Bristol's Marvin "Aka Marvellous Marvin" Rees: From Nobody To, Well....Nobody With A Coronet, A Lordly Leap of Ludicrous Proportions!
Bristol, 2025 – The nation reels, the pigeons scatter, and the very foundations of the House of Lords tremble!
Marvin "The Marvellous" Rees, a man whose prior accomplishments include mastering the art of the perfect fantasy railway system and achieving some education at Yale - where one can only assume he qualified as a locksmith, has been elevated to the esteemed (and, let's be honest, often baffling) ranks of the peerage.
Ah, yes, the reign of the erstwhile potentate, a figure whose grand pronouncements echoed through the hallowed halls of... well, City Hall, mostly. Let us recall, with a suitably theatrical flourish, the glorious tapestry of his "achievements," a veritable monument to the art of the well-intentioned fumble.
Firstly, the noble quest for dwellings fit for the common folk! He, in his infinite wisdom, decreed a deluge of "affordable housing," a term whispered with the same reverence as "unicorn sightings" amongst the city's seasoned cynics. And, lo, statistics were brandished like holy relics, proclaiming a surge in brick-laying unseen since the days when Bristol was a mere collection of mud huts. Whether these "affordable" abodes were actually affordable to anyone not possessing a small nation's GDP remained, of course, a minor, almost pedantic, detail.
Then came the grand vision of a subterranean marvel, a network of tunnels worthy of a Bond villain's lair, or at least, a slightly ambitious mole. This "underground system," a concept so revolutionary it had apparently escaped the notice of every other major city on Earth, was to whisk citizens from A to B with the efficiency of a caffeinated squirrel. Alas, despite countless diagrams resembling abstract art and pronouncements of imminent progress, the only subterranean activity was the collective sigh of the city's long-suffering taxpayers. Why exactly? Okay, here’s my best shot as to why this delusion of grandeur would have never worked.
Bristol. A city built on the charming principles of "gravity-defying hills" and "rivers that appear to multiply when you least expect it." An underground rail system? A delightful notion that was about as likely as a seagull politely asking for a chip.
Firstly, Bristol's geology is a whimsical tapestry of limestone, mudstone, and the occasional, chunk of Redcliffe sandstone. Imagine the delightful conversations with the tunnelling machines:
"Drill, drill, drill!"
"Oh, look, a fossilised fish! Halt all progress!"
"Wait, is that a... subterranean spring? Right under Castle Park? Splendid!"
These geological "features" would, of course, have necessitated bespoke, diamond-encrusted tunnelling equipment, each piece hand-crafted by artisanal gnomes and blessed by a druid for good measure.
Then there's the water. Oh, the water! The Avon, its tributaries, and the various, seemingly endless, underground streams that emerge from the very fabric of the city. Forget waterproofing; we'd have needed to build the tunnels from solid, buoyant, diamond-encrusted rubber ducks. Every station a mini-Venice, complete with gondoliers trained in the art of navigating sudden, unexpected floods. Think of the tourist potential though! "Experience the thrill of Bristol's submerged subway!"
And let's not forget the "historic" infrastructure. Bristol's drains, sewers, and Victorian-era gas pipes are laid out with the precision of a drunken octopus. Any attempt to dig would inevitably involve:
Disrupting the city's entire sewage system, leading to a city-wide aroma reminiscent of a particularly ripe Stilton.
Accidentally cutting off the gas supply, plunging the city into a charming, candlelit darkness, perfect for impromptu singalongs and existential dread.
Unearthing various "archaeological treasures" like old cider bottles and discarded shopping trolleys, each requiring months of painstaking analysis by teams of tweed-clad academics.
The cost? Oh, the cost! HS2 would have looked like a pocket-money project compared to this subterranean masterpiece. Every metre of tunnel would have required a dedicated team of engineers, archaeologists, hydrologists, and, of course, a full-time "seagull deterrent" squad. The escalators alone would need to have been custom-built to cope with the city's gradients, and each station would need to have been designed to withstand a sudden, unexpected tidal surge.
And for what? A few miles of track? A journey that could be replicated by a leisurely stroll, or E-bike? But think of the civic pride! "Bristol: Home of the World's Most Expensive, and Potentially Submerged, Underground Rail System!" It would have been a monument to ambition, a testament to the city's unwavering commitment to making the impossible, ludicrously expensive.
And who could forget the saga of the arena, a structure so elusive it could have rivalled the Loch Ness Monster for sheer mythical status? After years of debating its location, like medieval scholars arguing over the number of angels that could dance on a pinhead, it was finally decided, with all the decisiveness of a drunken weathervane. This momentous shift, of course, was heralded as a triumph of strategic planning, rather than a frantic scramble to avoid outright public ridicule.
The mayor's leadership style, a delicate blend of imperiousness and unwavering self-belief, was, shall we say, "discussed." Some whispered of "centralisation of power," others, less charitably, of "autocratic tendencies." Regardless, his reign culminated in a glorious act of self-immolation, a referendum that saw the populace, in a collective fit of democratic pique, abolish the mayoral system entirely, replacing it with a committee-based model, presumably designed to ensure that no single individual could ever again wield such terrifying levels of… well, mayoralness.
And, of course, the Colston saga! The toppling of a statue, a moment of profound historical significance, or a chaotic public spectacle, depending on your perspective. The mayor's handling of this, a delicate dance between decisive action and frantic damage control, provided endless fodder for opinion columns and pub debates.
Let us not forget the shadow of the Metro Mayor, a regional figure looming large, a constant reminder that even within the confines of Bristol's city limits, there were other, possibly more competent, individuals dabbling in the art of public administration.
So, there you have it, the tale of a leader, a visionary, a… well, a figure whose tenure served as a cautionary tale of ambition colliding with reality. A reminder that sometimes, the greatest political achievements are the ones that never actually happen. Except it did, and for some totally bizarre reason I can only guess as being somewhat ‘Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink’ in procedure, led to a seat in the House of Lords!
Well, Bristol has done it again, folks! Forget Banksy, forget Wallace & Gromit, the true local legend has finally been recognised. Yes, Marvin "The Marvellous" (last name, well, who cares?) has been elevated to the dizzying heights of the House of Lords, henceforth to be known as Lord Rees of Stapleton Road.
How you ask, did a man whose greatest achievement was consistent incompetence at City Hall achieve such lofty status? Sources close to the peerage nomination committee (who may or may not have mistaken Marvin for a particularly well-funded pigeon fancier) cited his "unique understanding of the common man," a phrase generously interpreted to mean his ability to flawlessly recount the entire menu of every kebab shop within a five-mile radius.
"Marvin," a spokesperson elaborated, "embodies the spirit of Bristol: a chaotic blend of enthusiasm and utter bewilderment. His insights into the 'challenges facing the modern Colston protester' will be invaluable to the upper chamber."
Indeed, Marvin's contributions to national discourse are already legendary. His pearls of wisdom, long dismissed as the ramblings of a man who once tried to pay for his chips with a bus ticket, are now deemed worthy of parliamentary debate.
The ceremony itself was a spectacle. While traditional peers arrived in bespoke carriages, Marvin opted for his modified E-scooter, adorned with flashing LED lights and a "Honk if you hate Colston!" bumper sticker. His oath, reportedly a touching rendition of a Portishead song was a fitting tribute to his many political insights (gained, presumably, from watching "old YouTube videos" while waiting for his kebab to burn).
His maiden speech, whispered sources reveal, will focus on the urgent need for a national underground railway system, the abolition of fines for Colston protesters, and the mandatory inclusion of "Bristol kebabs" in all government-funded buffets.
"He's a breath of fresh, Avon-scented air," gushed one enthusiastic backbencher, who may or may not have been bribed with a ticket to a Rovers match.
So, raise a glass (or a polystyrene cup of lukewarm tea) to Lord Rees of Stapleton Road! He's proof that in the hallowed halls of power, anything is possible. Even if that "anything" is a man who once considered an underground railway system in Bristol to be a good idea. Long live the Lord of the pipe dream!
