Bradford's anti-Trump demo: a soft fart on a warm evening

Yesterday, full of anger at the visit and unable to get to London, I googled local planned protests against Trump's visit. The nearest was shown as Bradford, 17.00 in Centenary Square. Duly fired up, I was there in good time. Sure enough, there was a stage, chairs set out, food stalls and security stewards on hand - they seemed friendly, if decidedly under-employed. Then it dawned, the Trump protest seemed to have been tagged on as an afterthought to Bradford's 3 day city centre festival. A Souzaphone and Sax marching combo opened proceedings, with Daft Punk at the head of their running list. By now the anti-Trumpers seemed to be arriving: a couple in Corbyn T-shirts and a bloke in a suit with a Palestinian flag. Then the trickle stopped and I realised the fire in my belly wasn't going to be kindled by fine oratory or a march through the city. Deflated but not defeated, I made my way to the Kashmir, a wonderful Bradford institution, where the fire in my belly was replaced by fire of a different kind, that which can only be supplied by fish pakora, followed by spinach and daal balti. My initial disappointment at the lack of radicalism in contemporary Bradford politics, in the birthplace of the Independent Labour Party, and also one-time parliamentary seat of the radical Liberal politician William Forster; and, yes, the place that also gave us Eric Pickles, but atoned for that by producing the definitive account of his predictable rise to power, was replaced by a feeling that this city - with all its faults and failings - is still a fine testament to common humanity and tolerance. As I finished my curry, the realisation struck me that Bradford struggles against Trump and all his kind stands for every single day. Long may it continue to do so.

Better times for Little Germany

Bradford seems to have a talent for turning itself into a wasteland. The inner-most part of the city centre has been a building site for nearly a decade - due to the long-delayed completion of the Broadway development, which was intended to break the 60s ring of concrete and deliver a vibrant retail complex, but instead became mired in delay due to the recession. But the city's older buildings are also in need of care and attention. In the late 80s and early 90s much was made of the prospects for Little Germany, an area of mill buildings and commercial premises developed by German immigrants, including the family of the composer Frederick Delius, who came to the city eager to build links between the Yorkshire and German textile industries. Unfortunately, the thriving businesses, bars and cafes that moved into the area have now almost all gone - leaving behind near empty converted apartment complexes and flyblown alleyways. I spent a while in the Guzelian cafe and gallery, itself a bold attempt to create a vibrant watering hole opposite the cathedral where the works of the Guzelian photojournalism agency are displayed on the walls. It opened in December last year, but now faces the prospect of the road outside - one of the main routes into Little Germany - being turned into building site that will see cars largely banished from the area. The streets that once held so much promise now run past silent buildings with boarded up or broken windows. The Tuetonic entrepreneurs have long gone; and I was left wondering, along with the cafe-gallery manager, whether Bradford will manage to turn things around again, after so long in the economic doldrums. Hope that Guzelian will be around to capture the renaissance when it comes.