Up grit creek without a paddle

Manchester City Council have announced that they are setting up a Twitter account named @MCCGritters1 to keep the public abreast with their gritting schedule as we approach the peak of winter.

For a country susceptible to the odd cold snap, Britain – or should I say Britons – cope spectacularly poorly each and every time one comes around, like a decrepit old dog still terrified by it’s own flatulence.

The television and news outlets become awash with hysterically apocalyptic reports from gloomy red-nosed doom correspondents, repeating painstaking details about the frozen floor bastard as their researchers paw away at online thesaurus’ desperately searching for synonyms of ‘treacherous’. The reference to treachery in the context of frozen sky water used to seem unnecessarily sinister to me.

The intent of the councils Twitter feed is admirable, utilising technology to service their duty of catering for and informing the community. However, for a couple of winters now its been building. News reports, campaigns, complaints, emergency rations, treachery, discontent, danger, fear, treachery. It’s bubbling to an inevitable breaking point.

We always run out of grit. Then shout about it a lot.

This Gwitter announcement therefore may just be the catalyst. Just as the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in the Balkan powder keg in 1914 kick started WW1, this announcement may finally see the advent of……….Grit War 1. (In the North West).

In a sentence that could easily have been lifted from a Pablo Escobar autobiography, the council has proudly boasted they have imported stocks of over 5000 tonnes. Of grit.

That may sound a lot, but slippy pavements and skiddy roads seem to be the kryptonite which exposes our weakness as a collective who lack basic survival mentality and ability to remain rational in a non-existent crisis.

After our initial childlike frolicking in the powdery crisp smattering which crunches enjoyably under every footstep, the snow will spitefully freeze into sheets of translucent death, plunging Manchester into a Siberian tundra of yellow slush and precautionary sick days.

“5000 tonnes and they’ve not gritted Deansgate yet. Harrummph. Typical. Pfft.”

This failure to grit properly will rapidly descend us into a dystopian nightmare, with haughty city types becoming luddites huddled round shopping trollies filled with flaming summer clothing, shivering forsaken shrugs.

Trains, buses and trams will be cancelled as huffing commuters splutter furious vitriol disguised as visible clouds of hot breath. The roads will become fairground Dodgem arenas with cars sliding lazily around at jaunty angles, thudding into one another as drivers exchange helpless hand gestures.

“They’ve not even gritted the pavements. Harrumph. Just, bloody typical. Pfffffffffft.”

You might slip and smash your cranium. You might EVEN slip and smash your new iPad.

Perhaps you’ll be taking your fragile kitten to the vets in a little cat box, only to slip and inadvertently hurl Mr Wibbles under the thumping pneumatic drill blade of a man trying to break the metre-thick iceberg engulfing the windscreen of his new Audi.  A drill he paid for with a gram of poor quality salt he received for re-mortgaging his house, as grit becomes bartering currency like prison cigarettes.

At the moment your poor moggy gets splattered, you’ll cry floods tears which immediately freeze the moment they leave your tear ducts and hurtle down to crack the screen of your new iPad.

The demand for grit will spiral out of control as stocks run low and the street price soars. Rival gangs of Eastern European grit cartel will fill the streets in murderous, blood tinged iceball fights to leave Piccadilly gardens like a giant strawberry slush puppy filled with severed limbs.

“Pffft.They’ve not even cleaned up the fingers and heads. They should collect the teeth and grind them into grit. Harrruuummpph.”

The council will have to rename their Twitter feed to @TheRealMCCGritters1 to ward off fake accounts of entrepreneurial conmen selling sacks full of 12% grit, cut with 88% filler of now worthless materials like gold, saffron, truffles and pulped Justin Bieber CDs.

Disenchanted youths, sickened by the councils flaky grit distribution begin to take city by storm as they did in August, but instead of burning down Miss Selfridges, bobble-hatted chavwits will fill Market Street retail outlets with water, leave them over night to turn them into huge clothing-filled prank ice cubes for giants.

Jack Frost becomes the new panto villain in the war on terrorism, facelessly pulling strings in the axis of winter evil as grit becomes the new oil.

Then again, it might just be a bit cold, white and slippy for a bit. All of a sudden the ice will melt where we’ll all immediately snap out of grit-pissed frenzy, yawn, rub our eyes and just get on with our lives.

Either way, follow @MCCGritter1 to find out first hand if you don’t pawn your laptop for a bag of bogus salt.