Dustmen

Nowadays there are 15 different containers to recycle all and sundry being collected by 15 different collectors (just measure those emissions maan!), all very sensible of course. But I miss the clanking crunching sound of the good old fashioned British dustmen.

No ‘Greenways waste consultants’ corporate outfits for them. Normally stripped to the waste or more scarily wearing a leather jerkin (looking like a Celtic Soul Brothers-era bass player in Dexy’s Midnight runners). Their only concession to recycling was to pick out any choice items from your bin and put it in their own bag. They would then scatter the rest in a ramshackle manner up and down the street ensuring that the one bit of greenery in the garden would always feature a mouldy old tea bags.

Nor would they think twice about blocking up a one way street, they would park the dustcart slap in the middle of the road and then casually knock a few wing mirrors off as they ambled along. This would invariably be accompanied by tuneless whistling and the obligatory ‘blue’ story. Once they had decimated the street they would then head off into the next street belching dust and fumes, swearing and singing.

Meanwhile the one-armed Rupert the Bear toy that was strapped to the radiator grill would turn a lazy eye in your direction as they left, reminding you never to complain, never to moan and to make sure the ‘bloody bins are ready next Friday’…