Someone said there are local elections in June. Don't expect me to be out there wasting my valuable spare time trying to find the directions to a draughty community centre where sad gits with rosettes, who clearly don't get out much, hassle you about your vote. I did it for years and then one day, I went down the boozer instead, which was much more fun. And ever since then my hands haven't had the pleasure of gripping a stubby pencil inside a wobbly polling booth made out of hardboard and the earth hasn't exactly moved on its axis. The same old red-faced councillors with egg stains get elected with a turnout of about 15% and then carry on with their party games at the town hall trying to convince us they do something useful other than having themselves pictured on pages 2, 4, 6, 8 and 10 of the council propaganda sheet kissing babies and planting trees. The same old suits on telephone number salaries turn up in their fancy motors and free parking at the civic centre while the rest of us slum it in the NCP at £1 an hour. And, this shower expects me to act like a bleeding fig leaf by ‘voting' for them. On your bike...