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EDGE
the ISSUE NO: 300
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Issue Number
300
of Think an this as OX! STY B HONE a HABIT p Develo ting £1 a of don ingle s every s is ue!
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MOW DE LAWN
EDGE MAGAZINE DISPENSERS
Which is French for ‘cut the grass’, of course. Saying that, I cut ours for the very first time this year on Thursday 27th January. I know. Tell me about it. What’s all that about? Global warming yet again, I expect, as it wouldn’t normally get its first trim of the year until February, or maybe even March.
If it’s not too late, I still have a brand new floor standing Edge mag dispenser (like the ones outside Bang & Olufsen and Rayleigh Sound & Vision) up in the loft if any business in Chelmsford has sufficient passing trade (and some decent cover from the rain)? My old spot, outside the High Street entrance of Waterstones, would frankly be ideal, if anyone working there could swing it for me? Also, what about businesses who may only need between 10-20 copies per month, perhaps solely for staff members? If that sounds like you, simply ping me an email and I’ll do my best to get some to you.
NOSTALGIA
The Edge Editor’s Column JESUS Jesus, whenever I clear the previous Edge edition off my computer screen, page by page, before making a start on the next one, I accept it’s only 32-pages big, but it’s still a daunting task, and it always makes me acutely aware of just how much work and effort goes into the creation of each and every issue. Just saying...
SPEED
IDENTITY FRAUD To top it all, I’ve been on the receiving end of Identity Fraud this past month and FFS, how much of your time does that take up, trying to sort it all out. More than I could rightfully spare, that’s for sure. I needed it like a hole in the head.
DOWN IN THE DUMPS I’ve also been proper down in the dumps this past month, as Mrs Edge will definitely vouch. A proper Mr. Misery Guts. But in my defense, The Edge, to me, is a bit like the child I never had. It’s always been my baby and I guess, though everything seems to be stacked against me, I’m just loathe to let it go. That said, I have to be realistic and say that if this particular edition doesn’t turn out to be the last, then the next one (April’22, issue no: 301) most probably will be. UNLESS you readers can SAVE it via the Go Funding and Paypal accounts I’ve set up (please see pages 2 and 5 of this edition).
CHEATERS Have any of you been watching those 10-minute episodes of a brand new BBC1 series called Cheaters? Sadly, they’re about the only light relief I’ve had of late.
MINI-BREAK-DOWN I might have had a mini-break-down last month. I’m not 100% sure? It’s hard to tell, because I’ve never had one before, I don’t think, so I’ve had nothing to compare it with. Only saying that, if I didn’t, then I think I might have come pretty close.
ENJOY THIS ISSUE So I hope you enjoy this, The Edge’s 300th (and possibly final) issue, readers. And if it is, well, I hope I’ve spelt it out to you both LOUDLY and clearly enough already that it’s not by choice. It isn’t. Which is why I’m so gutted about the situation. THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 077 646 7 97 44 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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Time speeds up the older you get. From 0-25, whoa, that seemed to take bloody ages. From being born to shitting my pants, my first day at school, riding a bike without stabilisers, my first snog with a lass, my very first job, passing my driving test, buying my first property (I was actually onto my second aged just 23), that all seemed to take absolutely forever. But from 35-60. Shit the bed, the time honestly seems to have disappeared in little more than the blink of an eye.
I’ve been getting all nostalgic in this edition, it perhaps being the last ever Edge, and raiding previous editions for photographs and stories that have particularly caught my eye. You readers might even remember some of them when you see them.
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So I’m wondering...I’m just wondering...what IF at least 1,000 of you each paid £1 every single month and you also subscribed to The Edge (for FREE) via theedgemag.co.uk/subscribe (try it now, if you haven’t subscribed already) to receive the mag electronically every single month. But of course, it’d be down to you to pick up a physical copy of the mag from wherever you normally get one from if you want to feel the real McCoy in your hands, as I certainly couldn’t afford to post any out as that’d cost me way more than the £1 per copy/month you’d supposedly be donating to The Edge’s most worthy cause. And IF sufficient Edge readers could generate a minimum £1,000 each and every month to in effect pay for their copies, then that’d certainly help the mag to carry on being publishing. But anything less wouldn’t really cut sufficient mustard. Yet what’s £1 per month for the privilege of keeping The Edge going, eh? Having said that, I’m not sure I’d want 1,000 standing orders setting up for £1 per person per month via The Edge’s bank account. Which is why I’ve set up a PayPal account specifically for you to go there and find my Uncle Fester image at editortheedgemag@gmail.com so’s you can send me your monthly quid donations ’til your ickle hearts are content, please.
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Oh yes indeedy, this crew - aptly calling themselves the Natural Theatre Company - were one of the stars of the show at a superb weekend event called Street Diversions featured in Chelmsford town centre during a blisteringly hot weekend in the middle of June 2003. Cor blimey, readers, quite amazingly that’s almost 20 years ago. Surprising how long The Edge has been around, ain’t it just? Apparently their ‘naked suits’ had previously proven to be a little too near the mark for some towns they’d performed their antics in, but fortunately we in Chelmsford proved to be a far more liberal and tolerant lot and aptly showed the performers the warmth of spirit they deserved to go with the baking seasonal weather. Has to be said, The Edge was always mega impressed with all of the Street Diversions events which surely some of you readers must remember with great fondness too? As I wrote in the mag at the time: “This publications huge respect goes to Chelmsford’s very own town centre manager Cathy McBride, Mick McDonagh (High Chelmer to this day, I do believe), Malcolm Tilsed (ah, dear old Malcolm of The Meadows shopping centre, at that time) and the one and only Liam Rich, Special Events Coordinator for Chelmsford Borough Council” - he who originally brought us no less than The Fling in its original format, and just how good was that when it was in both Bell (End) Meadow and the parkland beneath the railway viaduct? I went on the say: “Watching this kind of completely off-the-cuff entertainment on the streets of my home town made me feel strangely proud to be a Chelmsfordian.” But, alas, no, I don’t feel that way about Chelmsford so very much these days, unfortunately, as you regular readers must have probably gathered
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I’m not even sure if the heading (above) is correct, as I’m never too sure about the @ sign at the best of times. However, I got into a bit of a text convo with a lady called Maria Antoniou on Instagram, of all places, as she’s set up a site called ‘Discover Chelmsford’. And get this, readers, here’s why: “I’ve only lived in Chelmsford for the past 4 years, but I’ve totally fallen in love with the place and wanted to create a hobby page that I could post all about the great things Chelmsford has to offer and share businesses I both like and use. “I only set it up on New Year’s Day 2022, but I am always on Instagram for my business, Chocolate Moments, so I wanted to create something that was fun, enjoyable, and also to help out other local businesses. I do a bit of networking, so I know just how hard it is to get noticed as a small business, so if I can SHOUT about them, because I honestly like and use them, then I feel it makes it that little bit more genuine. (See page 26 for further details...) “I also happen to think Chelmsford has a lot to shout about. I am always meeting people who tell me about places I have yet to discover, so I thought an Instagram page would be a decent way of sharing my discoveries as I go. “But it was my husband who actually discovered Writtle, where we now live. He was working for an estate agents in Duke Street (though he doesn’t anymore) and used to drive from Edmonton to Chelmsford every single day. So it was his idea that we should seriously consider moving to Chelmsford. We had to downsize in order to do so, but we are happy with less space inside as we now have so much more usable space outside. I am honestly not sure what I would have done during the lockdown periods if we’d still been living in Edmonton. The walks around Chelmsford have certainly made a huge difference to my happiness and wellbeing.” And as regards Chocolate Moments? “Oh yes! I started the (small) business up in 2018 as I wanted to create unique chocolate products that you cannot buy anywhere else! “I specialise in three things:(1) Gluten Free Brownies (2) Personalised & branded chocolate (3) The Bar of Crisps - the UK’s first milk chocolate bar stuffed with crisps!” Instagram: www.instagram.com/chocolate_momentsuk Website: www.chocolate-moments.co.uk
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out of the house by 7.15am, fuelled by at least two strong coffees, and where her two drop-offs that are approximately a 15-20 min. walk away are. In reality, it’s an assault course of physically juggling said children, their emotions and their paraphernalia at an intermittent stop/start for around 45 minutes, before she can shoot off for a full day of work herself. Her husband’s long working hours means that essentially they pass like ships in the night until Sunday, which is the only day of the week he takes off. So having flogged himself to death all week long, he views the Sabeth as his day to do exactly as he chooses, which will often involve activities that are not overly compatible with the practicalities of two young children.
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After nearly 9 years of practice, mine and Dave’s childcare/work balance is a pretty well oiled machine (most of the time). My later starts and his early finishes mean that we can generally each drop off/pick up/parent the children consistently equally at opposite ends of the day. We are also extremely fortunate to have jobs that allow us to have every weekend together as a family. If the childcare and house management suddenly fell almost solely to me, I know categorically, without a shadow of doubt, that I would not ‘rise to the challenge’. In fact, I am pretty confident that I would sink...straight to the metaphorical bottom. Therefore, I find myself constantly humbled by friends of mine who somehow manage to go it alone and hang onto their sanity. And I don’t just mean those who are actually single parents, but also those who shoulder the majority of the childcare/house burden, for a multitude of different reasons, from having a partner who works extremely long hours, to having to deal with a partner who is more like having an extra child. This week I finally managed to meet up with my oldest friend, Sally (in terms of how long we have known each other, as opposed to her age). Ours is the sort of friendship anchored way back in silly school antics, crazy holidays to Ibiza and general misspent youth, where we won’t see each other for ages, but when we finally get together, in many ways it feels like we have never been apart.
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Aside from being so lovely to see her, our long overdue lunch date firmly cemented my belief that she really is a modern day superwoman. Back in the days when she could outrun any of the boys and swept the board at every sports day, I always suspected she had some hidden magical powers, but I have to say that in parenthood they appear to have evolved into full blown sorcery. Sally and her husband have two young children and she has a pretty demanding full time job. Her husband has his own business and works all the hours the week sends (and more) tirelessly as part of his ‘great life plan’ for world domination, and so consequently the lion’s share of the childcare/parenting/house management falls solely on Sally’s shoulders. She regaled me with a detailed description of her typical morning, including getting herself and the children Page 8
When one parent is the sole care provider for 6 days a week, the children have a tendency to lean towards that same parent with any small lamentation of life. Incessant snack/drink requests, fights, injuries, and demands for entertainment will all be fielded directly at mum, as dad has essentially been demoted to ‘co pilot’ status, to be approached only in the emergency event of the Captain being completely incapacitated. Whilst the co pilot is permitted unlimited personal bathroom time, the children have clearly taken a solemn vow not to let the Captain out of their sight under any circumstances, and this will include following her into the bathroom and providing a running commentary on every activity (quite often with a Q&A). Last Sunday her husband suggested they all went for a coastal walk to blow the cobwebs away. A seemingly innocuous sentence, yet Sally’s heart sank at the prospect, because she knew within a very short space of time that the novelty of a beach walk on a cold winters day would soon wear off and she would ultimately end up with one child on her shoulders, another on her back, with incessant synchronised protestations on loop straight into her ear. In an attempt to avoid dislocating her shoulder/spraining her neck, she suggested a family day out at a farm park, with what she hoped was infectious enthusiasm. Dad reluctantly agreed, but upon arrival soon discovered there was a ‘fairy tale’ special event in full swing, so slipped into his own selfprofessed seventh circle of hell where even the offer of a fancy coffee couldn’t raise his spirit, or distract him from thinking about his working week ahead. A few weeks previously he was only convinced to endure a day at the Natural History Museum on the promise of a pub meal and a pint on the way home, which he visibly held onto like a beacon of hope. There was a precarious hour where it seemed like they wouldn’t find anywhere with an available table, but order was restored when they managed to squeeze into a back street pizzeria, which mercifully was licensed, and all was forgiven. Subsequently, it was my suggestion that after five years of Sally’s superhero pseudo-solo parenting, a full on day of Sunday fun with dad flying solo with the kids was long overdue. Partly as a bonding opportunity (where the co-pilot is the ONLY option for once) and partly so he can gain a full appreciation first hand of why coastal walks are not quite as much fun for the parent carrying a double child grenade on their back. Sally laughed at this, and replied that he would probably ‘ghost her’ on text and sleep on the sofa in protest, although she did admit that she probably wouldn’t notice, as invariably by the time he gets home and comes up to bed, she is already covered in children. So for all the single parents, and all the pseudo-solo ‘tornado’ parents out there (either full or part-time) who really do manage to do it all, I continue to be in absolute awe of your survival skills/ superpowers and I salute you.
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Little Channels is one of the top venues in Essex for intimate weddings. Their beautiful venue, complete with a private flagstone courtyard, is perfect for any number of guests up to 85 for a sit down and 130 informal guests during the evening. 2021 was a unique year for the wedding and events industry, with circumstances never experienced or navigated before. However, it also provided Little Channels with several highlights and opportunities to do what they do best. New year, new inclusive wedding packages, starting from £4,399. All packages include up to 130 evening guests at no additional cost. Little Channels also offer an interest free finance option, spreading the cost over monthly installments leading up to the wedding and up to 6 months afterwards. Their stunning wedding garden is the perfect place to enjoy drinks after the ceremony with great opportunities for your guests to mingle, use the outside bar, and for your photographer to capture beautiful images of you and your loved ones. If you would like to visit our venue, you can book a viewing with one of our coordinators, or why not come along and visit our team at our Open Day on Sunday 3rd April between 11am and 3pm. We can’t wait to watch so many more couples say “I do” and celebrate with their friends and family. So if you would like to find out more about getting married at Little Channels, please do not hesitate to get in touch with us at events@littlechannels.co.uk New wedding packages wasn’t the only thing new for 2022 at Little Channels. They have also introduced a brand new ‘Ultimate Bistro Party Package’ starting at £999. This package is based on 50 guests with a party buffet and DJ. But if you want more of a causal setting, you are more than welcome to swap the DJ for arrival drinks instead. Or if you’re looking for a party for more than 50 guests, you’re in luck, as you can hire Little Channels’ wonderful barn which can accommodate up to 130 informal guests. Find out more information on their website. Mother’s Day is fast approaching, so why not join Little Channels on Sunday 27th March 2022 for a delicious Mother’s Day afternoon tea? All mums receive a gift and a complimentary glass of Kir Royale. However, spaces are strictly limited and they certainly don’t want any disappointed mums to miss out. So why not book a table right now by calling 01245 362210 or email events@littlechannels.co.uk. But if you can’t make it this Mother’s Day, then don’t worry as Little Channels serve traditional and luxury afternoon teas 7 days a week. So for the perfect gift idea, why not order an afternoon tea voucher online via their website.
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Edge of the World travel correspondent. Embarks on assignments in a futile effort to preserve his sense of youth, always acknowledging that he ‘Won’t pass this way again’.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Get out of here, Phil. We’re going to attempt one last hurrah with the April’22 EDGE editions, so keep your bloody typewriter out! Page 10
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G R W FE AS E AL RT S S SO IL EE SELL IS D ER A S ND
I don’t know whether it’s just The Edge that thinks this way, but looking at this photograph, surely one strongly favours the opinion that Chimp No: 2 suddenly bends over to tie one of its hairy shoelaces. Then, quick as a flash, Chimp No: 1, ever the opportunist, decides to do a spot of ‘pot holing’. But there are always two sides to every story, right? So what if we’re looking at this from completely the wrong angle? For instance, what if Chimp No: 2 has blatantly said to Chimp No: 1, “Eeeee, do you know, I’ve got ever such an itchy arse.” Which could have been the case for all we know, couldn’t it? Just because we humans mightn’t ask that of a work colleague, it doesn’t mean that this sort of malarkey doesn’t exist in the simian world. Think about it. Have we perhaps become far too sophisticated for our very own good? Or maybe we no longer know how to ask for that which we want, or desire, anymore? The Edge’s view is this: you cannot simply say that this type of thing is plain wrong, for the simple reason that it mightn’t be. You simply have to suck it and see. After which, don’t forget to brush your bloody teeth.
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theEDGE
First of all, a special mention for the twats who run our local train station. Three of us should have been entitled to Travel Cards (train & tube) at £12.95 per person. Only because one of our group was returning to Braintree (which is a little further up the line than Chelmsford, but he was willing to pay the difference?), it was a case of: “Oh no, no, no, no, we cannot possibly sell you anything so cheap as that. Under such circumstances, you’ll each have to pay £19.60 instead.” Any opportunity to get a few more quid out of you, eh, our towns long suffering London commuters? But anyway, pub numero uno was The Magpie, just over the road from Liverpool Street station, just off the main drag. Kingpin kicked-off with a Jorvik Blonde, the lightweight, Farmer Giles had an Amstel, while yours truly went for the Wild Holly (warming winter ale at 4.8%) and didn’t I ‘feel’ it. Bit of a dodgy marble bar and we didn’t much care for their fruit machine, but most of the lasses rushing past to get to Fitness First during their lunchbreak certainly seemed to be a welcome distraction for some of the regulars. Giles took it upon himself to ‘leave a deposit’ (tut) in the gents, which was a little bit uncalled for, particularly as this was the very first pub of our crawl. Next up was Bangers (underground). Impressive. Got stuck into some Old Wallop served in metal tankards and sincerely wished we’d all been wearing 3-piece suits with flamingo pink silk lining to blend in. Lengthy Boy joined us here, so now we were four. Oh, and Guy Ritchie bowled in wearing a right short (beige) raincoat, the tart. The Old Doctor Butler’s Head followed, in which I enjoyed my favourite pint of the day, which was a 4.5% amber ale. Trouble is, tut pub ‘smelt reet proper of toilets’ (Giles, was that you again?). Stuffed some sandwiches and soup down our necks from E.A.T. whilst ‘out on the street’ as ‘lunch is for wimps’, no matter who tells you otherwise. Why we bothered with The Red Herring is a mystery to us all. Modern pub in the financial district. Kingpin and ‘The Farmer’ even resorted to bottles of Sol (says it all), not to mention the fact that by now, we realised we weren’t even going to use our underground Travel Cards, so yet more money wasted with those thieving baskets back in Chelmsford.
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(Behind C&C Autos)
Taxi to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (completely boycotting The Viaduct Tavern). Absolutely loved this pub (Fleet Street). Sawdust on the deck. Oh and Chopsy, with his Australian accent and ‘right manly arms’ turned up to make us a five. Ate chips with loads of salt, pepper and vinegar. Mmmmm. Nom, nom, nom. Final pub was Ye Olde Cock Tavern, after which we popped into St. Dunstan-in-the-West as Kingpin likes churches, even though he’s not remotely religious. Then it was back to dear old Chelmo to finish our evening off in The Ship. Aaaaah, sanctuary. P.S. Also think we might have spotted Lesley Ash sat at the front of a double-decker bus! The Edge 077 646 797 44
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A chap called Alistair Gillan posted this on Facecock, whose name rings a bell, although The Edge can’t quite place him. But the below was seemingly written by Steve Jobs (above) the billionaire, not long before he died, aged just 56. “I reached the pinnacle of success in the business world. In some others’ eyes, my life was the epitome of success. However, aside from work, I had little joy. In the end, my wealth was only a fact of life that I had become accustomed to. Whereas at this moment, lying on my bed and recalling my past, I realise that all the recognition and wealth that I took so much pride in has paled and become meaningless in the face of my death. “You can employ someone to drive a car for you, and make money for you, but you cannot have someone bear your sickness for you. Material things lost can be found or replaced. But there is one thing that can never be found when it becomes lost - life itself. So whatever stage of life you are at right now, with time, you too will one day have to face the day when the curtain finally comes down. “Treasure love for your family, love for your spouse, love for your friends. Treat yourself well and cherish others. As we grow older, and hopefully wiser, we realise that a $300 or a $30 watch both tell the same time. You will realise that your true inner happiness does not come from the material things of this world. Whether you fly first class or economy, if the plane goes down - you go down with it. “Therefore, I hope you realise, when you have mates, buddies and old friends, brothers and sisters, who you chat with, laugh with, talk with, sing sing songs with, talk about north-south-east-west or heaven and earth, that that is true happiness. “Don’t educate your children to be rich. Educate them to be happy. So when they grow up they will know the true value of things and not the price. Eat your food as your medicine, otherwise you have to eat medicine as your food. “The One who loves you will never leave you for another because, even if there are 100 reasons to give up, he or she will find a reason to hold on. There is a big difference between a human being and being human. Only a few really understand it. You are loved when you are born. You will be loved when you die. In between, you simply have to manage.” I’d be a total tosspot to ever compare myself with Steve Jobs, but when I started The Edge back in September of 1996, not long after England had done so well at Euro’96, due to my previous employment, I just wanted to be ‘happy in my work’. That’s all I wanted. ’Course, you struggle for a start and I’ve struggled of late, which is why this will probably be The Edge’s final edition? But if The Edge is, somehow, to continue, then I need to enjoy it more than I have done of late, and it needs to be taken into the 21st century, because although I’m ‘old school’ and I like to read something and physically turn its pages, the rest of you seem happy enough to look at a bloody screen of some description! www.theedgemag.co.uk
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What this publication has also done is show me personally a lot of happiness and good feeling as well, especially over this last month when our Ed. has needed a little extra help to get this milestone issue over the line. I'm very fortunate to know some very good people who I will never, ever take for granted and if I've ever needed help they have offered it in a heartbeat. I'm not going to name names and embarrass any of them in print, but you all know who you are, so I thank you for showing the goodness of human nature and displaying how incredibly important true friends really are in everyday life.
POLIT INCO ICALLY RREC T
Yes, that's right, 25 years. That's how long The Edge magazine has been airing its voice in Chelmsford and, no doubt, beyond. And I am truly grateful that along the way The Edge Ed. asked me to become a part of this much loved Chelmsford institution.
T
he name Jamaica Blue comes from the majestic Blue Mountains of Jamaica - one of the best coffee producing regions in the world. It’s from there the café sources the exclusive coffee beans for their famous Blue Mountain award-winning Jamaica Blue signature blends. The world-class beans used in their coffees are expertly roasted to bring out their unique flavours. Once these beans reach the Chelmsford Jamaica Blue cafe, highly-trained Baristas work their magic, using their expertise to brew the perfect cup of coffee every single time.
Like a lot of things in life, you never know what you have, or what you’ve got, until it's gone, and I know there are a lot of you out there (me and my own family join you on this) that look forward to the start of every new month and the anticipation of yet another brand new issue of The Edge hitting the streets. The chance to read stories or the views of local residents is a rare thing indeed these days, especially on the old school paper printed format, rather than merely a post on social media. And let's face it, it’s a welcome break from constantly looking at our mobile phones. as that’s not only bad for our eyes, but also our mentality.
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If this 300th issue is really to be the very last edition of The Edge and it becomes yet another victim of these sad modern times and the recent/current pandemic, then I for one will forever look back with fond memories of a publication that has tried to keep things as ‘real’ as it possibly could through both good times and bad. As I cast my eyes over past issues, especially the ones I've been directly involved with over the last few years, it's interesting for me that I can pinpoint exactly how I was feeling during those times. Sometimes, when writing an article, it can almost become a form of self-therapy for me, bearing my soul during times of anger, like when I was made redundant (note to former employer: don't forget, you still owe me my money.... because I never will). Or sadness, as has happened when dealing with the loss of life of a family member or close friend. Page 14
So if this really, really is the last ever edition of The Edge, then can I just say a massive thank you to you all for taking the trouble to read not only my thoughts, but those of all of the other columnists each and every month as well, and let me leave you with a song in your hearts... ‘I DID IT MY WAY’ Like Frank, that's something 'Old Edgy' can definitely sing to himself. Yes, that's right, folks. Because sadly now, the end is near, and so The Edge will face its final curtain. My friends, I'll make it clear, I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. It’s lived a life that's been full, And travelled each and every Chelmsford highway, But more, much more than this, The Edge did it hissss way. Regrets, he's had a few (not ’arf), But then again, too few to mention. He said what he had to say, And said it all without exemption. He planned each monthly mag Each careful article along the byway And more, much, much more than that, he did it hissss way. Yes there were times, I'm sure you knew, When he bit off more than he could chew, But through it all, when there was doubt, He ate it up and typed it out. He faced it all, and he stood tall, and did it The Edge’s way. (There’s more...) For what is Edge Ed., what has he got? If not himself, then he has not, To say the things that he truly feels, And not the words of one who kneels, The record shows, he took the blows, but did it hissss way! Stay safe. Be kind to each other. We are only here once, so use that time wisely. The Polak x The Edge 077 646 797 44
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CHINESE CUISINE
All You Can Eat! MARCH 2022
served personally to your table!
BOOK NOW! In a world in which there have been sadistic and egotistical despots such as Gaddafi and Mugabe, it seems almost frivolous to pose the question: do pink marshmallows taste better than white ones? But hey, come the weekend, shit like this is important. The fact of the matter is, to a large extent, we all tend to ‘eat with our eyes’. Therefore, to The Edge’s mind at least, it’s natural to assume that the pink ones taste nicer than the white ones, on the grounds that they look so much more gimmi gimmi gimmi and appealing. So The Edge assumes the question begs, does a pink ‘colouring agent’ have any actual taste, because you’d think it highly unlikely that a manufacturer would go to both the cost and trouble of altering the ingredients of the two opposingly coloured sweets? Another thing The Edge would like to know is why it’s never occurred to any manufacturer to bring out a bag of totally pink marshmallows (as I’d opt for those every single time), of even a bag of white and blue ones for policemen? Surely Bassett’s (or whoever they are) are missing a trick?
SUNDA Y
27TH
MARC
H
I’d completely forgotten about this until just the other day, but there was a precursor to The Edge, you know. Maybe back in 1988/89. About 20 editions. Just 4 black & white photocopied pages which me and a mate at that time (Ian Coldwell - do any of you remember him?) distributed for one night only in The Two Brewers pub in Springfield Road, at a time when it was ‘the pub’ to go to. It was called The Pink Crash Helmet and for a short period, I also wrote under that pseudonym in the Chelmsford Chieftains Ice Hockey programme, as a sort of ‘outsider looking in’ - someone who knew sweet bugger all about ice hockey, but quite enjoyed going along to watch their matches all the same. This must have been about 7 or 8 years before I brought out the very first issue of The Edge and I remember feeling a sort of electricity running up my spine as I was standing it that pub, watching people actually laughing out loud (LOL-ing they call it these days, don’t they?) at what I’d written in The Pink Crash Helmet.
Adults: £22.00 Children (under 10): £10 (Obligatory 10% service charge to be added to final bill)
Choose from a choice of 25 starters including soup, crispy duck, spare ribs, plus a selection of 95 main dishes including prawn, beef, chicken and much, much more!
Coddy (Coldwell) came up with that name, which tickled me pink. So I guess the moral of this story is that if you ever feel as though you’ve got an itch of whatever description, well then, you’ve simply got to scratch it, as you never know what might happen. Do you think for one iota that when I brought out issue no. 01 of The Edge way back in October of 1996 that it would take up the next 25 years of my life? No, did I buggery. www.theedgemag.co.uk
136 MOULSHAM STREET, CHELMSFORD. TEL: 01245 290099 Page 15
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This is where it all began for your editor, readers, and it was somewhat of a shock to the system to say the very least. As you can see, Lees County Primary School in West Yorkshire (see below, twice) was probably built in eighteen hundred and something, but in order to start over at that school, probably aged 8, I’d had to leave an absolutely gorgeous, newly-built school, which was a collection of one storey flat-roofed classrooms spread over lovely luscious grassy playing fields in a village called Lanchester, some 8 miles from County Durham. And cor blimey, readers, that school was a belter. It even had it’s very own swimming pool, yes, back in circa. 1967/68, which is where I first learnt to swim, aged 7. I was gutted to be leaving. Absolutely gutted. But as a kid, you never have a choice, do you? You simply go wherever your parents drag you off to. Which was to 3.5 miles away from a backward looking town called Keighley, and a mere mile from Haworth, Bronte country (Emily & Charlotte, Wuthering Heights and all that), the place where I eventually lost my virginity on Christmas Day night in 1978! What I’ll always fondly remember Lees County Primary School for, apart from the delectable Linda Thornber, who I had a massive crush on from my very first day there, was when new headmaster Mr. Roughley came onto the scene and created a football team which turned out to be one of the best in our little part of the county. Black & white striped shirts we played in, hand-me-downs that had all shrunk in the wash; but what a belting team we turned out to be. I played left-back, as I was one of the rare left-footers in our team, and to this day I can still remember the names of six of my other team mates, only I’m annoyed at myself for not being able to remember the other four. Our pitch had a proper slope on it though, so we tended to go on the rampage whenever we were ‘kicking down the hill’. But even back then, aged just 10 & 11, one player shone like a lighthouse in a storm (poetic, eh?), and that was my mate, Jimmy Anderton, who played on the right wing. Jimmy would inevitably go on to feature prominently in all of the teams at my next two schools and graduated so far as Yorkshire Boys. But he never went any further (and without a shadow of a doubt he was capable of turning pro, as I played alongside a lad who did, and it was obvious to all that Jimmy was of the same calibre). That was because of two main reasons. (1) He never liked the training (2) He met the girl he would go on to marry and raise kids with when he was just 13. So there you go. Without a shadow of a doubt, for Jimmy Anderton think Darren Anderton, for he was exactly the same sort of player. However, I certainly wasn’t sad to see the back of Lees County Primary School, for what came next was such a culture shock, yet turned out to be my favourite school of all my years as a nipper. And that school was called...
This was a big step up from primary school (short pants) to middle school (ages 12-14). BIG step. For starters our parents had to buy us school uniforms and we had to catch a red double-decker bus to Keighley (pronounced: Keithley) at 08:30am every morning, for which we were each issued a bus pass (yay, the closest thing to a business card a young boy would ever have in his wallet - and yes, us lads needed a wallet too). Meanwhile, this (left) was our school crest that we had to have sewn onto our left-breast blazer pocket, which was absolutely totally shit compared to the sinister profile of a red lion (stood in ‘fighting stance’ on it’s two hind legs) that our rivals Swire Smith had. Let me just repeat that name for you again: Swire Smith. Jesus, they even sound ominous. And they were. They were trouble, with a capital ‘T’. Like a school the Dandy or Beano comics might come up with to signify a bunch of terrorising monsters who were out to bash us up. However, on a far more positive side (it was a 3 year sojournment), some of the third year girls were a true sight for a 12 year old’s eyes, because they (ahem) had busters. Oh yes indeedy. They weren’t just straight up and down like we lads had become accustomed to at primary school; these lasses were like ‘little women’ and it wasn’t long before one of ’em took a shine to my long blonde hair and made a play for me. The only trouble was, Linda Crook’s nickname was ‘Bananas’ (and I think we’ll leave it there, as I spent a full half-term trying to give her the swerve). Hartington was steeped in history (I’ve been online, but sadly I can’t find out much about it) every bit as much as Hogwarts. The corridors were made of stone that had been worn away over the passage and footsteps of time. Can you imagine that? It was honestly epic in every sense of the word. We got split into ‘houses’ and mixed with kids from other primary schools; Britain (blue), Cheshire (white) and Shepherd (green). Our school ties had lots of little ‘Hartington emblems’ on them, each in the colour of whatever house you were in. If you’d had elder brothers or sisters that were either at or had passed through the school, you’d be in the same ‘house’ as them. Unfortunately, I was new to the area, so I was in Shepherd, which I was absolutely gutted about. There was even a Tuck Shop on site that would sell little packets of cheesey nibbles and crisps at both playtimes (now called break periods) and lunchtimes. Speaking of which, me and a couple of mates (Jimmy Anderton and Billy Fenlan) opted out of having school dinners and walked to a small transport cafe every single lunchtime for stuff like Cornish pasty & chips, steak & kidney pie & chips, beefburgers & chips (all good, healthy stuff) ranging from between 12p-18p. On the curriculum front, we had to do (I say ‘had’ as I hated them all) woodwork (with Mr. Hawthornthwaite, who looked like Adolf Hitler), metalwork (with Mr. Hewitt), as well as three different sciences; biology, chemistry and physics. What was brilliant though were our regular games of footie both mid-morning and mid-afternoon, with a tennis ball, which for definite helped increase your skillfulness. I’d play these games with my brand new mates Marcus Durkin, John ‘Stan’ Ashworth and Ian Brown every single day without fail, while the latter would sometimes smuggle in ‘niffie mags’ for us to look at in his briefcase. As I eventually graduated to become a third year student, that’s when fashion properly kicked in, with black loafers (plus a couple of tassles), Levi Sta-Prest trousers, lighter-weight school blazers with gold buttons (only the top one of which would ever get fastened) and Ben Sherman shirts. I absolutely loved it, while in winter I also wore a Campari fur-trimmed fishtail parka and figured I looked the bee’s knees. And, to be fair, me and my mini-mod mates all did. They say your school days ought to be your best (well, Tom Brown reckons they were at any rate), but while I don’t specifically agree per se, they did undoubtedly provide some exceptionally special times that I will remember with fondness for the remainder of my life. And then, for my final two years, I was off to...
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Just so’s you’re aware, it wasn’t a case of: “Ooh, so you went to a grammar school then, did you?” We all went. We didn’t have to qualify. It was simply the next school along the line after our 3 year stint at middle school. And it was fine. But it couldn’t touch Hartington. Nothing could. But the worst of it is, Hartington was demolished before I ever got the opportunity to go back and visit it, which I would have absolutely loved to have done. To have been able to rewalk its corridors and smell it again, because schools do have a certain ‘smell’ to them, don’t they? Oh and visit my old form room, which actually doubled as the school’s library, and reminisce about my old form teacher, Mr. Wooler, who was a great orator, yet in summer sometimes used to fasten his cricket slacks (which he would wear with a sports jacket) with a tie, rather than a belt. Come to think of it, he used to quote Shakespeare and smell of whisky every now and again too. The footie went well at Greenhead. By then I was even playing in the same team as Peter Jackson, who pulled his wife and child out of the fire at the Bradford City football ground disaster in May 1985 (he was a pro there by that time), went on to captain Newcastle United in the old Division One (pre the Premiership era) and manage Huddersfield Town. We, his teammates, all knew he’d make the grade. He was gifted. Head and shoulders above the rest of us, literally, especially when it came to going up for headers. Except for Jimmy Anderton, of course.
‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible....’
I left Greenhead with but 2 ‘O’ Levels in Art/Design and English Language, which was terrible really as I definitely ‘had 5 in me’, but never an ‘A’ Level, perish the thought. They were ‘beyond me ken’.
This month, readers, it’s the annual Horse of the Year Show which always used to be on the BBC and introduced by either David Coleman or Harry Carpenter when yours truly was but a young ’un. It was something I only ever used to watch when my Grandma and Grandad were staying over, which wasn’t very often as my stepfather bloody well hated them (yes, both them and the horses). They used to get right into it though, to such an extent that my Grandma would even put her knitting to one side to concentrate on it fully.
I have revisited Greenhead since, while I was oop north on a surveying trip with Lurch and we took a slight detour to get there. But those in charge really didn’t seem too happy to let all and sundry roam their corridors, whether they were former pupils, or they weren’t.
Oh, and the music. The signature tune was absolutely awesome at the start of the programme (trust the BBC to get it right yet again). Hey, do they still play it to this day, and do any Edge readers know what it’s called?
If I had my time again, I like to think I’d knuckle down a fair bit more than I obviously did. But then again, the chances are, I wouldn’t.
Some of the horse rider’s names still linger in my mind from yesteryear: Harvey Smith, David Broome, Lucinda Prior-Palmer (hey, and get this one) Alwin Schockemoohle! It was always an indoor arena event with the floodlights on, I seem to recall, so perhaps it was Wembley Arena? It was very dramatic wherever it was held, yet I’m honestly not really into horses at all. I definitely wasn’t bothered about dressage or anything like that. No, I watched simply to see who could manage a clear round and get over the mighty ‘wall’, which, if memory serves me correctly, they sometimes used to add (plastic) bricks to in order to make it higher. The riders always used to look resplendent in their red blazer-type jackets, with the dark velvet trim at the collar. And surely everyone remembers Harvey Smith’s infamous two-fingered salute to the judges way back when? But do you know exactly how long ago that was, readers? It occurred in nineteen-seventy-one. Jesus, that’s 50 years ago and I was but 10 at the time, yet I remember it as though it was yesterday, the northern yobbo.
During his morning jog, a doctor happened to notice an old lady sitting on her front porch smoking a huge cigar. She looked so happy and contented that he couldn’t help but pause for breath and ask her the secrets of her seemingly contented life. "Well, I smoke ten cigars a day," she smiled, “and before I go to bed at night, I always roll myself a nice big joint. Apart from that, I don’t have any vices, other than a bottle of Jack Daniels a week and all the junk food I can eat. Don’t do any exercise whatsoever, apart from getting laid all weekend long.” "Wow!” spluttered the doctor. “That’s really amazing. And if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?" "Forty," replied the woman. So there you have it, readers. Only best not knock it until you’ve tried it. www.theedgemag.co.uk
’Course, as a result of giving the ‘V’ sign, Yorkshireman Harvey got stripped of his £2,000 winnings (how much would that be in today’s money?) plus the title he’d just won for making such an obscene gesture, despite claiming it was a ‘V’ for ‘victory’ sign, a la Winston Churchill. Was it bollocks, Harvey! The Edge understands that The Horse of the Year Show is still going to this day and now occurs at the NEC Centre in Birmingham, generally in October. Oh and what about dear old Alan Weeks, who was another regular Beeb sports presenter who’s just popped into my mind. Only didn’t he mainly cover the swimming? Page 17
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I assume you all know what I’m talking about, wrote former Edge columnist Karen Chong in these pages some 15+ years ago, when I mention the word swinging? Yes, of course you do. And although swinging is undoubtedly something that has been popular throughout the ages in one guise or another, to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not sure how it all works. Do people simply turn up at a particular venue and throw their keys into a fruit bowl (doubtful) and hope they cop off with someone who at least looks as though they have a modicum of taste? Or is it yet another justification for the happily shagging around brigade? I have recently become semi-acquainted with a couple who are frequent participants at swinging parties and they swear blind they both always enjoy themselves and that neither of them has an ounce of jealousy towards the other, or the other’s participation/partners. It isn’t often I bump into them, but when I do, I cannot help staring at them at every given opportunity. I’m even wondering whether my mouth hangs open slightly as I do so, as I’m not sure whether I look at them in awe, bewilderment, fascination, or just morbid curiosity. Thinking about it, I suppose I’m trying to gauge whose idea it was to swing in the first place and are they a genuinely happy couple, or are they merely just a partnership of convenience? Either way, it most definitely intrigues me to observe them, as I admit ‘people watching’ is one of my favourite idle pastimes, especially if the coffee is good. I just love watching how they interact together and with the people around them. Are they forever scanning a room for a potential fellow game player? Are they out to recruit? But if they ever catch me ogling them, I always automatically look away and feel quite childish and foolish in the extreme. Or what if they’ve been sizing me up? Oh, how embarrassing. I feel uncomfortable merely thinking about it. I guess I am being a little naive here, but I’m just not sure I buy into the whole ‘share it with a stranger’ experience. So far as I’m concerned, it all seems a little scary, not to mention a positive health hazard. Having said that, doesn’t it also seem scary opting for just the one/same sexual partner for the remainder of your life? Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not offering invitations at this point, but when you seriously get around to thinking about it, in the cold harsh light of day, could you honestly go through a swinging encounter? Having sex with a stranger? Who you may one day even bump into at your local supermarket? Surely I cannot be the only person who thinks this way, although I have to admit that catching myself thinking about it at all has made me feel a little guilty. If I went to a swingers event with the love of my life, I know in my heart I simply couldn’t deal with giving him away to someone else for the night. What’s more, I cannot imagine arriving back home together and discussing the evenings we’d both just encountered over a cup of Horlicks, although apparently that is precisely what happens. On the positive side, I suppose it puts a stop to couples cheating on each other. Or does it? Does the fact that you have sought the permission of your partner to swing constitute being honest? No-one should ever be pressured into swinging, that’s for certain. But is it a lifestyle choice to be seriously considered, as it appears to becoming more and more acceptable? Page 18
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As you can see, no it isn’t. Oh he takes me to some lovely locations, does Lengthy-Boy. Like to the rear of some hotel in Sussex, or wherever we were (only the bins had beaten us to it). And he’s always quick to get his fluorescent jacket on, giving it ‘the big I am’, just in case anyone thinks I’m actually the boss, what with me being the elder statesman and all. Fat chance of that though. He’s always the one looking through his surveyor’s camera thingy, jotting down numbers, ordering me about and telling me on which walls to line up the staff/barcode/’RBR’ (reet big ruler). But it still makes a change from my office.
Not sure whether Lurch had been burning the candle at both ends or he’d been getting all ‘CHT’ (cool, hip and trendy) in his middleage, but it’s certainly a reet fetching look. Actually, this was us sat in the Belstaff store in Gunwharf Quay, just last month, the afternoon before we nipped over to do a spot of surveying on the Isle of Wight (yet again we’ll wear that bloody ferry out). Only it wasn’t long after this photo was taken that we treated ourselves to thee lovely pints of ale in ‘The Old Customs House’, which is fast becoming The Edge’s favourite pub. It’s just a shame it’s in Portsmouth, as it’s not much of a ‘local’.
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When Lurch pulled what looked to me like part of a golf trolley out of his car boot and told me, “You’re going to do something you’ve never done before now,” I honestly thought he was having a laugh. But no, true to his word, this exceedingly odd contraption is genuinely (apparently) some sort of wall verticality device, designed, constructed and patented especially for the job by his company, Gryphon Surveys Ltd. c I don’t know, eh, readers? You learn something new every day, don’t you just? Note the 2 breezeblocks I’m standing on, as I’m not quite as tall as Lurch (by a good 3”). @bespokesurveyingequipment.com
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www.theedgemag.co.uk
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DEAKS
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JACKASS FOREVER What a strange experience, going to the cinema and watching a film with other people. No face masks, just a bucket of popcorn. It was the first time I’ve really felt that life is getting back to normal, as the price of the ticket and refreshments was certainly a shocking dose of reality.
We went to see ‘Jackass Forever’ and I am delighted to report, despite approaching my 40’s, that I am still as big a fan of childish humour as I ever was. It was a laugh a minute, so much so that I barely had time to scoff my overpriced popcorn between chortles. Whatever possesses those people to partake in their ridiculous stunts I will never know, but it does make for truly wonderful entertainment. If you haven’t seen it yet, then I highly recommend it.
SKY GLASS
STUFF Is anyone else amazed by just how much ‘stuff’ you seem to accumulate when you have kids? I swear that my house is like Mary Poppins handbag with literally every cupboard full to the brim of, well, ‘stuff’. Dedicated cupboards full of craft materials, drawers full of baby
clothes and boxes full of odd LOL doll shoes just waiting to be reunited with their missing pair.
Before Christmas we made a concerted effort to have a clear out and took two car boots full of toys to a charity shop. However, after Christmas and but one birthday, we’re back to square one. I don’t think the Sea Turtles need to worry about plastic pollution from discarded McDonalds Straws and old fishing nets. The real problem is Smyths toys and any kind of kids magazine with free ‘stuff’ stuck to the front cover. At the last time of counting we had 24 Kallax boxes of ‘stuff’, not including the massive Barbie ‘Dreamhouse’. What happened to the good old days when you had to make do with an old football with the orange intestine bursting out and a few free spokey dokeys in your Cornflakes?
CAT KICKING Despite being a West Ham fan there is no defending Kurt Zouma’s recent actions. For those of you who don’t know
Billy Hinken (although I’m pretty sure that every single one of you does), he was filmed kicking and slapping his pet cat before the footage was posted on social media. Worse still, it was in front of his small child who presumably now thinks it acceptable behaviour towards a defenceless pet. He was immediately fined £250k by the club, but the fact that he wasn’t suspended leaves a sour taste in the mouth of presumably most die hard fans. Hopefully this will be a valuable life lesson for Zouma and let’s hope he goes on to do decent work to promote charities protecting the welfare of animals. Forgiveness will eventually come, but for now, I for one think he definitely deserved a suspension.
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I’ve finally managed to get my hands on Sky’s new TV offering Sky Glass. Its release has been
met with mixed reviews, but I have to say that my initial reactions are positive. For those of you who don’t know, Sky Glass is a TV offering with Sky (with a built-in sound bar). What makes it even better is that the Sky is provided through the internet, so there is no longer a need for a dish. I opted for the 65 inch version (mainly because I am blind, rather than flash) and I have to say the picture quality is brilliant. Really crisp colours and none of the blur you get on some screens when, for instance, someone is running. The sound is exceptional too, while the new Sky functionality is great. Overall I am delighted with my purchase and I particularly like the ‘pucks’ sold with it that gives access to Sky in other rooms. Super Sunday, with some peace and quiet upstairs, is a truly delightful and entirely new experience for me.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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ONLY JOKING! HOSPITAL
Security just escorted me out of the hospital. Apparently, stroke patients is not an instruction.
LUBRICATION Couldn’t find the KY jelly last night, but I went ahead anyway. I suppose it was kind of a vacation from the lube. A sort of a lubrication. Okay, I’ll get my coat.
FISHING TIPS Trust me on this. If you don’t bait your hook, the fish won’t disturb your beer drinking.
WIFE DEALING DRUGS I have a strong suspicion that my wife is dealing drugs. Just as I was leaving for work this morning the phone rang. So I picked it up and some bloke asked, “Has the dope gone yet?”
BUSY DAY So I went to the doctors. "Doc,” I says, “I have an embarrassing problem.” The doc says, "So tell me about it." "Well,” says I, "first thing of a morning, the wife and I tend to celebrate my 'morning wood’. Then its off to work and at around about eleven, my secretary gives me a blow job at my desk. Then I usually nip home at lunchtime and give the missus a quick rogering over the kitchen table. Then mid-afternoon my secretary and I usually manage to have a quickie in the stationery cupboard. So then it’s home for dinner, before the wife and I head for the bedroom early evening for the most serious session of the day, and sometimes it’s even two, or occasionally three." "I see," says the doctor. "And what seems to be the problem?" "Well,” says I, "my dick’s often quite tender whenever I have a quick Barclays."
YOUNG SCOTTISH LOVE Young lovers, Cameron and Morag, are sitting beside a loch, watching the sun go down. "A penny for your thoughts?” says young Morag. "Well, I was thinking about how nice it would be if you put your heed on ma shoulder,” said Cam. So Morag rested her head on his shoulder. The sun was now a fiery red as it neared the horizon when she piped up again.
"A penny for your thoughts, Cameron?” "Well, I were thinking it might be nice if I was to steal a wee kiss from the bestest looking lassie aroond these parts?” Morag sighed and melted into Cameron’s embrace, offering up her lips to his. The sun was now half way to drowning into the loch when Morag asked once again, "A penny for your thoughts, Cammy?” In his best husky voice, he said, "Well, I was thinking whether it might be too forward of me to suggest that I might put my hand on one of your wee breasts?” Her heart all of a flutter, Morag whispered that no, she did not think it would be too forward a request at all. So Cameron did so. With the sun now completely gone, a breathless Morag asked, "A penny for your thoughts, Cameron?” "Well,” he replied, in true Scottish fashion, “I was just thinking that’s threepence you owe me already, so how about handing it over afore we go any further?”
DOGGY STYLE The missus said she wanted to try it doggy style. So, to keep it authentic, once we’d finished, I rubbed her nose in the wet patch, which I have to say didn’t go down too well.
IT’S A FAIR COP Cop: "Are you aware of how fast you were going, sir?” Me (brightly): "Hey, how about you tell me? After all, you're the one with the fancy speed gun.”
MINTED Me: "I want to be rich like my brother.” Her (perking up): "Oh yeah. So your brother’s minted, is he?” Me: "Nah. He wants to be rich too.”
SUNDAY MORNING My neighbour was out washing his car the other Sunday morning. "Mine next, if you like,” I said cheerily. He seemed to sigh. "Ain’t it enough I have to shag your wife for you,” he said. I winced. Obviously I’d caught him at the wrong time.
IMAGINARY WORLD I finally confided to my parents that my wife wanted me to stop living in an imaginary world. They said, "You’re married?”
BLUSHING Young Lady: "I feel like such a teenager around you. I keep blushing with the strength of my feelings and everything appears as though it’s straight out of a romance novel.” McDonald's employee: "Would you like fries with that?”
EXUBERANCE OF YOUTH
DOGS & CATS Dogs and cats are such narcissists. Honestly, I’ve followed loads on Twitter, but not one of them has followed me back.
FALLING ASLEEP Of course, one of the downsides of falling asleep straight after sex is the sheep waking you up by licking your face.
ALL DAY LONG I bought him one of those face massagers for his birthday. Only he started harping on about, "Are you implying my looks are fading then?” So in the end, I just shouted, "Ah, shove it up your arse then.” Well, that must have triggered something, because he stormed off the bedroom and that’s where he stayed, all evening long, in fact.
COINCIDENCE The first thing a man should look for in a woman is most definitely her heart. The fact that her tits are in the way is merely a coincidence.
RANDOM BREATH TEST How come if it’s a random breath test the cops always manage to pick on the driver?
PILES I got an actual face-to-face at the surgery today and in the waiting room I bumped into an old mate I'd not seen in years. After a bit of chat, I asked him, "So what brings you here?" "Piles,” he said. “The doc says I've got the worst case of piles he's ever seen." "Blimey," I said. "Is that why you've got a cushion shoved down the back of your trousers?" He said, "That’s just it. I haven’t got a cushion shoved down the back of my trousers.”
32 TEETH Most adults have thirty two teeth. Only the older I get, I’ve discovered that the real total rather depends on how deep your pockets are.
NO FAVOURITES Mum: "Of course I don’t have any favourites.” Her eldest: "Oh yeah. Then who’s birthdate is your computer password?”
WEIRD Weird, isn’t it? Americans say elevator, while we say lift. And my neighbour texts me: ‘Stop texting me or I’ll call the police’ when I know she’s really only playing hard to get.
BEST BIT The best bit about having a shit with the door open is the look on the faces of all the other passengers on the aeroplane. P.S. Go on, try it and see.
My mate came up to me at the bar. Came storming over, he did, looking really, really angry. "S’up, Tony?” says I, trying to pacify him a bit. "Your fecking lad’s what’s up.” "What? My Stevie? What’s he done now?” "He’s pissed his name in the snow on my patio, that’s what he’s fecking done, mate.” "Oh come on, Tone,” says I. “We’ve all done that in our time. It’s called the exuberance of youth. You remember that, don’t you?” "Yeah, I do,” he says. “But why’s it in my daughters handwriting?”
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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Well, it now looks that all the doomsayers were wrong and that Covid is in full retreat in the UK - so ‘Welcome to Normality’. Or is it? The Government have decreed that all Covid regulations will be withdrawn by the end of the month and we’ll all have to live with the Virus from now one. Sure, it’s likely to mean annual vaccinations, just like the flu jab. But if the Government says that’s the way it is - then it must be. After all, this Government has our best interests at heart, don’t they? Let’s see how it all pans out. Clearly the scientists aren’t that happy as they still think further problems are just around the corner, as approximately 20% of the population remain unvaccinated, while only 68% of those vaccinated have received their booster dose. So maybe the Government is right and like the current ‘Threat Level’ of a terrorist attack, our likelihood of a further rise in Covid-19 infections can be reduced from ‘HIGHLY LIKELY’ (Severe Threat) to ‘LIKELY’ (Substantial Threat). Fact is, we’re simply going to have to wait and see. Over the next few months our interest in the Covid-19 pandemic is going to significantly recede as the rolling news and the newspaper’s front pages are going to be dominated by Wagatha Christie, the upcoming civil case involving a member of the Royal Family, and finally the economy, what with its rising prices and inflation taking a heavy toll on everybody.
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In 1992 the rallying cry of the Clinton election campaign was: “It’s the economy, stupid” which applies just as much today as it did 30 years ago. We are now in an era of ‘Heat or Eat’ as families struggle to pay their heating bills, which are rising astronomically in an era of 7% inflation and no end in sight for rising food costs. Yet, as I said above, the Government will take care of it won’t they? After all, the Government has our best interests at heart, don’t they? Highly unlikely, as the Government is involved in a Civil War and ultimately a fight for survival, so they’ll only deal with problems they can solve and things that keep them popular. Whereas the economy is beyond their control, as are NHS waiting lists, house prices, the virus, and the fact that Europe is teetering on the brink of war. Which took us all by surprise, didn’t it? Well, not really. The Ukraine has been a flashpoint in
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Eastern Europe for decades with successive countries annexing parts or all of the territory. In the 1920’s it was Poland, in the 1940’s Germany, and in the post WWII era it was the Soviet Union/USSR/Russia, so really, what’s new? Currently we’re in a 1938 Czechoslovakia/Munich situation. Hopefully the talking will avert conflict in Eastern Europe, but if it doesn’t, who knows where this will take us? In 1938, the Munich Agreement averted war, but only for a year or so. But there are some crazy political leaders out there who’re willing to take this to the brink. Just remember what the Falkland’s War did for Margaret Thatcher’s popularity - she simply kept winning elections! Biden is facing mid-terms and needs a boost after the Afghanistan fiasco. Our own Government is falling apart. And Macron, in France, is facing threats from the Far Right. Meanwhile NATO is looking to re-establish its role after a series of disasters, Poland and the Baltic states are feeling threatened by the Sabre rattling of the Russians, and if we’re not careful this could all end in tears. I’m sure we’ll all be kept fully informed of all the threats and changes that we’re facing, but let’s all hope it’s not by DAB radio. What you’ll get instead is “The Government in an emergency announcement states...” And that’ll be all you’ll get. Absolute silence as you sit in the stalled Chelmsford traffic, or at one of the many temporary sets of traffic lights as the council tries to repair all of our main roads at the same time. But that’s on the proviso you can afford either the petrol or the electricity to run your car. But I still don’t understand why DAB reception is so bad here in Essex (and London, and everywhere else in the country). It surely wasn’t meant to be this awful. But then again, it was an old European proposal and directive, so anything was likely to happen. So let’s all hope that the world leaders see sense and war is averted, the economy stabilises, the roads all get repaired and DAB improves.
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reetings once more from the Californian coast. If only it were possible to send you a bit of San Diego sunshine, along with those greetings, your March would become a whole lot better. Well, after the Edge Ed’s warning in the last edition about the imminent demise of the publication, this was going to be a valedictory piece as befits 21 years of contributions. But it seems a stay of execution is not off the cards, so we’ll do the normal stuff again this month. Normal as in bore you rigid with the thoughts of Chairman Ward about the state of the world in general and the US and UK specifically. This month we’re going to produce an homage to grey. Boring old grey. Over the past few years this column has made a great many references to the culture wars being waged by populist politicians, but we’ve never taken a good look at what that actually means. Let’s put that right. In general it is those on the right of the political spectrum that like a culture war - it’s good for business. The idea is to get the population’s anger levels stoked up about something that is pretty much irrelevant to everyone’s day to day life, but will touch a nerve with enough pressure to make that guy vote for your side instead of the other. There’s the added benefit that getting stoked up about a cultural issue means said voter’s attention is diverted away from more important things the government is doing. Like lying through its teeth about pandemic management, economic growth, or Brexit benefits, for example.
defeating Hitler, but he had what by today’s standards were some fairly obnoxious opinions about, er, people of colour. Hero, or villain? Black or white? And here’s our first reference to the bland colour. Probably, like most things in life, Churchill should be thought of in some shade of grey. But nobody gets angry about grey. So grey is of no use to the culture warrior.
A few exemplars are needed here to illustrate the point. Take statues. Had you ever heard of Edward Colston until his statue was dumped into Bristol harbor? He made his money out of slave trading, but was philanthropic to his home city with his ill gotten gains. So there are two sides to the story. In any normal time, his statue being dumped into the water would have maybe warranted a small section in the news and that would be that. Living in Chelmsford, the whole incident would have had zero impact on you or your life.
There is a common purpose to these culture wars. The two sides are trying to define what a country should look like. One side wants things to stay stuck in 1950 forever and the other wants to progress into the 21st century. One side wraps itself in a flag, the other recognises that each person is a product of a lot more than where he or she were born. And as noted already, it’s the stoking of anger by defining everything as black or white and ignoring the grey that is the weapon of choice for one side, whilst reasoned argument is for the other.
But certain sections of the press seized on it as a way to stoke up anger about rewriting Britain’s glorious history. In truth, it wasn’t a rewrite at all, it was an expanded and more complete history, but we’ll let that pass. Anger is a very powerful emotion. It’s much easier to get people on your side by poking the anger button than it is to win them over with rational argument. You can see why they do it.
Emotional vs Rational.
Another example is when an Oxford college decided to remove a portrait of Queen Brenda from their common room. Cue outrage from the same sections of the press. How could these people be so unpatriotic? Traitors all. A bit over the top, don’t you think? Then there is the thorny problem of Churchill. Obviously a champion in terms of
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That’s not to say emotion shouldn’t play a part in people’s worldview, but it really ought not to be the only thing that counts. In the midst of this battleground a new word has been commissioned. Woke. Surveys show a great many people have heard the term, but don’t really understand what it means. If you think of it as another name for political correctness, you won’t be far wrong. We’ll come back to that in a minute. Out here the culture war is even more vicious because there’s a white supremacist and religious angle to it that, on the whole, doesn’t exist in the UK. Having said that, Black Lives Matter did provoke a predictable reaction there, so the race facet is not entirely lacking.
Apart from the racial and religious aspects of the culture war, out here there are two things that act as perfect identifiers as to which side you are on. Guns and weed. If you go into a home and there’s a cupboard full of guns, you are in a conservative household that votes Republican and thinks Donald Trump is a god. Ominously a far too large number of them also think that the use of violence is legitimate if it helps your side win the culture war. On the other hand, if you enter another abode and you are offered some weed (completely legal), you are in the presence of a Democrat voter who thinks Trump is the most disgusting example of humanity that Darwinism ever spewed out. Clearly a dope head is not going to be interested in starting a fight with anyone, which kinda points to how that little scrap will end. OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration and generalisation about the US, but you get the point - everything is virgin white or jet black. There’s no room for grey. Looking at the possibilities for real violence in the US that the culture war is generating makes you realise dumping a statue in the river isn’t worth getting so worked up about, doesn’t it? Just because the Daily Mail soils its knickers about such stuff doesn’t mean you have to. Stand back. Calm down. Gain perspective. Think ‘it’s probably grey - no point in getting crapped out about it’. To return to the issue of political correctness, or wokeism if you prefer, you often hear people say that “it’s gone mad”. Is that true? Well, obviously that’s going to depend on your viewpoint. And even those of us that tend towards the logical argument side of culture wars will admit that some of our fellow soldiers do tend to give us a bad name by pushing it too far. But there’s another, and much less aggressive way, to look at political correctness. What if you instead used the word ‘politeness’? Now, is it politeness gone mad that you don’t use the N word any more? Or simple common decency. Is it politeness gone mad that you don’t talk about tank-topped bum boys (copyright B. Johnson), or simple common decency? You see where this is going? Last year’s acceptable behavior is not so now, and there are very few people that would argue for the continued use of either of those examples. Complaints about both were described as ‘political correctness gone mad’ at some time. It is proof the world moves on. As does humanity as a whole. The cultural warriors complaining about wokeism now are fighting a losing battle, but that doesn’t mean they won’t have some wins in the short term. The plea from here is that the rest of us must try to promote the idea that grey is good. We don’t have to be angry about everything all the time. And on that, and assuming there will be a next time… Anon, Chelmsford.
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If I could have lived through a decade as an adult, it would have to have been the seventies. This was arguably the greatest decade in cinematic history, in which visionary directors shook up Hollywood with ground breaking films and audiences got to witness spectacles that they had never seen before. I wonder what it would have been like to go to the cinema back then, before home video, DVD’s and now streaming, where if you wanted to go and see the latest movie you had no choice but to head to a local fleapit and interact with excited audiences as films such as Jaws, Star Wars and Superman introduced the world to the so called ‘blockbuster’. Truly cinema would never be the same again. The list of classic films from this exciting decade seems almost endless. Aside from the aforementioned, there was Apocalypse Now, The Exorcist, One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, A Clockwork Orange, Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, Rocky etc. etc. etc. What a time to be a film fan! Perhaps the most iconic of them all was The Godfather - the true granddaddy of gangster films. It’s the Oscar winning behemoth that has been endlessly quoted, imitated, praised and parodied, including, I also believe, in a long running Bertolli advert. It often features high in lists of the greatest films of all time and is considered a true classic of American cinema. Yet I had never seen it. For someone who considers himself a true cinephille, to admit that I had never seen The Godfather always remained an embarrassment to my good self. It was always one of the those films I had meant to get around to watching, but for whatever reason, be it time, not being in the mood, or simply setting myself up with too high expectations, it had simply never happened. However, as The Godfather reaches it’s 50th anniversary, it is about to be shown on the big screen once again in a nationwide rerelease, so I figured my time had Page 26
finally arrived. Even if you haven’t seen The Godfather, you almost certainly know it’s most famous lines, it’s music, and it’s most talked about scenes. In fact, it seems daft to talk about potential spoilers in a fifty-year-old movie, but just in case you also haven’t seen the film and intend to right that wrong as well, here are some minor spoilers coming up. The story itself is very basic, despite the film’s three hour running time. Don Corleone (Marlon Brando), the head of a powerful crime dynasty, is losing control after being targeted by another powerful crime boss, so hands control over to his reluctant war hero son Michael (Al Pacino). And so we follow the journey of a young man who initially doesn’t want to be like his father become the very thing he tried to turn his back on. It’s a simple, yet classic, story of power, greed, control and the strength of family bonds. It also features a decapitated horses head in a bed, in one of its most infamous scenes of cinema history. By today’s standards, the graphic violence looks a tad comical in places, but it still has the power to shock due to surprise elements in this movie. I’d imagine that ‘back in the day’ it really was considered brutal to audiences unaccustomed to witnessing the coldness behind gangland killings shown on screen.
“So, as I was saying (on page 7), I had lived in Edmonton, North London, my whole life, but the crime was getting so bad. I was so desperate to move somewhere greener and far more peaceful. Thankfully my husband and I moved to Writtle in 2018 and it's honestly been the best thing we've ever done. “I have a dog, so the fields and bridal paths are just perfect for us, as is Hylands Park, which is walkable from where we live.”
Top 5 things I love about Chelmsford 1. Moto Pizza. Unlimited pizza that is made so authentically, while the service is impeccable. I just love the simplicity of the menu and the vibe in the restaurant. I went on its opening day and have since not stopped shouting about it to all my friends and family from North London who make the special trip to come to us, I am sure, simply for the Moto experience! 2. Hylands Park & Estate. The most incredibly peaceful, beautiful grounds. So picturesque. Perfect for walks, picnics, exploring and escaping with the dog. Plus the once-a-month Farmer’s Market is great too. 3. Local People. Having come to Chelmsford from North London, where saying ‘hello’ to people you walk past in the street seemingly isn’t the done thing, I have been delighted to discover that the people of Chelmsford, especially in Writtle where I live, have been so friendly, welcoming and helpful. There’s a real ‘community feel’ to Chelmsford, which is rare considering how big it has become these days. I started my own business in 2018 and I’ve enjoyed so much local support. People are always buying from me and sharing my posts on social media to help me. It’s honestly been so humbling. 4. Bond Street. Love it! I love the variety of shops on offer, the art galleries, speciality shops, pop-up shops, the Everyman Cinema, Wagamama, John Lewis etc. I just wish Bond Street could be extended even further, because good shops bring people into a town. Plus we also have a great selection of independents, which should always be celebrated.
Truth be told, the film seems a little bit quaint by today's hardened level of on-screen violence, yet thankfully The Godfather also offers more that simple visceral thrills. It is such a handsomely made film, slow to tell it’s tale, while it’s stellar cast of Hollywood legends includes James Cann and Robert Duval (still acting today, along with fellow octogenarian Al Pacino) who deliver subtle, yet excellent performances. But it is, of course, the late Marlon Brando who steals the show with his now legendary portrayal of the titular Godfather, all heavy drawl, eyeliner and slicked backed hair.
5. Too numerous to mention, but there are such many and varied options available in Chelmsford for days and evenings out, such as the racecourse, theatres, museum, cathedral, parks, leisure centres. Chelmsford honestly has so much to give. Finally, what do I not like about Chelmsford? This is an easy one to answer. The roads, traffic and potholes are my biggest annoyance. It seems to take forever to get anywhere around Chelmsford, and I've had to change my tyres twice (in four years) because of all the potholes!
If you haven’t seen it, I’d thoroughly recommend seeing it now that it’s back on the big screen this coming month. It may not be quite the same experience of going to the cinema that it was back then, what with smoking, making out, and queuing around the block for several hours just to get in. But I for one will settle for a latte, plenty of legroom and pre-booked seats to experience this most important piece of cinema that surely deserves to be seen. The Edge 01245 348256
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The Doomsayer After my last few articles there have been some, perfectly understandable, comments that I’m a bit of a misery and hold my fellow humans in very low regard. It has also been said that I’m a ‘Doomer’, which I understand is the 21st Century equivalent of someone who wanders the streets wearing a sandwich board with ‘The End Of The World Is Nigh” written across it. While I can appreciate why it might seem like all of those caps fit, it’s really not the case. Am I of the opinion that we’re in very dangerous waters and things aren’t looking good for us at all? Yes, I am, and I make no apologies for that. Indeed, I look at anyone who can’t see how bad things are with disbelief. Am I of the opinion that civilisation, as we know it, is collapsing? Yes, I am. Simply because it is.
KiNGPiN
That may sound like alarmism or hyperbole, but the fact is that ‘our civilisation is collapsing’ is inarguable. Some of us aren’t ready to admit it yet, but even if you don’t admit it, on some level you know it. As I said in a previous article, we won’t be going Mad Max overnight. These things take decades (the Roman empire took a couple of hundred years to fully collapse), but there are clear identifiers pointing to the slow demise of life as we know it, and there are plenty of people with much bigger brains than I that will tell you the same thing. Civilisations collapse. It’s what all of them do eventually, and every single one of the now extinct civilisations shared the same delusion that it would never happen to them. But the important thing to remember is that collapse is nothing new. Humanity has done it a thousand times, yet we’re still here. Granted, it doesn’t look like we’ve learned much as we gleefully make all of the same mistakes, but we’re still here and that’s what I want to focus on this month. I don’t hold humanity in low regard at all, but neither will I pretend we’re not short-sighted, self-centred, self-deluding and dangerously rapacious. We’re all of those things. We’re also fiendishly creative, iron-willed, brave, selfless and remarkably resilient. Any rancour I might display towards my fellow man is born out of the frustration that I know we can all be so much better than we are.
The Rise Of The Narcissist I watched a very interesting online seminar the other week where the presenter spoke about how we’re now seeing more cases of narcissistic personality disorder than ever before. For those not aware of what this means, someone with NPD essentially sees themselves as the centre of the universe. They crave the admiration of others, while having no regard for anybody but themselves. This obviously isn’t a good thing, but when you look at the last few decades, it’s hardly that surprising. Even before the advent of social media unleashed its toxic and enfeebling plague of
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We gave up our power because it was easier than thinking for ourselves. We let ourselves get plugged into the low-budget version of The Matrix to stare at a screen while mega-corporations harvest our data and pull us further apart under the guise of connecting us. We were told that pain, hardship and hurt feelings were unacceptable and we went along with it, because why should life be hard? Life is hard, it always has been and always will be. It’s painful and frightening and that’s absolutely okay, because we’ve evolved to take all of those knocks and just keep on going, and because we have each other.
‘Influencers’ and ‘Likes’, we were being told that we’re all individuals and that our individuality was hugely important. That we mattered, just because we did, rather than because we were doing anything that actually mattered. Laissez-Faire capitalism and the free market came along and further entrenched the idea that we were individuals, that the natural order of things was every man for himself and our individualism became a defining trait. I’m not saying individualism is bad, vive la difference and all that, but when entire cultures start seeing themselves as individuals first and foremost, it’s easy to see the problem. If your focus is individuality, it naturally leads to the needs of the collective, of the society we live in, coming a distant second. When the needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many, it can only end one way, and that’s badly. This couldn’t be a worse time for rugged individualism. Getting through the next few decades is going to take sacrifice, cooperation and community involvement on a scale never seen outside of a World War, and all for the goal of saving people that haven’t even been born yet. Seeing so many people throwing their toys out of the pram, simply for being asked to wear a mask in Tesco during the pandemic, on the off-chance it might help save someone else’s life, well, I’m not confident we’ve got it in us anymore, but I hope I’m wrong.
We’re Not Who They Tell Us We Are We’re not individuals. We’re pack animals. Always have been. Being part of a group that support and defend each other is literally baked into our DNA, so how did it go so horribly wrong? We let our greedy little monkey brains get seduced by a life of relative ease and plenty, that’s how. We listened to the people who told us we were weak and couldn’t be trusted to look after ourselves. Take responsibility away from someone and of course they’ll become less responsible. Tell someone they’re stupid or weak enough and of course they’ll believe it.
You are not weak or stupid. You’re not a quivering bag of anxiety and doubt. You’re a creature perfectly evolved to not just live, but thrive in a high-risk and low-resource environment. You come from an unimaginably long line of people that have survived plague, famine and war, who have survived torture, marauders and barbarians, earthquakes and floods. Go back far enough and one of your ancestors probably smacked a Sabre Tooth round the chops with his club, or jammed a spear up the backside of a Cave Bear, and then ate the bastard! You are not what you wear, what you drive or what you own. You are not how many people like your photos and posts. None of that means a bloody thing. You’re not an individual. You’re part of a community, a family that will support and defend you, just like you support and defend them, because you’re a tough son of a bitch that can handle anything life throws at you and you simply keep on going. We all just need to remember that.
So, What Should We Do? Recognise the bullshit for what it is. Don’t acquiesce, don’t give up your power to the morally bankrupt, venal swine that tell you it’s for your own good, that it’ll be easier for you. Hard is fine. You can do hard standing on your head. Pull yourself out of the social media cesspool. It’s damaging and polarising and we really don’t need it. Get out and talk to people. You’ll get more sense of connection from one faceto-face interaction than a month online. Do things that are hard, that hurt, that make you uncomfortable. Give something up just so you know you can. Do one thing every day for no other reason than you don’t want to do it. Push yourself, surprise yourself with just how much you are capable of. Most of all, remember who you really are. You’re not weak or scared or stupid, and you’re not alone. Be better. You, me, all of us can all be so much better than we are, and I genuinely believe that if we make ourselves better, then the rest of the world will follow.
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TESLA DRIVER CAUGHT WATCHING PORN AT WHEEL
203784 Print Acumen The Edge 32pp March(2774) 2022/02/25 09:28:50
A motorist was surprised to see the Tesla driver in front of him watching porn on the large console screen on his dashboard as they approached the Army & Navy roundabout during rush hour. Locals were plodding along in stop-start traffic in Chelmsford on a Friday afternoon last month, looking forward to the weekend, when one in particular decided a bit of porn might relieve the boredom. The driver of the 70-plate white Tesla S, which costs around £75,000, appeared to be flicking through explicit clips on his screen around 3.30pm in the afternoon, which is often about the time when such thoughtless drivers find their ‘teslatickles’ get a bit itchy. In his defense, the electric car driver said: “Well, it was particularly slow moving traffic. No-one was making any real progress, whereas driving a Tesla is all about making progress, know what I mean? “I was literally stopping and starting every few seconds. What was that doing to my cobalt, man?” One witness said: “It initially appeared that the Tesla driver was looking through a catalogue of some ilk. Perhaps for some lingerie for his wife? So I briefly thought to myself, ‘Well, that’s a bit naughty while he’s driving’. But as we moved along, I could see him clicking on images and zooming in, and I actually did a double-take when I realised he was zooming in on completely naked pictures of women.” Surely this is Tesla drivers all over though, isn’t it? “To tell the truth, I was absolutely flabbergasted. He appeared to be looking at some kind of website and he was simply having a good old scroll through, which I honestly couldn’t believe.” Meanwhile, the Tesla driver commented: “Hey, take a chill pill. What’s the big deal? I was stuck in rush-hour traffic, so was merely using the down-time to my advantage. The guy behind me was probably just jealous because he wasn’t driving the car in front, which of course was my Tesla.” The Tesla touch-screen is a standard feature, with people having the option to stream videos or play games while they are driving, though they are advised against this, unless they think they are really, really good at it. It can also be used for navigation purposes offering maps and directions at your fingertips, or to control things in the car such as the air conditioning. But who’s interested in that when they can also download porn?
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MOTCO
Man on the Clapham Omnibus
SPRING TERM LEAVERS REPORT At some stage over the previous weekend there would have been many celebratory events. Most of these would have gone on to be a drunken event with a good time being had by all. Such events will often get to the singing stage. Back in my youth, as a mobile DJ, I certainly saw that for sure. For some reason that remains unfathomable to me, ‘New York, New York’ is a firm favourite of drunken balladeers. Up there with that tune will also be a favourite of the anguished, the bitter, the triumphant and older men everywhere, plus the romantic loner who definitely did it his way, despite the outcome, good or bad. Yes, I am referring to ‘My Way’, made famous by Frank Sinatra. In particular, I focus on the line: “And now the end is near and so I face the final curtain. My friend, I'll say it clear, I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.” Sadly, we are nearing the end here at The Edge. There may be an April’22 edition, but who knows? I joined this motley crew back in May 2014 after answering the call from EE. It was only a few days before the print deadline and I was set a sort of not-so-subtle test by our Ed. to see if my arrogance, at daring to suggest I could write, could in fact be backed up. He said: “Can you get me 500 words on something or other by tomorrow?” “Yup, no problem,” I responded. And I am pleased to say that when I delivered my piece entitled ‘In Praise of the Hotel Sewing Kit’ he got back to me immediately and welcomed me on board. Over the years I have tried to advise, inform and amuse in equal measures. My love of all thing’s tweed has always been an ever present and hopefully steered some of you to better sartorial decisions. In 2014, at the start of my Edge journey, we looked at correct semiotics of facial hair, growing old and the issues that posed. Sadly, now advancing in years to a number beginning with ‘6’, the age issue really is becoming just that.
There was also a look at what your bosses little secret could be. Mine, at the time, was Head of Compliance for a major investment bank, as well as being a bass guitarist with a three-album heavy rock band making regular stage appearances during the week! A big pet hate of mine was also looked at in 2014, and I still hear it every day and it makes me want to SCREAM. I refer to the “can I get” problem. Just the other day I am second in the queue and I hear: “Can I get a cappuccino and a cheese and ham toastie?” And for you, madam? “Yes, I would like to get a flat white and a slice of Victoria sponge.” Firstly, the cake choice is top notch. That’s definitely my fave cake in ‘Mott Towers’. But back to the issue. NO, NO, NO! The lady behind the counter will ‘GET’ you what you like! It is her business and she will GET whatever products you ask for. Is that clear? So please, stop it. Stop it now. Moving on, a final choice from my initial year at The Edge was my acknowledgement of my shoe problem in June, which is a problem I still have to this day and one I cannot shake off. We have a ‘crocodile bed’ that lifts up and there have been some issues with the mattress. A man visits to check it out. He lifts the bed and in his broad Glaswegian accent cries, “Foook me!” as he sees four crates of my shoes (which was not even all of them) looking up at him. I shuffle and mumble about a poor childhood etc. He is sympathetic, but is shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
probably still telling that story today to whoever will listen. I have raised awareness about sausages - not quality, expensive ones - but proper sausages, and good icecream, which is a passion of mine. Those who know me on FB also know that Rossi of Southend is the best icecream in the world. Fact. That article gave me one of my best lines of all time, “Good ice-cream should be as rich and thick as an aristocrat’s eldest son”. The important matter of shorts and men has also been looked at. When travel was normal, I have sent, each year, my poolside observations from somewhere nice and hot. The submission deadline is always in the middle of my annual holiday in September, so the article has always been a ‘quick and dirty’ of what I have seen from my end of the sun-lounger. Then there’s been talent shows, unmissable offers, sick days, stationery, the MasterChef paradox, memes, coffee, innys and outys (covering belly buttons and commuters), unnecessary changes. Oh, and pies. Hmmmmm, pies. My other passion is vinyl records, which was covered in ‘But it’s only 7 inches’ and it reinforced my point that vinyl has never gone away. My heroes, Lieutenant Columbo and Neil Armstrong, have both been covered too. I guess the ultimate mix-up there would be the sentence, ”Just one more thing, I landed on the moon”. The use of the ‘F’ word was investigated. No, not that one, but FECK. Ireland's contribution to the cuss lexicon, and what a truly awesome contribution too. Whilst never shy of using a double entendre, the censor that is ‘Queenie Mott’ has steered me away from outright smut, but God, I have tried. My son shares the same outlook as me, gets the jokes immediately and is my ultimate critic. Can I say the same of EE, who has a different sense of humour to me? No. Our cultural differences often lead to some frank, but ultimately good natured discussions. MOTCO. We did cover why the name exists, way back when, and I have even let a few pictures slip into the mag of me in recent times. But who is really under the hat - and I do actually wear a big hat like my ‘shadow picture’, top-right of this column? Well, outside of Motson J. Tweedstrangler, to give him his full name, I am a sixty-one-year-old lad from an ‘interesting’ estate called Harold Hill on the outskirts of Romford. I left school at sixteen with no qualifications, but as one could back in the 1970’s, forged a successful career in the commodity and financial markets. Still hanging on in there after four decades, I now have a degree from the Open University after graduating at 50, something I am extremely proud of. I am married to the same girl I met at secondary school and we celebrate our Ruby wedding in September. And if The Edge does truly finish, you will be spared a proper gushy article about that particular event. It has been my absolute pleasure to share my thoughts and sometimes sideways thinking with you all since 2014. I have left the serious stuff to some of my colleagues. My 750/1000 word remit each month always offers me a small escape from day-to-day life. It has certainly taught me to tell a story in short order, that’s for sure. What’s next? Well, there may be an ‘after life’ of an April edition, but the novel that has a first chapter and little else will now finally be receiving some serious attention, so watch this space. I have never met any of my fellow columnists in all of my years writing in the mag. I have had correspondence with Steve Ward, out there in the sun. Maybe that is something we should try to do at some stage? Change comes, but it’s not the Apocalypse. By the way, does a pig farmer call it the aporkalypse? So it’s not a time to be worried. I mean, it’s not as if it’s the end of the world, is it? Sadly, yours aye,
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plus his ex-girlfriend and baby? I found myself screaming at the TV, “Have you not seen the movies Taken or Trafficked???” But then if that’s not bad enough, you find yourself being so smitten with this Swindler chappy that you believe all of his crazy stories, about him being hunted down, that you agree to take out loans to the tune of half-a-million quid for him.
TOTALLY TRACIE This month’s Edge offering comes to you from my new home, typed by candlelight, in the middle of Storm Eunice, as my electricity is going to be off for 2 whole days. Yes, surely only I could have booked a removal lorry on the day of the worst storm since god knows when, put my key in my new front door and immediately have the bi-folds blow wide open at the back of the house, snapping the lock clean off. So there I was, trying to hold the doors closed, with my coat puffing up and almost lifting me off my feet, like Mary Poppins, whilst the removal guys battled to unload all of my clothes from their lorry. I honestly had visions of my knickers blowing into my new neigbour’s garden. But does this not just sum up the crazy times we are living in right now? None of us are ever more than but a few minutes away from total chaos. We are all living on the very edge of madness. What’s more, I can hardly believe that this might be one of the very last editions of The Edge, if we are unable to crowd fund and raise the dosh to keep on printing. That would be it. Yet another relic of Chelmsford lost. And Chelmsford, without The Edge, seems unthinkable to many of us. Surely there must be a Russian Oligarch tucked away somewhere in the local vicinity, with a long forgotten stash of cash hidden in his biscuit tin, who wants to save the mag? I have it on very reliable information (well, the lady on the Sea Food Stall in the layby in Danbury, if you must know, who told me over a tub of whelks) that there are a couple of them holed up in Danbury itself. So if anyone knows these billionaires, then please feel free to go tap them up. In the meantime, the rest of you blinkin’ well need to dig deep down the back of your sofas, because at this moment in time, things are looking so darn bad that we’d even settle for a bit of dosh from The Tinder Swindler. If you have never seen The Tinder Swindler on Netflix, may I suggest you buy yourself a big bag of Kettle crisps and settle down to watch it. It is totally beyond belief. There’s another world entirely going on out there. I mean, can you imagine meeting a man on Tinder for a coffee and 15 minutes later agreeing to fly off with him in his private jet, with his entourage, Page 30
Well, I know times have changed, but I blame Beyonce myself. All of that strutting about in her knickers on stage, shouting “Independent Ladies!” Screaming “Single Ladies, hold your hands up... you should have put a ring on it!” No, we women were doing OK, having men buy us drinks and dinner and opening doors for us. We did not need all of her nonsense, “Oh, the shoes I’m wearing, I bought them myself. The car I’m driving, I bought it myself.” Rubbish! Because men started thinking ‘OK, let them be independent then, if that’s what they want’. The roles changed. Because women started believing that they then had to save men. Women all said they thought they were in a fairytale romance, but all the fairytales I ever read as a child involved the Prince rescuing the damsel in distress, not asking them to borrow money on their credit cards. Any man knocking on your door at midnight with a glass slipper is not coming to ask you to marry him, that’s for sure. Can you imagine Cinderella putting up with that kind of nonsense? That girl had brains. She knew what it was like to work and she was no-one’s fool. Unlike our very own Prince Charming, The Duke of Pork, who told 10,000 lies and when he was neither up nor down, he wrote out a ruddy big cheque to a lady he’d never met (allegedly). Our poor Queen, in her Jubilee year as well, and sadly as I write this she too has just been diagnosed with Covid. In the old days Princes who misbehaved were drowned head first in a vat of malmsey wine. Just a thought. Talking of Russian oligarchs, it seems unthinkable that by the time you get to read this month’s edition we might well be at war - and this could genuinely be the start of World War III. Yet they have the cheek to call it the Cold War, when we are all battling the Energy Companies, to keep our home fires burning. It really does seem madness that after battling Covid all around the world and winning that battle, we might all soon be battling each other. I like Putin. I know, I know, in times gone by I would have been arrested as a collaborator. But I love the videos of him flying planes, jumping into icy lakes, swimming, playing ice hockey, cuddling his dogs, surprising sick children and old people in hospitals. While we, on the other hand, have Boris, who cannot even comb his hair or iron a shirt, and Biden, who trips up steps. Surely Mr. Putin is just misunderstood by the West and if we got to know him a little better, we could possibly change his mind? In fact, I think we should invite Mr Putin to Chelmsford, show him the sights, read him a few extracts from The Edge. He would surely know how to get hold of the money to save the publication, that’s for sure!
tracie123@aol.com
Trouble is, I probably couldn’t ‘DO’ that, but hopefully I could learn. You see, readers, if this really is to be The Edge’s final edition, then I, your editor for the past 25 years, am going to need to find some ‘gainful employment’ (what the hell’s that?) for preferably just 3 days a week (Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays) as I’m 60 now (shucks, I know, I know, I don’t look it) and not quite in a comfortable enough position to retire. I was talking to Edge columnist Melly Moo a while back about this very sensitive subject and she said (or perhaps she was just being polite), “Well, I’m sure you’ve got some transferable skills.” Have I? Because I feel as though I’ve ‘had it up to here’ tap taping away on a keyboard with a computer screen in front of me. I feel as though I’d like to be outdoors, planting new trees (we are in desperate need of new trees being planted, right?) or doing something that’d benefit the environment. Or maybe driving one of those buggies around for Chelmsford Council and helping to look after our parks, as I’ve always bigged that particular department of the council up within these pages, as they do a damn fine job. Then again, would being a drugs mule pay more? It’s weird, because I never really knew ‘what I wanted to do’ aged 21, yet here I am, fast approaching 61 and I still don’t really know what I’d like to do? Do any of you remember the classic character of Yosser Hughes from Alan Bleasdale’s memorable ‘Boys From The Blackstuff’, played by Bernard Hill (above and below), about a group of Scouse tarmac layers who suddenly got laid off? Yosser was driven to ‘the edge’ of sanity by the loss of his job, his wife and his kids. I certainly don’t want to compare my particular circumstances to those of Yosser’s, but you do need a purpose in life, don’t you? And without The Edge, well, mine will pretty much disappear. So gizza job, if you’ve got anything suitable for an ex-editor who’s been ‘put out to pasture’ a tad too early. Go on, gizza job. “I can do that” (well, in theory I might be able to, while the ‘practice’ part might be another matter entirely). FFS, GIZZA JOB!
Contact shaun@theedgemag.co.uk or telephone 01245 348256 or 077 646 797 44 The Edge 01245 348256
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