I hate showing non-tattooed people my brand new, just-done-that-day work. They want to see it. Go on, show us, they beg. I refuse but they persist. We want to see, pleeease, they say, breathlessly. I try to explain that it’s not as it will be when it’s healed but they don’t - they can’t - understand that. They can’t really comprehend ‘healed’ because they don’t really understand the process involved. The whole concept of tattooing is so alien to them they imagine I’ll whip off the dressing and a luminously bright, smooth, unscabby, fully finished design will be all present and correct beneath. I imagine they think it might be a bit pink round the edges, but that’s all.

So there we were, driving through a iron-cold Northern evening, the beat up, Beat-baby car thudding into every pothole and the road a slug-silvery track into some Godless anti-Eden city where we would construct, with the arcane and brutal Mysteries of rock n' roll, yet another furnace-bright blast of music from New York Alcoholic Anxiety Attack, the savage Young Guns of the
Northern music scene and my personal bad habit. Yes indeedy, roll up one and all and see the Devil Woman's Hell-Hounds howl the night apart at the seams and tear the moon down for a toy. Hah.

Arabella Spencer-Churchill died this morning. I realise many of you reading this will not have heard of her, but you may pause at her surname - her grandfather was Winston Churchill and love him or loathe him, Churchill is of the most famous names in English history. Arabella was Winston's beloved grand-daughter - and the driving force behind all the really authentic and interesting bits of Glastonbury Festival, the bohemian Grande Dame and pride of European rock music festivals.

This will be a fairly short Blog (for me, anyway) because I'm too cross to write much and anyway, not much needs to be said on this topic.

No, it's not about how much I genuinely and completely hate fireworks and think any parent who lets their child juggle with lit mega-bangers as if they were apples, like the boys I saw doing just this the other night, should be locked up (and none of this we-didn't-know-they-were-doing-it rubbish given said ten years olds were roaming the streets at nearly midnight - like, what did you think they were doing? Hopscotch?).

Nor is it about the state of the city's current Brutalist Nouveau style of architecture - and what exactly was the point of pulling down those ticky-tacky 60's blocks if you replace them with even more hideous buildings that will look fresh for two years then take on the bedraggled appearance of Lego that's been left out all summer under a bush?

No, the reason I am cross is because the Council in its infinite and inexplicable reason is thinking about terminating the City Centre Warden scheme.

Yes, it's true. How mad is that? You couldn't make stuff like this up, believe me.

First they go on at length about improving the image and raising the profile of our beloved city - we need to make the rest of the country see Bradford as many of us see it - a gracious, welcoming haven, filled with charming historic buildings, set in the green embrace of the nearby moorlands, full of trees and parks, home to a thriving cosmopolitan community etc., etc.

Visit Bradford, shop in Bradford, enjoy Bradford in peace and safety! So what do the Council do? Get rid of the very women and men who have done so much to ensure at a practical grass-roots level, the peace and safety of the city centre.

The shop-owners don't want the Wardens to go. The shoppers don't want the Wardens to go. The Police very probably (I haven't asked them but it's a fair guess given their workload) don't want the Wardens to go.

Petitions with thousands of signatures to keep the Wardens have been handed in. The only people who want rid of the Wardens are the thieving, drunken, druggie,
violent, racist, bullying minority who benefit enormously from being unsupervised to wander wild and free in the city centre and the Council, because, they say, they don't have the money for Wardens anymore.

Well, here's a thought, folks. Why not leave Centenary Square as it is - maybe do a bit more with the trees and flowers, make it prettier with things from the Parks And Gardens Department - and forget the grandiose schemes for
lakes and wonky-looking space-alien lights, and keep the Wardens, who actually accomplish something concrete for the citizens of Bradford?

Whoah! Daring and innovative, I know - what, put the actual needs of Bradfordians above the desire of the Council to look Big and Clever? Yes, crazy, but what
the heck. Tell it how it is. Make that leap. Do something the citizens of Bradford really want, rather than impose on them things they couldn't give a
dog's bottom about, that cost a fortune and are utterly, utterly meaningless in real life terms.

Listen, Bradford Council (remember, it's that thing you do with your ears?).

Do not get rid of the Wardens. Bring back the Rat Men, too, come to that. In the name of all you hold dear, Bradford Council, do something practical and worthwhile for a change. Then we'll respect you and believe in you. Because at present, guess what? We so, so don't.

Once upon a time far, far away there was a small but rather tastefully bijou city nestled cosily in a deep-sided valley where the winds sweeping down from the moorlands tingled with the scent of heather and brought wild roses to the cheeks of children playing in the numerous parks and gardens.

During the course of this weekend (27th-29th July 2007) some of you wandering through Town may have noticed that in front of City Hall, in Centenary Square, is an enormous, wonderfully pink, BRADFORD.

That is, gigantic, three-dimensional letters forming the name of our beloved city. On castors. It might spell BRA DORF by now, but anyway.