Bin strike is good news for Winter Watch

IF there was a caring God, the bin strike would coincide with severe flooding, so we could use the mounds of bulging black liners as sandbags.

But there is not. Therefore those in Birmingham again face the prospect of stinking, maggot-infested refuse on their pavements.

One angry reader rang the Birmingham Mail newsdesk to say his bags have already been shredded by rats, urban foxes and seagulls, which is thoroughly bad news for residents, but a Godsend for the BBC’s Springwatch.

I’ve emailed Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan, telling them they should pitch a hide in the householder’s garden. “Forget the Scottish Highlands,” I babbled, “it’s all happening in Alum Rock.”

I’m probably alone in gaining a degree of satisfaction from the ongoing dispute. I live next to a houseproud couple who have invested in cladding, a snaking, crazy-paved driveway and topiary-teased leylandii hedges.

I am hopeful binmen in our leafy neck-of-the-woods will come out in sympathy for their Birmingham colleagues. Then, my house-proud neighbours’ immaculate abode will be a mess like mine. I pray for the day.

Birmingham City Council should look on the positives, too. When they introduced a convoluted waste disposal system, councillors said they intended to completely eradicate journeys to landfill sites.

They’ve succeeded. There is now no need to travel to municipal tips because Brummies will soon be living in a municipal tip. It’s on their doorstep and by next month will have pushed its way into their hallways.

Residents should also clutch the positives from this smelly affair.

The bin strike can be fun. My work colleague and I have had a friendly bet to see whose maggots would turn into flies first. He won on Tuesday.

Also, those bin bags can, with minimal effort, be turned into eye-catching street furniture. Arranged carefully, they can make an ideal slide for kids.

If the strike rumbles on until Christmas, residents will be in for a real tinsel treat.

Come the season, streets will dazzle, blink and shimmer with banks of black bins festooned in fairylights.

By that time, the glistening black mountains will have reached bedroom window level: admittedly unsightly, but a boon when escaping burning buildings.

If only this domestic disaster had occurred during my son’s childhood. I could’ve told him: “Santa won’t be coming, he can’t get his sleigh past the bin bags.”

The barriers will also keep carol singers at bay.

I am not a political animal, therefore – like the vast majority of readers – I’m still unclear about the reasons for this industrial action. I’m unsure who the villains of the piece are: should we blame the refuse collectors or the city council?

It’s a question that has divided the city.

One member of a vigilante clean-up brigade – a dedicated team that is voluntarily clearing clogged streets – said: “We’re on the binmen’s side. We’ve spoken to some of them.

“Having done their jobs, we realise what hard work it is. They are worth every penny. The council needs to sort this out.”

Yes, it’s a tough, thankless task, but our refuse operators presumably knew what awaited when they took the jobs.

Even Knightsbridge binmen don’t expect days spent clearing empty Chanel bottles and discarded designer handbags.

Sooner, rather than later, they’ll have to deal with dead fish.

I am not a political animal, yet have been thrust into the fray. I have been placed on “rat watch” by my beleaguered news editor, fielding calls from panicked residents.

It may be the rising methane, but the mind seems to be playing tricks on these individuals.

“It’s as big as a bloody dog,” bellowed one excited Sparkhill householder, “it’s ripping open the bags with its claws. I’m not going out there.” “Is it barking?” I asked. It was. “Has it a collar?” I asked. It had. “Can you believe it?” stammered the caller. “Even pet rats are getting in on the act.”

I do believe this strike has been spawned by the desire to complicate a basic service by introducing sundry receptacles for sundry waste products – one for general, one for garden etcetera.

We’re so embarrassed by the empty booze bottles in our glass receptacle that my wife has attempted to hide them under a layer of jam-jars.

She has also left limp notes for the refuse workers: “They’re not all ours, honest,” and “Sorry, we had a family gathering at the weekend.”

Last night, I was caught transferring our empty wine bottles into neighbours’ bins.

“What the devil is the old alcoholic doing now?” I heard someone shout.

In my day everything was bundled into a metal bin – dead pets, furniture, potentially lethal chemicals – and everyone seemed happy with the arrangement, the binmen included.

It certainly saved a fortune on grandfather’s funeral.