It's All A Bit Of A Blur Really

There is a rubbish tip in Enderby, Leicestershire, though rubbish tips don't really exist any more, now replaced by fastidiously managed Recycling Centres. Unlike the old rubbish tips where tangles of garbage - tube-blown tellys, burst mattresses, Christmas tree skeletons, potato peelings, stinking nappies and empty beer bottles - could be hoiked into seagull swarm-infested muddy pits before being buried by skinny, woodbine sucking, ginger haired men tearing around expertly in tractors, these Recycle Centres require the fussy sifting and near forensic categorising of rubbish.

If you need to use these places and you get it wrong, you risk the exaggerated wrath of the soiled yellow coated attendants. If you drop a piece of cardboard into the plastics receptacle as you try, unsuccessfully, to switch-dispatch left and right into the side by side skips, you'll elicit ' are you stupid' like theatrical sighs and head shake tut-tut frustration from these new lords of the mucky and the brassy.

Break the rules flagrantly however, like abandoning a hated washing machine that's flooded your kitchen and wrecked your flooring yet again, nearer the 'garden waste' than the 'old electrics' these guys - only one step up from our ginger tractor scrambler look as if they're capable of giving you an ass clout whether it's May or not.

I know all about the fragility of the planet and the ruination of it through pollution, but for a scrap the junk session give me the old dumping grounds any day, when the dispatcher was king - get it all in there, who cares what it is, you've defined it as crap, that's all that matters: grab, drag, yank, throw.

So... if I resemble a bit of a dumping ground, I think I'd prefer to be known as the 'enderby rubbish tip' rather than anything too green and prissy. So, I guess at least one person has found it.