restaurants, toy shops and bedding shops. Every pub, apart from the Crown, has had a few walls removed, appallingly cheaply make overs, façades of MDF and threadbare millenary, gardens covered with vast smoking areas and dens for paving slabs and concrete blocks. All menu's are steam in the bag affairs in kitchen's run by snot dribbling, fag smoking, oil stained 'chef's' for whom food is a four letter word. Just look at the cleanliness of these individuals: would you be willing to eat food prepare...

Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It's that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it's another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies. Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We're bombing the wrong people.