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Dear Bristol Evening Post,I write to complain about an article which you published onthe 8th of December in the "Devil's Advocate" column,discussing the establishment of a training facility for thewindow cleaning industry known as The British WindowCleaning Academy. (The text of the article is quotedbelow, along with a hyperlink to the webpage)Firstly, the sentiment that only stupid people become windowcleaners is not only untrue, but totally indefensible.Secondly, training for the window cleaning industry is not,as was suggested, unnecessary. Approximately 10 windowcleaners die every year in the UK, and the only way tocombat this poor safety record is by means of appropriatetraining. This is now provided by the BWCA primarily inresponse to calls from the HSE for a recognized standard oftraining, but also as a result of phenomenal demand from thewindow cleaning industry.The British Window Cleaning Academy Ltd, far from being aswas suggested "just a sinister front for teaching criminalsthe latest house-breaking techniques" is well respected inthe window cleaning industy. A registered City &Guilds NVQ Centre, the BWCA has recently established a newtraining facility in Wiltshire. The courses it offerscover working-at-height safety, fall-arrest equipment, theuse of powered-access plant, compliance with regulations,rope-access techniques, water-fed poles, maintenence ofwater-purification plant, the control of legionella andmany other subjects besides which are greatly relevant tothe window cleaning industry, and in many cases couldpotentially save lives. I have personally attended severalof the BWCA's courses and found the standard of training tobe excellent.I would argue that the portrayal of the window cleaningindustry in your article, and in particular the viciousattack on the BWCA was irresponsible, unjustified,factually inaccurate and commercially damaging. I wouldsuggest that the author of the article take the time toattend some of the BWCA's courses before expressing anopinion on these.I know that the company behind the BWCA has gone toconsiderable effort, not to mention expense, to establishthe Academy as a credible source of training for the windowcleaning industry, and I am both dismayed and puzzled as towhy its efforts should be attacked in this manner. I haveinformed the BWCA of this matter, and I will be reportingon the results.I am also shocked by the question raised in the article :"And anyway, what are window cleaners apart from off-dutyburglars?"I would like to know how such a sentiment can possibly bejustified.Philip HansonEditorProfessional Window Cleaner Magazinewww.professionalwindowcleaner.co.ukLink to original article page:HERE Devil's Advocate 8th December 2004, Bristol Evening Post :"I know it's hard to believe, but there are some kids sostupid that they can't even get a place at one of Mr Blah'sspecial thicko universities. These youths go off to bewindow cleaners.But even there, with only a bucket of water, a ladder and achamois leather to co-ordinate, they're not safe from thedegree-dispensing NuLabour social engineers.I am indebted to a reader of this column for sending me thefollowing advert for … wait for it … the British WindowCleaning Academy where, for a small fee of £95, aspiringchamois-wielders can take a one-day intensive courseresulting in the award of a Level 2 NVQ in Window Cleaning.No, really."Learn to squeegee like a pro", they urge, promisingdetailed instruction in "Waterfed Pole Use and Basic Healthand Safety".Now call me elitist, but how thick do you have to be to needan intensive course in window cleaning? "Dip rag in bucket,rub window, do not fall off ladder" seems to be about it.And anyway, what are window cleaners apart from off-dutyburglars? The whole thing is probably just a sinister frontfor teaching criminals the latest house-breaking techniques.I think Officer Dibble should take a look."==========================================
A Chill wind blows through the trophy-lined corridors of Beelzebub Mansions, due mainly to the fact that we are entering December without a roof over our heads. Have I mentioned that we've had the builders in of late?It has long been the ambition of the Beelzebub dynasty to rebuild the transept of the East Wing, so cruelly destroyed by a rabble of Roundheads in 1643 after Colonel Bartholomew Beelzebub unwisely offered their wenches a job at his prototype lap-dancing establishment.And now, thanks to an extremely profitable booze cruise excursion and the soaraway success of my man Whittaker's EasyCat business (release stray cats with 0898 numbers on their tags and then wait for old ladies to phone up), we have finally amassed sufficient funds to fulfil this family obligation.It also helped that Mrs Beelzebub required a new Shoe Room, her own shrine to Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, after running out of space in the old one. I was happy enough with this proposal and planned to install a bar, a juke box, a 42-inch plasma TV and a full-size snooker table in the space that formerly housed her collection. And maybe a five-a-side pitch as well.I wrote a couple of weeks back about how difficult it is to find qualified tradesmen in the building game now that Mr Blah has encouraged every thick kid to demand their own place at university.(Where, instead of learning a valuable trade, they spend three years picking their noses and watching Countdown and then drop out just before their exams.) Let me tell you, the real difficulty starts once the so-called tradesmen have been located. In recent weeks the East Wing has had nincompoops of varying degrees of stupidity swarming all over it, each one claiming to know what they were doing while singularly failing to achieve anything of note. It has not been a happy experience for anyone concerned.Mrs B, who was overseeing the extension of the kitchens with a hawk-like eye and a ruthless spirit level, had ordered in sufficient limestone and granite to build a replica of Fred Flintstone's quarry.(We will not mention the gold-plated Aga that arrived on a crane. Well, I presume that it's gold-plated, having just written a tear-inducing cheque.) She, quite reasonably, expected the floors and worktops to be installed to a reasonable standard. Reasonable standard does not, in her book, mean cracked, scratched and generally buggered up.Similarly the carpets for the hallway and spiral tower. Woven from wool plucked by hand from specially-reared Merino sheep, these do not come cheap. It would have been marginally less expensive to have made a carpet out of used fivers. It would surely have been reasonable then to have them fitted so that they were adjacent to the skirting board in places. And that the fitter might remove his muddy boots before commencing his task.Never, in the history of human conflict, have I come across so much indolence, idiocy and idleness. And if dumb insolence was a civil offence, a certain Welsh plumber would now be doing seven years with no parole.Deciding to meet fire with more fire, Mrs B has taken to addressing the mumbling, drooling assembly each morning in stentorian tones, threatening dire consequences should another spanner come into contact with a piece of Spode or welding torch set fire to a Whistler. Not since the Blessed Dame Margaret's time have the working classes been so abused.It has had an effect. One by one, they've all cleared off - probably to go to university to watch Countdown for three years. Consequently, we have no roof and the transept of the East Wing looks rather worse than it did when the Roundheads had finished. It's going to be a long, hard winter.IT'S NOT as if I could even attempt to finish some of the work myself. In another Nanny State missive, we are informed that from January 1, any electrical work we might desire to carry out in the privacy of our own homes will have to be inspected by a Man From The Council or will have to be undertaken by a qualified electrician.For a start, this is just a thieves' charter. They already try to charge you £1,000 for installing a gold-plated Aga; now it's going to be £100 for changing the fuse on the vibrating foot spa. The alternative is to submit yourself to a brown-coated, clipboard-carrying jobsworth, who will suck his pencil, shake his head, condemn the property and also probably shop you to the Powers That Be for being in possession of a lit cigarette during daylight hours.And anyway, isn't electrical DIY a kind of Darwinesque natural selection process? Those who know what they're doing survive and prosper; those who don't eventually fry and spend the rest of eternity haunting the high-voltage junction box section of B &Q.
I KNOW it's hard to believe, but there are some kids so stupid that they can't even get a place at one of Mr Blah's special thicko universities. These youths go off to be window cleaners.But even there, with only a bucket of water, a ladder and a chamois leather to co-ordinate, they're not safe from the degree-dispensing NuLabour social engineers.I am indebted to a reader of this column for sending me the following advert for . . . wait for it . . . the British Window Cleaning Academy where, for a small fee of £95, aspiring chamois-wielders can take a one-day intensive course resulting in the award of a Level 2 NVQ in Window Cleaning. No, really."Learn to squeegee like a pro, " they urge, promising detailed instruction in "Waterfed Pole Use and Basic Health and Safety".Now call me elitist, but how thick do you have to be to need an intensive course in window cleaning? "Dip rag in bucket, rub window, do not fall off ladder" seems to be about it.And anyway, what are window cleaners apart from off-duty burglars? The whole thing is probably just a sinister front for teaching criminals the latest house-breaking techniques. I think Officer Dibble should take a look.SO WHAT of my man Whittaker, I hear you ask. Well, he's still living in a bush in the Lower Meadow, naked apart from camouflage paint and a bandana, but there have been signs of improvement in his condition of late.Mrs B bumped into him while she was setting fire to a joiner's van the other morning and he told her that he was going to make an effort to adjust his lifestyle, which, seeing as he was skinning a rabbit with his bare teeth at the time, might be a good idea.Yes, he might have been driven semi-loony by the Government's decision to ban hunting with dogs, but democracy had spoken and he would do his best to comply. So he was going to try one of the suggested alter natives.I should have know it would end in tears. Two days later I saw him trotting up the drive on his trusty steed wearing fishnet stockings and a mini skirt, and with two grapefruit thrust down a second-hand Wonderbra. A jaunty feather hat sat above his hideously made-up face. He looked like a cross between Les Dawson and Paul Burrell.His bottom lip, painted blood red (with blood, probably) quivered with humiliation. A tear rolled down a rouged cheek. He'd been sent home early. . . from the drag hunting.I WOULD have mentioned this last week, had I not been busy bailing Mrs B out of the nick after an unfortunate bricklayer/trowel incident, but how can Mr Blah have the sheer gall to turn up at Ken Bigley's memorial service when he can't be arsed to attend the funeral of a single soldier who died in pursuit of his politically-motivated jaunt to Iraq?Do you think the self-serving, hand-wringing, egotistical creep can actually sleep at night?The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this newspaper, of anyone who doesn't think Paul Burrell needs a kick in the Jacobs, of anyone who's ever taken a lie detector test on Trisha , or of anyone who doesn't fervently hope that most of the 3,000 jobs to be axed by the BBC come from local radio. It's the broadcast version of the Valium trolley in an old folks' home