Airbnb Rant

Ah, Airbnb. Where rich twits in teepees rub elbows with grubby landlords in an effort to squeeze the housing market.

We’re already short by about 4 million homes in this country, and some genius thought it’d be a good idea to turn our precious housing stock into holiday lets. Brilliant, just brilliant.

So, let’s break this down. Who in their right mind wants to go on holiday to stay in a terraced flat? I mean, really? Picture it: you’re on holiday, and instead of a quaint little cottage in the Dales or a seaside retreat, you end up in a two-up-two-down in the middle of Leeds. The only people I can imagine enjoying that are either drug dealers or those peculiar types who get their kicks from pretending to live someone else's life. It's reminiscent of "Rich House, Poor House," where the hedge fund manager and his family are handed a tube of Pringles for the week and told to watch analogue telly.

It’s not just theoretical nonsense, either. I see it all the time. Terraced houses spruced up to look all posh and inviting on the Airbnb site, but seriously, who are they for? Wouldn’t you rather just stay in a hotel? At least there you don’t have to worry about being sneaky in someone else's living room or running a Hoover around before you leave. Hotels have perks, you see. Room service, clean sheets, and the delightful absence of a passive-aggressive host peering over your shoulder.

In York, there’s been a lot of chatter about banning Airbnbs or these so-called "holiday rentals." But, as usual, it’s all talk and no action. I haven’t seen a single change. These short-term lets are a blight on the economy, driving up prices and pushing out locals who just want a place to live. What’s next? Will we start converting homes into accommodations for alpacas? Or maybe the donkey sanctuary will buy up your street?

And let’s not even get started on who’ll own our houses in the end. Airbnb, Blackrock, and the banks seem to have a master plan to scoop up every last property. What’ll be left for us ordinary folk? The answer, my friends, is not a lot.

So, next time you’re lounging in a teepee at some smoothie-infested resort you found on Airbnb, give it a thought. Is this really the best use of our precious housing? Or are we all just part of a hipster-driven scheme that leaves us with nothing but empty pockets and full inboxes of rental requests?

Let me know how it goes. I’ll be in a hotel, sipping a proper drink, and not giving a damn about whether I have to clean up before I leave.

Toilets and the Entitled Mob

Well, folks, it seems our beloved York has become the epicentre of a rather unsavoury controversy - the closure of the M&S toilets on Parliament Street.

Ah, the M&S toilets are closed for refurbishment, and the masses are in uproar. Again. It’s as if the good people of our city are incapable of finding alternative loos, so they’re back to moaning to the council. And let me tell you, from my brief stint in local politics, I’ve come to realise that the concerns of the public boil down to two things: driving and weeing. Oh, and let’s not forget the ever-looming specter of dog poo.

Just the other day, I stumbled upon a group of disgruntled locals protesting the closure of the M&S toilets. "It's an outrage!" they cried. "We have rights!" they proclaimed. Rights? Really? Because last time I checked, having a place to tinkle while you shopped for your ready-meals wasn't exactly a human right.

And anyway, the toilets in question have certainly gained a reputation over the years. And I'm not talking about their award-winning design or innovative water-saving features. Oh no, these toilets have become notorious for their, shall we say, pungent aroma.

Imagine, if you will, a blend of week-old stilton, overripe brussels sprouts, and the faint hint of a dog that's been rolling in something it really shouldn't have. That, my friends, is the fragrance that greets unsuspecting shoppers as they venture towards the Marks and Spencer's loos. It's enough to make your eyes water. In fact, I'd go as far as saying that those toilets should be cordoned off with police tape and men in hazmat suits standing guard. A bit like Chernobyl.

But, unbelievably, the closure of these olfactory offenders has sparked outrage. Yes, the entitled mob has risen up, clutching their pitchforks and their toilet brushes, demanding that their sacred right to relieve themselves in a putrid pit be reinstated. I ask you, have we stooped so low that we'd rather wallow in our own filth than embrace progress?

Do I yearn for a time when public life was bursting with a sense of duty, when people were too bloody polite to whinge about every inconvenience? A time before dogs had iPhones and Piers Morgan was a television fixture? Yes, I think we all do. There must have been an era when the notion of closed toilets or a stray dog turd didn’t send the entire populace into a frenzy. But those days are long gone, swept away by the tidal wave of modern entitlement.

You see, this isn't just about toilets. It's about progress and our resistance to change. These so-called residents moan and groan about new cafes, shops, and housing developments, but the moment something shuts its doors, they're up in arms, demanding its resurrection.

It's 2024, and by the time some of us kick the bucket, we might actually be stepping into the 22nd Century. Imagine, if you will, that in the year 2107, we're still tottering up and down our Thatcher-era council estates, thanks to the beloved 'local residents' vetoing every attempt at regeneration and development. Meanwhile, China will be zipping around in their supersonic mag-lev trains, leaving us in their dust. And why? Because we’re terrified of progress.

But I refuse to stand idly by. Progress might be frightening, but it’s our only weapon against the looming threats of the future. We need to embrace change, however scary it might be, because the alternative is far worse. And if we can’t manage that, well, I suppose we deserve to be left behind.

On a serious note: perhaps we should finally hand over the reins to Mr. Piers and make him the President of Britain. After all, he seems to have an answer for everything, and his no-nonsense attitude might be just what we need to snap out of this stupor.

Uber Bids to Return to York

Gather 'round, folks, and let me tell you about the latest episode in the York transport soap opera.

It’s been six long years since Uber was officially booted out of the city, and now they’re itching to come back. It’s a saga filled with more drama than a Christmas special of Downton Abbey and about as much sense as a submarine with a sunroof. Although, that's not actually a terrible idea.

You see, the local taxi drivers, who spend their days leaning against their rusty Ford Mondeos outside the Minster, chewing on a bacon butty and discussing the latest horse racing odds, have been up in arms about Uber ever since the dawn of time. Or at least since 2017, when the ride-hailing app first tried to muscle in on their territory.

But Yorkshire folk are a tough lot, and these taxi drivers are no exception. They're like terriers with a bone when it comes to protecting their patch. So, when Uber tried to set up shop, they howled and they whined and they got their way, with the City of York Council refusing to renew Uber's licence.

But here's the funny part. Uber just carried on anyway. Their drivers, like an invading army of Prius-driving Trojans, simply poured in from Leeds and Bradford, ignoring the ban and continuing to operate illegally. These out-of-town charioteers don’t even bother with a courteous tip of the hat as they whisk you away, leaving local taxi drivers fuming on the sidelines, still chewing their bacon sandwiches from earlier.

And the local cabbies truly are in uproar (this can't be understated), moaning about a market flooded with outsiders and throwing around the word “unsafe” like confetti at a wedding. But, let’s be honest: when was the last time you felt unsafe in an Uber? I’ve been in more perilous situations getting a dodgy kebab at 2 a.m. than sitting in the back of an Uber. And, before you ask, no, I don’t know any women who’ve ever felt unsafe in one either.

Uber drivers are practically enslaved by their 4.93-star rating, always on their best behaviour. One false move, one whiff of body odour, and you hit them with a one-star review. In some twisted dystopian way, it’s actually quite brilliant. Contrast that with your average York taxi driver, who thinks he owns the road and probably hasn't washed his car since the last Labour government.

Oh, and you haven’t lived until you’ve had a cab driver lean over a half-eaten crisp packet to sniff your trainers. Creepy? Absolutely. Uncommon? Not nearly enough.

So, it seems a bit unfair that Uber has been banned, doesn't it? Well, the ride-hailing giant isn't taking this lying down. They've submitted a fresh licence application, and the council will be discussing it next week.

In the meantime folks, remember this: whether you side with the Uber invaders or the local taxi stalwarts, one thing’s for sure. You’re never truly safe from an awkward ride, or an unsolicited sniff in York’s ever-entertaining, yet veraciously Darwinian, transport world.