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EDGE
the ISSUE NO: 292
www.theedgemag.co.uk
‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’
Telephone 01245 348256
Mobile: 077 646 797 44
JULY 2021
shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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Sit back & relax as you indulge in our delicious n Tea Tea & Bubbles through the black ack water a canal, Afternoon er’. Taste our sublime Selection ection off Canapés aboard ‘Thee Elvver’. complimented by our signature Cocktails. Perfect for a celebration or perhaps romantic treat.
Alterrnatiivelly ourr Le Benaix@Home restaur restaurrant styl style Takeaw akeaway Menu is also available.
Le Benaix gardens
Alterrnati n ivelly our Le Bouchon@Home restaur resstaurrant style Takeaway Menu is also available.
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BEN NAIX AIIX BAR BAR & BRASSERIE LE BENAIX
LE BOUCHON @ THE HEYBRIDGE HOTEL HOTEL
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The Edge Editor’s Column SUDDENLY Suddenly the pedals on the wife’s bicycle wouldn’t go round and she had set her heart on cycling to work. So she huffed and she puffed and she got in her car in a proper dark mood instead and instinctively I knew she wanted it fixed before she returned home. So I looked at it, as you do, and the chain seemed to be jammed on this bit of a metal thing that to all intents and purposes looked as though it might be some sort of a ‘chain guide’ (as opposed to a guard). So out came the trusty screwdriver and I started to prize it back to where I thought it ought to be. Only then I stopped and had a word with myself, like all men ought to do from time to time. And I said: “Shaun, lad, behave. After all, do you really know what thee is doing?” The answer to that, as any of you will know who’ve been reading The Edge for nigh on the best part of the past 25 years, was: “No. Quite frankly, I haven’t got a bloody clue.”
But Halfords was only just around the corner on the Chelmo Village Rattle Park, so I wheeled it straight round to them and a very decent chap called Ant had the pedals going round in literally seconds, and I do mean seconds. Have you ever stood somewhere both looking and feeling like a complete and utter mug? Anyway, I gave Ant a round of applause and I told him the missus had also complained of there being a problem when she changed gear (and you know women always have a problem with anything like that...THWACK...OUCH!) if she’s in, say, 3-and-4 (which is our language for the fourth gear on the third/biggest cog) or something like that. So he told me I could leave the bike with them and for just twenty squid they’d give it some sort of a ‘MGS’ (mini gear service). “She’s all yours,” I said to him. Only later that day, I’d heard nothing back from them and I knew they didn’t close until 8:00pm, but I thought I’d better just check (the missus being so specific about wanting to be able to cycle to work the following day and all). So I Googled them and found an 01245 number which I dialled and got through not to the store around the corner, but some sort of a ‘HCC’ (Halfords call centre) god knows where. Anyway, the lass was very helpful and said she’d put me through. Only guess what? Correct. I was instead put through to some music I honestly had little to no desire of listening to and after five minutes I could stand it no longer, so I hung up. Now as I’ve said, the store’s only a 10 minute walk away just around the corner, but even so, in this day and age, IT REALLY SHOULDN’T BE THAT DIFFICULT TO GIVE THEM A QUICK CALL, should it? So I rang the 01245 number again, which I now knew wasn’t really an 01245 number, which had put my back up straight away, only this time my
call was answered by a chap who for some strange reason I immediately imagined to look exactly like Shaun Wallace, one of Bradley Walsh’s Chasers. And let me tell you, readers, he turned out to be a proper twat ’n all. “If I could just take your name, sir?” “What do you need my name for? My wife’s bike is physically around the corner at your Chelmer Village store and I simply want to be put through to them right away, if you don’t mind.” “What is your reference number?” I searched the printed receipt I’d been given and read out the number I’d been asked for. “And your email address?” “Look, MATE, you do not need my email address, or my inside leg measurement. You are twisting my melon. Will you kindly transfer me to the store?” (Okay, okay, so I might have slipped an ‘F’ word in somewhere amongst my response, but the bloke was driving me to it.) But it was like he hadn’t even heard me and I could just imagine him giving me the w nker * sign as he was sat there in his headphones. “What is the make and model of the bicycle in question?” FFS! I hung up and drove straight round there absolutely spitting feathers. Nothing wrong with what they did for me. Great job. Wife happy. But come on, Halfords (and all companies like you (i.e. the vast majority). We all appreciate you don’t really want to waste your time talking to us customers any more. But please, simply post a genuine local number for your store and why not leave a recorded message stating you’ll get back to us in due course if you’re really too busy to accept our call? Like in the good old days. Just don’t take us for mugs. THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 077 646 7 97 44 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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LOUD’N’PROUD, or what? Only The Edge has been invited to go visit it at a seaside resort ‘somewhere in Essex’ (ahhhhh, the mystery of it all deepens), so fingers-crossed I’ll be able to bring you a right riveting report next month, folks. Mind you, they cost a few quid, these ’ere Beach Huts, don’t they just? I think this one was in the region of ‘not far shy’ of £40,000 - even though there’s barely enough room to swing a kettle. And what are you supposed to do when you ‘need to go’? Pee in a bucket? Many people cannot come to terms with the likes of camping, although I’m glad to see Edge columnist William Hinckleberry has been experiencing a change of heart of late (see page 21 this issue). So you never know, perhaps I’ll change my opinion (that they’re small and overpriced) after I’ve been to visit this ickle beauty, although I’m going to need to be wearing my shades by the looks of things. Nor do I want to start comparing beach huts to garden sheds, although if you’re interested, then why not check out some of the great repairs me and the missus have made to ours of late (see page 10 this month). It’s certainly a beach hut that’ll stand out in a crowd though, isn’t it? But whether that’s for all of the right reasons The Edge is still to make it’s mind up!
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Tuesday morning 1st June, the very day after a glorious Bank Holiday weekend, during which we were treated to some very much overdue sunshine. I went out early for a cycle in the countryside which we are fortunately blessed with surrounding Chelmsford. And it was wonderful. Just wonderful. The air felt so good at that particular time of the day and the temperature was just right. But then, as I was approaching Chignal Church, I spotted this in a slight ditch beside the road. Disgusted, I cycled past it at first. Only then I thought better of it and returned to photograph the evidence for your attention, because it’s just not right, is it? Fly-tipping isn’t right. It’s such a blight on the otherwise glorious countryside and shows a complete disdain and total lack of respect for other people and our environment. But if you cannot catch the culprits in the act and report their registration plate to the police, then what are we supposed to do? Only that’s not good enough, is it? Because if someone is caught in the act, they need to be forced to load their junk back onto their lorry/low-loader right there and then, and just how realistic is that? As ever, it’s a crying shame that such people are amongst us at all. It’s bad enough seeing discarded McDonald’s wrappers down country lanes, only perhaps this is what such a flagrant mindset eventually progresses to? Honestly, what possesses anyone do such a thing? It’s a disgrace. Surely you have to be a piece of thoughtless, worthless, shallow-minded scum in order to commit such a crime in the first place; to create ugliness where there was beauty. All of those deluded folk who thought society at large would change for the better after our 15 month (and continuing) battle against the Covid pandemic have clearly been proven unfortunately wrong. It seemingly hasn’t taught a lot of people a damn thing. They just couldn’t wait for the lockdown restrictions to be over so they could get back out there knifing people and littering our beloved countryside with their filthy debris. Yes, yes, of course The Edge appreciates that the majority of us simply aren’t like that. But why do we have to poke up with the scum of society at all?
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If you have visited Meadow Croft Garden Centre’s German Christmas Market, you will know they love to put on events, especially if there’s food and drink involved. But who wants to wait a whole year, right? Which is why the Meadow Croft Food and Drink Festival will host a selection of some of the finest artisan, craft food and drink suppliers/traders, many of whom are based locally. So why not come along and enjoy yourselves? Relax amongst the straw bales in the wonderful atmosphere, giving yourself the chance to kick-back, whilst tasting some of the fine food and drink on offer and listening to the live bands. Music & Munch Enjoy a great range of eat-in and take-away foods, including locally produced wines from New Hall Vineyard, craft beers from Crouch Vale Brewery, handmade chutneys, pickles and jams, paella, crepes, pizza, breads, a red London bus (courtesy of Tiptree), Illy coffee, ice-cream, hand-crafted gins and much, much more besides. The festival will be a mix of outdoor and undercover stalls in the marquee. There will be a live music stage entertaining from 11am on both days and the entire weekend promises to be a fun affair. On Saturday there are sets from Blazing Aces, The Thumping Tommys and two local gents Josh Brough and George Bone. On Sunday, the joyous music continues with sets from D’ukes, Daisy Bowlers, while Josh Brough will make a second appearance.
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Family Fun The Party Kingdom will be creating some fun for the whole family with their old fashioned fete games. Meadow Croft’s Mini-Meadows mini-golf-course and garden centre play area will be open on both days. Trudles Doodles will be along to decorate faces. The garden centre and restaurant will be open as usual. Meadow Croft provides free parking and can also be accessed via the local bus service running between Wickford and South Woodham Ferrers. The nearest train stations are South Woodham Ferrers and Wickford, both of which have taxi ranks. Visit http://www.meadow-croft.co.uk/meadow-croft-food-and-drink-festival for more information or follow the event on Facebook @MeadowCroftGardenCentre Tickets are £3 on the gate for adults, groups of 4 £10, and children under-16 are free.
GET SET FOR
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within a 5 mile radius that the chef was far from happy, and this was confirmed when our waiter slunk back over to our table and asked if we would be prepared to have our starters and mains served together. As this was a special occasion meal (not to mention pretty expensive) and ‘birthday boy’ Dave didn’t really fancy fillet steak with a side of duck salad, we politely declined, and the waiter sloped off, clearly with the weight of the world (or at least the wrath of the chef) bearing down on his shoulders.
theedgemag.co.uk/subscribe receivetheedgedirectto yourtabletorcough mixtureorlaptopor whereverthehellyou wanttoreceiveit withoutleaving yourhomeoryour officeoryour deckchair. it’sverysimple. allyouneedtodo isSUBSCRIBE
Ten minutes later and an acrid smell of burning arose from the vicinity of the kitchen, and subsequently the restaurant itself quickly filled with strong fumes and smoke. It occurred to me that the chef had possibly set fire to something in protest (quite possibly our elusive missing order ticket?).
Since the ‘Legendary Dave’ and I became parents over 8 years ago, we have had 2 child free nights away together. I don’t state that fact as a complaint, as I know some people don’t even get that (I have a friend who in the last 11 years has only ever had a night away when she was in hospital having another), but merely to set the context of how rare and exciting the prospect of this hallowed third occasion, as a surprise for Dave’s 40th birthday, actually was. The one woman on Earth (or in Essex at least) brave enough to take on all 3 of our brood overnight (flying solo) arrived in all her courageous glory. Despite my frequent references (in jest) to the contrary, our kids aren’t actually THAT feral; there’s just 3 of them, you know.....which is a lot! Or certainly it feels it when you’re outnumbered 3-1. We waved our goodbyes, wished her the best of proverbial British, and I whisked ourselves away to a secret overnight location. Dave had no idea what we were doing as I told him we were going out for lunch, and nor did he realise I had secretly packed a bag and hidden it in the boot of the car. I did chuckle to myself whilst packing his clothes and deodorant though, wondering what on earth he would pack for me (or forget to) if the roles were reversed. Upon arrival at the hotel, initially all seemed well. I perhaps should have raised an eyebrow when the receptionist had to physically go up to our room to check it had been cleaned, after she was met with deathly silence on the walkie-talkie, but at this stage optimism vociferously reigned. We couldn’t fault our room; it was the perfect, stunning sanctuary I was hoping for. However, beyond that, our hospitality experience deteriorated rapidly to one more akin to a stay at ‘Fawlty Towers’.
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The only dinner reservation available was at 9pm, which we went with basically because there was no other choice. The service was a bit slow, but we ordered our food and drinks and sat back to wait patiently. At 10.15pm our waiter came over to explain that our ticket had been lost and asked us to repeat our order. I accept that these things do happen, but what followed was nothing short of farcical. The entire restaurant was then treated to some free entertainment in the form of a very loud, heated debate between our waiter and the chef, with the serving hatch as centre stage. It was clear to anyone Page 8
The staff moved quickly to open the bi-fold doors to ventilate the restaurant, letting in the very chilly evening air, so within minutes most patrons were sat shivering in their coats. Eventually our dinner found its way to us. Afterwards, I asked to see a dessert menu and was unceremoniously told the kitchen had now closed for the night. It was probably at this point that I expected Jeremy Beadle to jump out from somewhere (millennials will probably need to Google him). The real humour in this situation was not only the shockingly bad service, but the fact that nobody seemed to care.....at all. Our whole experience was met with barely an apology. When I asked to speak to the manager and was told he had gone home, I honestly couldn’t blame them. Trying to put the dinner fiasco behind us, we checked with reception and were assured that we could have breakfast served to our room in the morning. We placed our order for 9.30am and planned to have a leisurely breakfast prior to our 11am checkout when we had to get home promptly for our daughter’s birthday celebrations that afternoon. It probably won’t come as much of a surprise at this point that the next morning heralded the arrival of not a single sausage. At 9.45am I chased it up. After some ‘checking’ by reception I was informed that the restaurant was extremely busy and our breakfast would be another 30 minutes. Yet again, for some unfathomable reason, misplaced optimism prevailed, and we decided to pack up and get ready so we could leave straight away after the long-awaited petit-dejeuner. Forty minutes later and there was still no sign of it, so I phoned down yet again. I suspect the receptionist had already exceeded her ‘bearer of bad news’ quota for that morning, so she hurriedly put me through to the restaurant direct, where I was told they were very sorry, but they had “run out of everything” and “were not best prepared for today”. I do honestly think that Basil and Manuel could have taught the staff a thing or two that morning, in which case going to the restaurant in person would have provided some form of visual entertainment, or at the very least perhaps another fire? It’s safe to say that Gordon Ramsay would have had a field day. By this point we had all but run out of time and had no option but to leave the hotel, needless to say not without a few choice words to the ‘manager’, who surely based on the morning’s events should have been heading for the nearest Cash & Carry in search of both bacon and eggs. I’m not entirely sure I would describe it as the relaxing, indulgent, child-free break I envisioned, but it was certainly an unforgettable experience that provided material to dine out on (preferably more successfully) for many years to come.
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Being an old git, your editor is hardly bang en trend anymore. So The Edge thought it would be interesting to glean the views of a Chelmsford twentysomething who looks that familiar, he could almost be The Edge’s twin bro’. Yes folks, it’s gym owner, personal fitness trainer and Chelmsford Chieftains super-puck superstar, Daniel Hammond. Favourite places for drinks in Chelmsford: Riverside Inn, Escedra, Bassment (“great for live music”), Secret Garden (Writtle Road Nursery). Favourite places to eat out in Chelmsford: Wine Cellar, El Chigre (“superb tapas”), Rosa’s in Moulsham Street (“you can’t beat their sheesh kebab take-away’s”), Olio’s and, of course, Vita Bella at East Hanningfield for some truly excellent Italian nosh. Favourite London haunts: Blues Kitchen in Shoreditch, Dinerma Street Feast (a seasonal pop-up place), Taylor Street Coffee (“it’s simply the best coffee”) at Chancery Lane. I also like Canary Wharf, Mayfair, Monument, Liverpool Street, Shoreditch, South Quay and St. Paul’s. The Queen of Hoxton in Shoreditch (Curtain Road, EC2) has a rooftop terrace, live music and a bit of jiving about below decks going on. Finally, the Crown & Shuttle, which is on Shoreditch High Street, E1. It has a great selection of beers, large (huge actually) heated garden and churns out some genuinely wicked tunes. What wheels do you drive? Ford Ranger 2.2 litre diesel truck for carting all of the gym gear and my personal fitness stuff about. Any pets? Ah, Uno, my French Bulldog. He’s a gem. I did consider getting a Beagle, but French Bulldogs are pretty easy to look after and tend to do their own thing. They’re just very different dogs. And funny too. Uno definitely has his own little quirks and his very own way of going about things. But man, does he snore!
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I saw a headline in the press that read: Shed alert: Prices soar 40% as Americans snap up timber stocks. “Soaring timber prices are forcing the cost of sheds up as demand rockets.” They’re not wrong there. I was gobsmacked. Which is why you’ve got to look after your garden shed, right, readers? We had a leak in ours and whether or not we’ve solved the issue remains to be seen, only a couple of the 9ft panels that run along the side were rotting in places. So rather than do a ‘bodge job’, we thought we’d do a ‘proper job’ and replace a total of 4 panels, plus get a couple of new beading strips to tack vertically at either end. As you can see (above - though new panels need a few more coats of paint, though I wish all of the shed was the lighter colour, showing knots and grain and what have you), I think me and the missus have done an outstanding job, bearing in mind that the trickiest part was getting the old panels off without (a) busting the uprights they were attached to, and (b) once you’ve pulled one panel off (lucky old panel, f’narr), it always seem-ed to damage the one above it. The other complete and utter bugger was eventually getting the bottom board to fit under the new panels and for that I had to contact the crusty, trusty old father-in-law (‘Only Me’ I call him, as he sometimes surprises me by literally being in our house, even when we haven’t let him in) as he has a plain (correction, he has two plains, to be precise), whereas I don’t own a single one. But talk about shaving and shaving and bleedin’ shaving until the bloody thing would fit back under. However, patience is a virtue, or so they say, and the euphoria I felt when it at long last ‘slid in’ (arf, arf) was almost like winning the Euros. So now it’s a matter of coating the whole bloody thing - and I do hate painting of any description - but it’s a job that’s just got to be done. That said, I also needed a new tin of Sovereign SX70 (walnut), didn’t I. So Poulton Portables ended up getting £95 out of me - that’s the place we originally bought our shed from, on the main road through Danbury although it’s much cheaper than having to buy a brand new one. The wife does keep ours well organised though, and it’s never a problem getting our bikes in or out of it, unlike Edge columnist Jan who apparently daren’t even get his bicycle out of his shed by chance he can’t get it back in again (tut-tut). But if you haven’t got a shed and you want one, well, poor you, as it does indeed seem that prices are going to hike by as much as 40% if reports are to be believed, due to the fact that the cost of wood has all but doubled recently. Most of the wood used for building sheds is imported from Scandinavia, but mills have seemingly diverted a huge proportion to those cunning Yanks, where there is currently a home-building boom going on (as opposed to a shed-building boom, obviously). Another factor is climate change. The felling of trees in Sweden has been hit by successive warm winters, combined with heavy rainfall, making it impossible for machinery to navigate muddy logging tracks. On top of all that, social distancing, due to you-know-what, has slowed down mill workers who cut and treat the timber for export. Furthermore, successive lockdowns has seen rising demand for sheds amid a multi-billion-pound home and garden makeover mania (and you try saying that when you’ve got your false teeth in). Retailer Toolstation said its sales of outdoor buildings were up 500% between January - June compared with the same period in 2020. So if you’re looking for wood (wink, wink), prepare to dig deep. The Edge 01245 348256
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Correction: damned orange electric scooters. Or are they? It’s your vote that counts, folks, as The Edge is undecided, for once. Only a fair few peeps have said to me, “When are you going to do something about those (damned) orange scooters? So why not have your say instead and I’ll publish the best emails received. On the one hand The Edge appreciates they get a person from A to B without leaving any carbon footprint. Yet on the other, anyone can seemingly use them, and there’s always generally a problem once ‘the great unwashed’ turn up to the party, isn’t there? So get your fingers tapping and forward you emails and any pics to:shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
WELL...IF that’s
THE CASE
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why not send The Edge a photo of you reading the mag with a bloody great smile on your face and see yourself in print afore ye croaks? Simply email shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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WE ALSO REPAIR CARAVANS!
theEDGE
It was just after 9:00am on a Monday morning and I’d been cycling for an hour in order to get there. When I did, two other guys, also with bicycles, had beaten me to it and were already occupying their own tables in the lovely courtyard at The Stores in Great Waltham. We nodded at one another, as you do when it’s obvious (two wheels and a saddle) that you share a similar interest. One guy was just finishing his breakfast when my Americano arrived, while the other was already half way through his coffee and had a newspaper open on his table. Only then the cycling chatter began and it was charming, in a way that, much as I love footie, soccer chatter rarely is. Turns out we were all of a similar age (though I thought I looked the youngest), although I strongly suspected the other two were already retired (one of whom had an uncanny resemblance to Alan Bennett). The common denominator being, we had all left home early on that particular morning, each of us instinctively knowing that the ‘special part’ of any day almost always occurs before 9:00am. Mine had already happened. A yellow bird darted out of a tree just in front of me and then disappeared from sight in less than a split second. I don’t know what it was and I don’t think I’ve ever seen its kind before. But it was beautiful. Just beautiful and well worth getting up early enough to enjoy the privilege of seeing it. Unfortunately in Blighty, we don’t get the weather of June, July and August all year round - continental weather I call it - which is a shame, because the thought of turning up for breakfast, on yer bike, almost on a daily basis, out in the countryside, is what I think of as an almost perfect way to spend ones retirement. All that fresh air and keeping yourself active. Only such an appeal dissipates immensely during the months of January, February and March, when sometimes it’s a real effort to even leave the house, and then when you do it’s generally in your car. So here’s to summer and long may it reign (as opposed to rain). Also, here’s to my impending retirement, because the closer it gets, the more I can actually taste it - and it honestly tastes good enough to eat. Just like the almond crossants on Tues/Thurs and Sats at The Stores!
7 DAY FREE TRIAL!
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When the wife was looking back on her HedgeCam of the nocturnal events in our garden while we’d been asleep, I heard her say: “Bloody hell!” Yes, no wonder we hadn’t been seeing any of our ickle prickly hedgehog friends of late, as this uninvited intruder must have been scaring ’em off. Honestly, you don’t know what beasts are occurring out there during nightfall in the likes of urban Chelmer Village, do you? But for some reason, we hadn’t quite been expecting one of these. So...what to do? “Well we’ve been feeding the hogs for the past few years now, so perhaps it’s time to start letting them fend for themselves?” I ventured. Which I have to say was met with pretty short shrift by Mrs Edge. “I WANT MY HEDGEHOGS BACK!” she paddied, stamping her feet on the kitchen floor for emphasis, all Braveheart, like. And, to give her her due, she got to work immediately and created this little hedgehog drop-in shelter (below) which amazingly enough, the wily old fox cannot get his snout in enough to reach the spoils. I honestly had visions of our werewolf sticking its nose under the slate roof and totally upending them, but it’s a fair old weighty cactus plant the missus has positioned on top and waddayaknow, within 48-hours, One-Eye (you can guess why we call him that) was back filling his belly. Incidentally, One-Eye was new to us this year and is a pretty old hog by the looks of him. But when you’ve been without your spiky companions for a day or four, it was honestly fantastic to see him back.
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tournament’ had already been scored, where frankly they struggled to hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, we should be fine and already be though to the knockout stage by the time you are reading this. So maybe, just maybe, football really will come home for the first time since 1966, although I won't be putting any money on it as I'm sure we’ll get Germany at some stage, and we all know how that generally turns out.
YOU HAVE TO THINK TWICE BEFORE ADMINISTERING THIS KIND OF MALARKEY NOWADAYS...
POLIT INCO ICALLY RREC T
‘NOBODY’
THE WORLD OF JAN
That was the name of the film me and the better half went to watch on a recent Saturday date night (i.e. afternoon, and not to be confused with the young lad below).
"IT'S COMING HOME, IT’S COMING HOME, FOOTBALL’S COMING HOME!" Well here we are at Euro 2020. In 2021. After what has seemed like nonstop football on the TV over the past year, for some this tournament must be the very last thing they want to see on their TV sets. But not me and Olde Edgy. We, like Gary Lineker and Alan Shearer, had our very own pretournament catch-up the (early) evening before the tourno began to discuss all things England and the competition as a whole. Whilst the pints went down quite nicely on a semi-sunny evening in the beer garden of the Fox & Raven, our starting line-ups changed more times than my own particular choice of ale. By the end, the only thing we agreed upon was that we both feared that England were going to struggle to get out of the group as we couldn't get our heads around (like a lot of the top pundits) the 26 man squad Gareth had chosen and some of the players he had left out.
These are the type of fogies
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Fast forward three days and all of our doubts had been laid to rest after a most unlikely, yet utterly composed, England performance against Croatia (once again, Southgate’s selection was questioned by many, including the two of us) with our boys winning our opening match in a Euro tourno for the first time ever against the team that had knocked us out of the 2018 World Cup semi-finals in Russia. What a start! Lessons well learned and a grateful three points in the old onion bag. As I write this, we are yet to play our second group game against the old enemy, Scotland, so the carpet could still be pulled from beneath us, although I doubt it. If the Jock’s play anything like they did in their opening game, where possibly ‘the goal of the
Noddy Before going to see it I confess that neither of us knew too much about it, apart from it being the story of just an average guy, a regular ‘nobody’, who appears to be pushed to the limit after his house gets broken into and he fails to react and take down one of the crooks when given the opportunity. With his family/neighbours displaying disappointment in him after the event, his emotions start to build and get the better of him until he eventually snaps when a group of men (who turn out to be Russian gangsters) board his bus and start harassing his passengers. From that moment on its nonstop action and tongue-in-cheek humour. That said, any of you wanting a total no brainer of a movie to switch off to for an hour and forty minutes, you could honestly do a lot worse than purchasing a ticket for this one. There are some great performances from the cast including Doc Brown from the ‘Back to the Future’ movies as the main character's dad, while putting in a madcap contribution to the proceedings. It's sort of a mixture of Taken, John Wick and Falling Down. Wife's rating 9/10 GP rating 9/10 So that's enough from me for this month. I'm off to go and do my stretches before the next game as I don't want to pull a hamstring jumping up from the sofa when the third goal goes in against the ‘Sweaties’! Stay safe, enjoy the Euros and be good to one another. GP x The Edge 077 646 797 44
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Doctors in India have urged people not to smear themselves with cow poo in an effort to ward off Coronavirus. Medical officials said there is no scientific evidence behind the practice and warned that it risks spreading other diseases. It comes as the health emergency in the country becomes increasingly desperate, with 22.66 million Covid-19 cases and 246,116 deaths reported so far, though experts say the true figures could be five to ten times higher. Patients across the country are facing major shortages of hospital beds, oxygen, and medicines, leaving many to die because of a lack of treatment. In the western state of Gujarat, some have turned to cow shelters to cover their bodies in cow dung and urine once a week, in the hope that it will boost their immunity, or help them recover from the virus. Cows are considered sacred in India, with the animal a symbol of life and the earth in the Hindu faith. For centuries, Hindus have used cow dung to clean their homes and for prayer rituals, believing it has therapeutic and antiseptic properties. Gautam Manilal Borisa, an associate manager at a pharmaceuticals company, claimed the practice had helped him recover from Covid-19 last year. He said: “Even doctors come here to bathe themselves in dung. Their belief is that this therapy improves their immunity and they can go and tend to patients without fear.” Mr Borisa has since been a regular at the Shree Swaminarayan Gurukul Vishwavidya Pratishthanam, a school run by Hindu monks near the Indian headquarters of Zydus Cadila, which is developing its own vaccine. As people wait to anoint their bodies in a poo and urine mixture, they hug and honour the cows at the shelter, whilst also practicing yoga to boost their energy levels. The concoction is then washed off with milk or buttermilk. Doctors and scientists across the globe have repeatedly warned against alternative treatments for Covid-19, saying they can often lead to a false sense of security and complicate health problems. Dr JA Jayalal, national president at the Indian Medical Association, said: “There is no concrete scientific evidence that cow dung or urine work to boost immunity against Covid-19. Such is based entirely on belief. There are also health risks involved in smearing or consuming these products as other diseases can spread from animal to humans.” There are also fears that the practice could spread the virus because it involves people gathering in groups, though some centres are taking measures to avoid overcrowding. Meanwhile, Covid patients in India are being diagnosed with a rare and deadly ‘black fungus’ infection in the latest bleak development in the country’s health crisis.
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Margate, a hugely popular Victorian seaside resort, attracted thousands of visitors up into the 1960's and 70's. But by the 1980's, with foreign beaches so accessible, it was firmly in the doldrums with boarded up shops, deserted streets and derelict arcades. Even the theme park closed and with the former Victorian houses being converted into flats and bedsits, Margate became home to some of the poorest communities in the country. The Romantic artist, JMW Turner, loved Margate for its unique sunsets and skies and it could be argued that the Turner Contemporary, which opened in 2011, was the starting point for the regeneration that continues today, which has turned the town into an edgy, sexy destination.
the sea, or Peter's Fish Factory on The Parade, for take-away fish and chips, best eaten while sitting on the steps down to the sea with waves lapping at your feet. Simply wander along the sea front and you're literally spoilt for choice for what to eat and drink - and all independent restaurants, bars and micro breweries too. Okay, I admit there is a Wetherspoons, but even that has an upstairs terrace on the seafront.
2 bed apartment with sea views from £110 per night to £125pn (plus cleaning and fees). https://abnb.me/OCMSQZXBTgb
Art could be said to have saved Margate and the artist Tracy Emin still passionately supports her home town. Other names linked to the resort are Pete Doherty and the Libertines, who chanced upon a run down five storey B&B on the Eastern Esplanade and converted it into the Albion Rooms, a noir hotel and recording studios that is surprisingly elegant and sleek. Having visited relatives there many times during the 80's slump, my love affair with the resort was rekindled five years ago when we saw a write-up on a pizza restaurant that had recently opened on the seafront. We spontaneously visited Margate to eat at GB Pizza Co., where the first item on the menu is the 'Margaterita', cutlery is frowned upon and the wine is on tap. Quite simply, we never looked back. We had found our happy place. The narrow streets of the Old Town are full of quirky and stylish cafes, bars and restaurants. Vintage shops, galleries and independent retailers have sprung up. The stylish Victorian buildings are being transformed back into desirable homes and there is a definite air of London cool. Hipsters rub shoulders with day trippers and, make no mistake, there is some way to go before the turnaround is complete, but the different dynamics make for an eclectic mix that somehow just works. The vintage theme park, Dreamland, has had a multi-million pound facelift and is now also a venue, with bands from Gorillaz to Scouting for Girls playing there. From the sea wall in the harbour, where the glass clad Turner Contemporary sits on the former site of Turner's cottage, the sandy beaches stretch for miles in both directions. How about visiting the newly re-opened Margate Caves, or the ever mysterious Shell Grotto? After walking the beaches, we always return to our favourite micro pub, the Harbour Arms, at the end of the sea wall, to watch the sunset over a pint. Their aptly named 'Turner Sunset' slips down ever so well. Eating out, our regular eateries are Med, for alfresco tapas overlooking Page 16
For a luxury stay, choose the Sands Hotel www.sandshotelmargate.co.uk - the #1 hotel in Margate on trip advisor. (Circa £170 to £230 per night)
There are roof top bars, beachside cocktail decks or basement music venues. We had a memorable night watching Department S and The Rezillos play downstairs in Olby's Soul Cafe - am I showing my age? You could even try and squeeze into the Little Prince, possibly the UK's smallest pub, with space for just six people - no social distancing is possible there! Stay overnight if you can in the Old Town, then walk along the seafront in the morning, past Antony Gormley's 'Another Time' statue, which you can see if the tide is out. I call him ‘The Man in the Sea’ and he's become a firm friend of mine and the first person I visit when I arrive in the town. Head into Cliftonville, where breakfast at the Dalby Cafe is a must for any trip to Margate. I usually order a ‘small’ breakfast, but you could attempt their ‘mega’, if you think you possess the minerals. And if you can finish it - it costs £19.95 by the way - your name will be added to their wall of fame. What's more, if you finish it in under 20 minutes, you’ll get it for free. Although beware, the last person on the wall was dated August 2018, one Mr Peter Doherty in fact, who finished the Mega breakfast in 19.5 minutes. He must have certainly had the munchies on that particular morning.... Jan @refillchelmsford The Edge 077 646 797 44
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Twenty-five years ago, this fledgling company was called upon to complete a plumbing job. Linda Wild was that company. With all of her newly gained skills she was new and eager to succeed (see front cover). The gentleman of the house concerned opened the door to her. Before Linda could introduce herself, he started shaking his head and repeated, “No, no, no, no, no.” Then promptly shut the door in her face. Instead of feeling crest-fallen, Linda simply accepted that he was not worldly wise and had clearly never heard about the first female plumber in Galleywood in the 1800s, or about the Land Girls during the war, so accepted he was uneducated in the ways of the world and returned home, hoping for a much happier result when she was next called upon. Luckily things have changed since then and this ‘one woman show’ did not falter in her resolution to succeed and make a better life for herself and her children. Because prejudice is like Covid...it’s on the way out. Twenty-five years down the line and after thousands of different tasks have been commissioned, undertaken and resolved, today this is the LKG Daughters team, honed to incorporate good hard working individuals with specific skills. Skills they use on a daily basis to make good what is bad and make right what is wrong. 1. Linda. Director & Chief Engineer in Plumbing & Heating. Gas Safe Registered. Was once referred to as “a feral plumbing & heating engineer” but never worked out whether that was derogatory or it wasn’t? 2. Kate. Newly appointed Company Director and a damn fine Plumbing & Heating Engineer at that. Charming, helpful and was taught how to dust by one of her lovely customers (but that’s another story). Always brings her breakfast to work with her. 3. Grace. Works as a Senior Researcher, but is still the teams Tech Guru and logistical straight-talking advisor. Funny & loud. 4. Ray. Damn fine ex-roofer. Funny guy. Keeps the troops moving. Forever has a list in his hand (produced by Linda). If you see Ray arriving with a crow-bar, stand well back! 5. Tom. Trainee Plumbing & Heating Engineer. Year one complete and in true LKG fashion has shot straight to the top of the class. Dry sense of humour. Always has an interesting lunch. A really lucky find in the world of plumbing indeed. 6. Sam. Or ‘Trigger Man’ as the LKG team affectionately call him. On secondment to learn business acumen. Everything has been tried to convert him to learn the trade, but he’s a squeamish rugby player (if that’s possible?) and a very good carpenter/joiner. Glad to have him on board. So hope he stays.
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mattsadler1@gmail.com
Those are often said to be the words of playwright George Bernard Shaw, writes Andrew Eley, but it’s also a quote that sums up people’s split-views on the much maligned SPIN e-scooters that have appeared over the past few months in towns and cities across the country. People seem to either embrace them or detest them, being particularly vocal on the cesspit of verbal venom that is social media. On which side do I fall? Well, I’m a fan, albeit with some caveats. Owned by the Ford Motor Company, SPIN is a ‘scooter sharing system’ in which you hire e-scooters through their mobile app. It’s a simple enough system to use and providing you can upload a valid photo driving license, you can be up and scootering within but a few minutes. The first time I saw these orange scooters scattered around, I, like probably most of you, simply assumed they had been carelessly disregarded. They certainly looked unsightly, often laying on their sides, and were no doubt only used by people who had no respect for pedestrians and were fast becoming a bit of nuisance. Having recently moved to sunny Springfield from the city centre, my walk to the gym has now become too long, unless I have plenty of time on my hands (and who does these days?). Preferring not to drive, I thought to myself, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’, so I decided to give one a go. After getting myself set-up and loading my e-wallet with a tenner’s worth of credit, I used the helpful map on the app to locate the nearest escooter to me. There is a ‘preferred parking area’ near to me and there where three lined up there, ready to ride. After a quick scan of the QR code, the scooter kicked into life and with a push and a hop I was off, squeezing the throttle to accelerate to a giddy 9km/hr. Although I felt a bit unsteady at first, I immediately understood the appeal as I glided down the bunny walks in the mid-afternoon sunshine. It felt somehow liberating. Kids love scooters, skateboards and bikes, yet as adults we often miss out on such simple fun, taking cycling far too seriously and avoiding activities that we now think of as childish. Yet on that e-scooter, I felt a childlike whimsy, a reminder of weekends out on my BMX bike and long summer days playing in fields, offering a sense of serenity as the river and tress passed me by. Then the scooter sped up, moving out of a speed restricted area, and I was now doing a heady 13km/hr and I felt a rush of adrenaline as I moved up and down the undulating path before me, before eventually parking up not too far from the gym I use. Nowadays I use them nearly all of the time to head in and out of our city centre, becoming a bit of an e-scooter master in the process. I’ve also noticed other e-scooters users are not whom I had originally figured them to be. I’ve see business people, middle-aged and even older men and women ride them, along with young couples out together having fun, all respecting the rules. If anything, far from it being e-scooter users being a menace, it is pedestrians who blindly walk in front of you and fail to adhere to the ‘pedestrian side’ of cycle paths. Yes, the random parking of e-scooters can be a bit careless. However, this could easily be fixed by SPIN. If you park at a designated parking bay, you get credit put back on your account as a reward. Therefore poor parking could, I suggest, incur a small fine or temporary ban. Still, this should not be a reason to forgo the scheme, as we need genuine ways to restrict car use and reduce congestion within city centres, so this operation definitely seems like a way forward. Using a SPIN escooter (not to be confused with illegal, unlicensed e-scooters) feels like a step into the future, a bit like the sci-fi films I used to watch as a kid, with people travelled around on hoover boards and electric buggies. If you are currently dismissive of e-scooters, I suggest taking the plunge and giving one a go. I can almost guarantee your reservations and grumblings will melt away and turn your visage into one with a huge, great smile on it.
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Pubs stayed open throughout two World Wars, but not the Coronavirus pandemic. And now I fear we’re witnessing the demise of the traditional British pub. Many of us dearly missed the pub experience over the many months of Covid-enforced lock-out. Pub goers are currently enjoying quasi liberation, but there have been dark periods since Friday 20th March 2020 when Boris first announced the closure of restaurants and pubs as the next move in the drive to fight Coronavirus. The move, he acknowledged, went against “the inalienable, free-born right of people born in England to go to the pub”. A phrase designed perhaps to appeal to our patriotism as it elevates popping to the local, and our national dependence on alcohol, to the status of heroic exploits. Ironically though, the Great British Pub is actually a Great European import. The Romans first brought the concept to these shores in the form of taverns, establishing them along all major routes as a kind of pop-up wine bar for the centurion parched after a long days conquering. I’ve long been puzzled as to why sales of Peroni and Prosecco prevailed and now I realise the trend likely started when centurion and his missus popped along to the Emperor’s Head. Later, it was inns, taverns and ale houses that became permanent fixtures on street corners and along the King’s highway. The term ‘Public House’ emerged in the late 17th century to differentiate from the drinking dens that could be established in any private home (much like those we have established in front of the telly in recent months). The word ‘pub’ became common parlance in Georgian times. The last fifteen months have been a harrowing enough episode for us drinkers, but for the hospitality industry it’s been a seismic event, an existential threat for many establishments and one can only feel for the business owners and their staff for the stress and hardship inflicted by all of the uncertainty. Prices at our partially liberated pubs have certainly increased as a consequence of the lock-out, but when it’s people’s livelihoods on the line, maybe we shouldn’t be too eager to complain as the margins are widened in a desperate effort to stay afloat. As I write these notes in mid-June, I’m saddened by the latest figures from the Office for National Statistics which suggest that nearly 20% of our remaining pubs, our national heritage and community assets, are unlikely to survive beyond early August, due to the levels of debt they’ve accumulated. The decline, however, isn’t attributable solely to the pandemic; the writing was scratched on the wall of the gents many years ago and causes for the decline in pub numbers are both complex and numerous. People’s homes and habits, especially those of the younger set, incorporate broadband, Netflix, online take-away food orders for home delivery, Ultra HD TVs and fridges stacked with bargain supermarket booze. Why would the millennial visit the pub and pay through the nose for beer and snacks when all this can be accessed feet-up in their own living-room? There’s a cultural shift too. The UK population’s alcohol consumption is falling and the proportion of non-drinkers is rising. These are fearful times and I speak as someone for whom the pub means community, for whom much of their social life and fond memories are layPage 18
ered in the patina in countless bars. Its demise would be a personal and national tragedy. To quote Hilaire Belloc, "When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England." But even I’m not pessimistic enough to predict that all pubs will close. What actually concerns me more is that in many instances those already closed, or evidently threatened, are to my taste, the better ones. But what makes a perfect pub? Well, it’s largely a matter of personal preference, so it’s utterly subjective. Me? I love a pub complete with the essential traditional trappings; welcoming, courteous bar staff who take pride in their establishment and converse readily with punters, cheery good-mannered regulars (even the local ‘character’ asleep in his usual chair), a decent selection of ales and bar food, outside seating ready for when the sun peeps out for 10 minutes on the third Wednesday of every July. These are the pubs we are losing. In their place are establishments that feature Moroccan lamps, Scandinavian furniture, bar staff wearing aprons, fancy espresso machines, trendy colour palettes and fabrics mandated by interior designers, while their fayre includes olives (£3 and never a pub snack in my book) and an extensive cocktail list. But I want The Ferret & Bollock; not Farrow & Ball. And don’t even get me started on ordering drinks via an app. I have a huge problem with this. It makes going to the pub so impersonal. I concede that I’m probably being harsh and unrealistic. I’m no longer representative of the typical nightlife demographic and all we’re really witnessing here is the pub evolving into a new variant in an attempt to increase its infectious appeal, to revive its fortunes and increase the efficiency with which it sucks cash out of punters’ bank accounts via contactless card machines. The line has to be drawn somewhere though and it was most definitely crossed on a recent visit to Oxford. In a designer pub I was charged £6 for a pint of ale and £2 for a packet of crisps and when paying the bill on the obligatory app I was invited to tip the staff. But the ultimate insult was the gender-neutral toilet complete with potted plants and a neat pile of fluffy hand towels. Now that is taking the piss, literally. I speak as someone who still reminisces about having to walk across a pub’s car park to an outbuilding that housed the men’s complete with shoulder height porcelain urinals that emitted a healthy aroma; that reassuringly familiar combination of urine and disinfectant cubes. All pub goers have individual tastes and ideas about their ideal drinking establishment but we’ve been united in missing the great British pub experience. But what will be left of it if the dark clouds eventually part? And will it ever be great again? So, readers, I implore you to be upbeat and resolute, to show some British spunk, to gird your loins in preparation for national duty. The next time you need a drink to ward off those fearful mental states that induce melancholy, please resist the temptation to visit the fridge for your chilled fix of supermarket purchased Sauvignon Blanc or gluten-free mango beer and instead pop along to your local. For my part, I promise my first contribution to its revival will be to get the next round in. “Pork scratchings anyone?”
wontpassthiswayagain@gmail.com
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Because we don’t just drink the stuff by the gallon, do we? No, beer, The Edge will have you know, is one of the best ways to marinate meat (particularly dark beer) as it helps prevent the formation of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs), which are harmful compounds linked to bowel cancer which form when meat is exposed to high heat. In fact, a right riveting experiment carried out in 2014 found that marinating pork in dark ale cut levels of PAHs by more than 50%. Oh sure, there are probably those amongst you who swear by lemon juice or red wine, which may well tenderise your meat. However, leave it to soak for too long and the acid will make the proteins in the meat bond tightly, therefore making it far tougher to consume. Salt is another mistake as it simply dries your meat out. Or you could give yoghurt a go as it contains calcium, which is a tenderiser, although you’ll probably need to add some chilli powder, ground coriander and cumin to give it a bit of va-va-voom. But if you’ll take The Edge’s advice, it’s just got to be beer, while your editor is particularly partial to a shallow Abbott Ale bath for its meat.
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Men, eh? Who can trust ’em? Well, scientists say that blokes can now be relied upon to take the equivalent of ‘the pill’ on a regular daily basis. A major hurdle in the development of a daily male contraceptive pill has been women’s fear that their partners will simply forget (to take it). But in a recent study involving 35 chaps aged 18-50, ninety per cent remembered to use a contraceptive gel every single day for a year, which is good, isn’t it, girls? For blokes, don’t you think? Although I guess it’s not quite a cigar. The gel, rubbed on the...wait for it...shoulder apparently suppresses testosterone more effectively than tablets, so that men produce little to no strange-smelling, gluey, highly offensive gunk. No partners of those in the study became pregnant (what’s the betting they were all taking ‘the pill’ on the sly?), while men who stopped using the gel saw their sperm counts quickly return to normal. Sniff. Makes you wonder what all the fuss is about, dunnit?
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Hello readers. I am writing this column in Krakow, Poland. I wanted to start writing the column somewhere worthy of this country, so that’s what I’ve done. I am actually writing this very first paragraph sat on a wall outside Hut 11 in Auschwitz, the infamous Nazi Prisoner of War camp. Just this paragraph, mind. The rest of my ramblings, during which I hope to write a little more lightheartedly, will be written in a bar (most likely), or in my hotel room, and once I’m back home. I honestly couldn’t do this place justice even if I stayed here a whole month. It is easily the most moved I have ever felt in my entire life. More than one million Poles, Jews, POW’s and others that Adolf Hitler deemed unworthy died on these very grounds that I stand and Auschwitz had a further forty sub-camps under its jurisdiction, including Birkenau-Auschwitz, which I also visited. That’s the one with the iconic train track that travels beneath the tunnel under the Nazi offices. These places were factories of death with prisoners arriving in cattle carriages from all over Europe, disembarking and being divided into two groups; those that were strong enough to work 18 hour shifts for the Nazi war machine, until they inevitably died of exhaustion or were beaten to death, and those that were of no use to the Nazi’s who went straight to the gas chambers.
DEAKS
I visited Auschwitz during June along with just a few hundred tourists which allowed me to really take the place in. At times I was literally on my own within the huts and the gas chambers. I never gave it a second thought while I was there, in the moment. But writing this now, back in my hotel room, it genuinely sends a shiver through me. I was told that pre-pandemic Auschwitz had up to 50,000 visitors per day. I do not think I would have ‘enjoyed’ having that many people around me, if I’m honest, while the word ‘enjoyed’ is in inverted commas for very good reason.
Everybody on the planet should visit Auschwitz, at least once, to remind themselves of how evil can manifest itself if it is allowed to do so. I visited Krakow for a spot of dentistry work, as I mentioned in last months column, which can be found at http://theedgemag.co.uk/blog/ and I’m pleased to report I was not disappointed. I won’t dwell on the treatment because my fellow columnist Totally Tracie, who introduced me to https://indexmedicauk.co.uk/ was full of praise for them in her column last time out. But what I will say is that I totally endorse everything she wrote and tell you that I now have a lovely new set of pearly white gnashers. I feel like I’m stepping on The Edge travel correspondent, Phil Claydon’s toes here, not that he is doing much of that at the moment. But I have got to say that Krakow is a beautiful city with a big, beautiful central square, a castle set on the River Vistula and, of course, the camps, salt mines and Schindler’s factory, which is now a museum. Luckily the city was largely undamaged during the war, unlike Warsaw which was flattened, because the Nazi’s took up residence in the castle to be in close proximity to Auschwitz, while Poland was defeated by the time the Nazi’s marched into Krakow. I was given a brilliant analogy of how Hitler stirred up the German people in 1934 when he came to power. Germany was still a country suppressed after the First World War and whilst their people lived in harmony, Hitler was able to stir up hatred against the minorities, especially the Jews. By way of an example, I was told that if you collect 100 black ants and 100 red ants and put them into a jar together, nothing will happen. However, if you take the jar and shake it violently and then put it back on the table, all hell will break loose. The red ants will kill the black ants and the black ants will kill the red ants, because they will simply blame one another and believe the other is the enemy, whereas the true enemy is the person who shook the jar. Hitler, in this particular case. The same is true of society now, I think. Left vs right. Men vs women. White vs black. Christians vs Muslims. Before we fight one another, we should ask who is shaking the jar. I don’t claim to have come up with that analogy, but with all the BLM and EDL busy ‘shaking the jar’, it does make you wonder, doesn’t it? Blimey, I’m over half-way through my column and not even a laugh in sight. Our editor will sack me unless I come up with something fast! So how about a feelgood story to brighten this piece up? Did anyone hear about Pete, the 90 year old war veteran who lives on his own and goes to the Moulsham Inn in Chelmsford nearly every day to order the same meal Hunter's chicken and a glass of red wine? The pub landlord, Tim Mepham (arise Sir Tim) grew close to Pete, whose wife died 11 years ago, and decided to post a video of him on TikTok. The clip racked up thousands of views, with people asking how they could buy Pete’s meals for him. So Tim posted Pete's table number on the article and hundreds of orders for his food and drink came flooding in, giving Pete a current bar tab of over £1,000. It’s probably even more than that now. Isn’t that a heart warming story, folks? Just for the record, I drink in The White Hart in Little Waltham and I enjoy steak and chips with my beer, and busty women, so if you mention Deaks to the landlord, he will definitely know me. Please give generously! A change of direction now. The Edge Editor has told me I finished joint-top of The Edge Football Predictor League for 2020-21 (see page 30) along with my fellow columnist Billy Hinken. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks arguing that I should be top because ‘D’ for Deakin is before ‘H’ for Hinken in the alphabet, but I expect the ‘old pals act’ will win the day and Billy will be shown as finishing top. Mind you, we are both West Ham fans, which confirms what we all knew all along, which is that West Ham fans are the most knowledgeable in the land.
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Which leads me neatly onto the Euros which started the very weekend that I finalised this column. Where did they get the idea for that ridiculous tiny car bringing on the match ball, for heavens sake? Was Warwick Davis driving it? I’m passing this column over to our editor the very morning after a most satisfactory 1-0 win by England over Croatia. I honestly reckon we can win this tournament, you know. We will certainly get out of our group and then I think home advantage will take us all the way to the final and ultimate victory. Having said that, making predictions like this seems very foolish when, by the time this article is published, the remaining two group games will have been played and I might look very silly indeed. And on that leap of foolishness I shall leave you for another month, folks. Stay safe, be kind to one another and...Come on England!
TTFN Deaks Email gmdeak@googlemail.com Instagram: gmdeakin
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DAVID MOYESIAH
CAMPING
As a staunch West Ham supporter you could be forgiven for thinking that my views are unfairly biased. But seriously, how did David Moyes not win the ‘Manager of the Season’ award? He has taken a very poor West Ham team on a shoe-string budget from almost certain relegation candidates up to the lofty heights of a Europa League place. It is an unbelievable achievement, when you think about it, that he ended up getting a team without a recognised striker (after selling Haller) to within just two points of the European Champions League over the course of a season, finishing above Arsenal and Tottenham for the first time in as long as I can remember. Of course Manchester City were quality, especially in the league. But does Pep Guardiola really deserve to be crowned as the best manager in the country for making a £1bn team look like a £1bn team? I am sure plenty of other managers would do just as good a job if they had the same players available to them that Pep does. And if he really wants to test himself, then he should take on the current vacant managers position at Tottenham and see if he can turn around their ‘Spursy’ fortunes of failing at the final hurdle every single season. Their club shop must surely be running out of runners-up merchandise by now.
I never thought I would say this, but I think I have become a camping convert. In the past the idea of sleeping in a tent in the middle of a field held literally no appeal whatsoever, which wasn’t helped last year with a trip to Dorset during perhaps the wettest week the UK has ever known. It almost put me off for life. But some friends convinced us to give it another go and I am so pleased we did.
We headed off to a little place in Hertfordshire and despite there not being a great deal around in terms of entertainment, we still had a great time. We pitched up our tent, got out some chairs and just enjoyed being outside in the sunshine enjoying a few drinks and some food.
A12 CHELMSFORD TO A120 WIDENING PUBLIC CONSULTATION HAVE YOUR SAY We are holding a public consultation on proposals to widen the existing A12 between junctions 19 and 25 to three lanes in each direction (where it is not already) and create a three-lane bypass in each direction at Rivenhall End. The proposals also include a bypass between junctions 24 (Feering) and 25 (A120 Marks Tey interchange). For more information, visit our online exhibition at www.highwaysengland.co.uk/A12 Give us your views Online via the response form at www.highwaysengland.co.uk/A12 Complete the consultation response form available from the pick-up locations and return the form to FREEPOST A12 WIDENING Email your response to A12chelmsfordA120wide@highwaysengland.co.uk Write to us at FREEPOST A12 WIDENING All responses should be returned by 11.59pm on Monday 16 August 2021. Subject to the government’s COVID-19 guidelines, we plan to hold public information events. Here you can find out more about the proposed scheme and speak to members of the project team who will be happy to answer any questions you may have. Public information events Location
Date/Time
Phone number
Rivenhall Hotel Rivenhall End, Witham, CM8 3HB
Thursday 8 July 2021 2pm – 8pm
01376 516969
Spring Lodge Community Centre Powers Hall End, Witham, CM8 2HE
Saturday 10 July 2021 12pm – 5pm
01376 511042
St Andrew’s Parish Church Church Road, Hatfield Peverel, CM3 2LE
Thursday 15 July 2021 2pm – 8pm
01245 380958
www.theedgemag.co.uk
I think where I went wrong with my previous trip (apart from the weather) was excessive packing, as though it was a trip with Bear Grylls. I wanted to be prepared for a few nights in the great outdoors, but I simply hadn’t realised all of the local amenities that are available. I mean, there are working toilets, shower rooms and electricity hook-up options available on most sites these days, and on this latest trip, they even had a launderette. I also cottoned on to the fact that while I was away I did not need to be faffing about with a BBQ in the age of Uber Eats. Whereas previously, my friend even had his grill set to ‘cooking temperature’, while I simply opted for a bloke on a little bicycle to deliver me a couple of delicious pizzas! I think there is a little way to go yet before I am fully sold on the idea of camping, but I have just added a couple of full-size inflatable double beds to my collection and also have a tent carpet on order. To my mind, if I can make the tent comfortable and ‘hotel like’, then I think there could be plenty more trips in the future, because at just £12 per night, it is far cheaper than a Premier Inn. Only a few more hundred pounds worth of kit to go before it inevitably rains again and I have another hissy-fit and decide to sell it all at Boreham Boot Fair!
ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE (ISLAND) By the time this reaches you we will know whether Boris has stuck to his plans of ‘releasing’ the country from lockdown measures on 21st June. If I were a betting man then my money would be on us still having to wear a mask wherever we pick up a copy of this month’s Edge from (while some of you might even be wearing one now as you read this page). But lockdown, at this point in the summer, really isn’t too bad. If we are stuck at home in the current tiers for a few more months, then I am happy to do my bit for the country. I mean, the idea of relaxing at home with the bi-fold doors open watching 8 weeks of Love Island sounds almost as good as a holiday abroad to me!
Marks Tey Village Hall Old London Road, Marks Tey, Colchester, CO6 1EJ
Friday 23 July 2021 2pm – 8pm
01206 213250
Springfield Parish Hall St Augustine’s Way, Springfield, Chelmsford, CM1 6GX
Saturday 24 July 2021 12pm – 5pm
01245 466313
Feering Community Centre Coggeshall Road, Feering, Colchester, CO5 9QB
Tuesday 27 July 2021 2pm – 8pm
01376 572467
Pick-up locations You can get a copy of the consultation brochure and supporting materials at the following locations: r #SBJOUSFF -JCSBSZ 'BJSàFME 3PBE #SBJOUSFF $. :- r $IFMNTGPSE $JUZ $PVODJM $VTUPNFS 4FSWJDF $FOUSF %VLF 4USFFU Chelmsford, CM1 1JE, 01245 606606 r $PMDIFTUFS -JCSBSZ BOE $PNNVOJUZ )VC $PMDIFTUFS -JCSBSZ 5SJOJUZ 4RVBSF Colchester, CO1 1JB, 0345 603 7628 r $PQGPSE 7JMMBHF )BMM 4DIPPM 3PBE $PQGPSE $PMDIFTUFS $0 #9 01206 211235 r &TTFY $PVOUZ $PVODJM $PVOUZ )BMM .BSLFU 3PBE $IFMNTGPSE $. 2) 0345 743 0430 r )BUàFME 1FWFSFM -JCSBSZ 5IF 4USFFU )BUàFME 1FWFSFM $IFMNTGPSE $. %1 0345 603 7628 r ) JHI $IFMNFS 4IPQQJOH $FOUSF " &YDIBOHF 8BZ $IFMNTGPSE $. 9# 01245 260755 r ,FMWFEPO -JCSBSZ "ZMFUU T 'PVOEBUJPO 4DIPPM .BMEPO 3PBE ,FMWFEPO CO5 9BA, 0345 603 7628 r .BMEPO 5PXO $PVODJM .BSLFU )JMM .BMEPO $. 3- r .BSLT 5FZ 1BSJTI $PVODJM 0ME -POEPO 3PBE .BSLT 5FZ $PMDIFTUFS CO6 1EJ, 01206 213250 r 4QSJOHàFME -JCSBSZ 4U "VHVTUJOF T 8BZ 4QSJOHàFME $IFMNTGPSE $. (9 0345 603 7628 r 4U .BSZ T 1BSJTI $IVSDI &BTUIPSQF 3PBE &BTUIPSQF $PMDIFTUFS CO5 9HD, 01206 738759 r 5JQUSFF -JCSBSZ 3FDUPSZ 3PBE 5JQUSFF $0 49 r 8JUIBN -JCSBSZ /FXMBOE 4USFFU 8JUIBN $. "2 If you have any queries please contact the project team by email at A12chelmsfordA120wide@highwaysengland.co.uk or by calling 0300 123 5000.
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ONLY JOKING! ON THE WAGON
Yay. I’ll be celebrating six months on the wagon in around 179 days time.
DNA Q. What do you get if you mix goat DNA with human DNA? A. Kicked out of Jimmy’s Farm for starters.
BRAZIL NUTS My sister tells me Brazil Nuts is a whole new style of manscaping.
PMS I was in the doctor's surgery and I asked the guy opposite me why he was there. Solemnly, he replied, "PMS". Strange, I thought. But then as he walked into the doctor's office, I saw the kitchen knife sticking out of his back.
PLANET EARTH Spiders on Planet Earth outnumber humans 2,800,000 to 1. But hey, don’t let that give you an uneasy night’s sleep.
BANGING ON I hate it when people come over all intellectual and start banging on about the likes of Tchaikovsky, when it’s clear as daylight they’ve never even seen one of her paintings.
SIMPLE MATHS Hey kids, if I buy half-a-dozen of those delicious, small, hot, ring-doughnuts from a stall at the village fete and my neighbour Mandy and my other neighbour Kelly each ask me for one...how many have got left? That’s right, still six.
SOUR CREAM This Sour Cream has a ‘best before’ date of 30.6.21 Do you think it’ll have gone off by now, or simply be maturing nicely?
BLUE WHALE The vagina of the blue whale is so big that six
adult males can lie down in it, side by side. Making it the planet’s second biggest **** after Donald Trump.
LOOSE WATCHES What is it with people who wear watches loosely around their wrists? Noisy wankers.
BAD BOYS I accidentally let it slip that I had a thing for bad boys. So now he’s loading the dishwasher all higglety-pigglety.
ARGUMENT When a woman laughs during an argument, it’s the first sign that the psycho part of her brain has been engaged. So always take a step back to make sure she’s not covering the escape route.
RESISTANCE TRAINING Quite simply, resistance training is merely refusing to go to the gym.
SPIDER-MAN My kids call me Spider-man. Not because of any of my super powers, but simply because I struggle to get my PJ’s on.
CATS PROTECTION LEAUGUE I’ve been paying a fiver a month to the Cats Protection League for the past two years, but due to the Coronavirus crisis, I’ve missed my last two payments. So they’ve just been round in a white van, tied my Twinkles tail in a knot and told me to “Cough up, or else.”
PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHER I’ve just launched a book aimed at 8-12 year olds. Happy to say I hit one of the little shits.
MEANWHILE, OUT IN THE COUNTYRYSIDE A farmer drives over to the neighbouring farm and knocks on the door. A young lad opens it. "Is your Mummy or Daddy home, Timothy?” the farmer asks. "No, sir. They went into town,” said the boy. "Mmmm,” said the farmer, stroking his bristles. “What about your Robert?” "Him neither,” says Timothy. “He’s out on his trials bike with his mates.” The farmer, at a loss, just stood there kicking his heels. So the boy said, "I know where Dad keeps his tools, if you want to borrow any? Or I can give him a message?” "Well,” the farmer says uncomfortably, "I wanted to talk to your father about your Robert getting my Emily pregnant.” The young boy thought for a moment. Then he said, "Sorry, you’ll have to talk to Dad about that. I know he charges £500 for the bull and £150 for the ram, but I’ve no idea how much he charges for our Robert.”
CUTTING COSTS To cut costs an MD is forced to sack an employee. After much thought, he narrows the field down to Jack, or young Debbie. Both have near identical performance records and they both started the same week, so it’s a really tough decision. After hours of deliberation, he’s still undecided, so he makes it simple for himself. The first person to the water cooler on Monday morning gets a week’s notice. The day arrives and Debbie walks in with a monstrous hangover. After hanging up her coat she’s all over the water cooler. Slowly, her boss wanders over: "Debs,” he says, “I am so sorry, but due to powers beyond my control, I’ve got to lay you or Jack off.” “I see,” says Debbie, distracted. "Well, can you jack off then, as my head’s proper pounding this morning.”
KY GEL Couldn’t find the KY Gel last night, but hey-ho, I went ahead anyway. Suppose it was kind of a vacation from the lube. A sort of ‘lubrication’.
ROLE PLAY She suggested role play. I said, ‘Doctors and nurses’. So she put me on a bed in the hallway and just p ss d off. * * That was two days ago now.
SMILE Girl sat opposite me on the train. She said, "Everytime you smile I feel like inviting you back to my place.” “Oh,” I said, "so you’re young, free and single?” "No,” she said. "I’m a dentist.”
OBESITY What if this latest obesity crisis is just aliens fattening us up before the harvest?
FISHING TIPS If you don’t bother to bait your hook, the fish won’t wake you up.
CHEDDAR GORGE Gets up really, really early. Sneaks out of house. Lets car roll downhill before starting it. Drives well over 100 miles to Cheddar Gorge. Locates remotest cave. Makes self comfortable and gets out KitKat. Kids poke their heads around a rock and say in unison, "Can we have some, Daddy?”
QUIZ NIGHT "Okay, Fred, Daphne and Velma, name any of the ‘big five’ animals of Africa?” "Rhino.” "Maybe you do, Scooby, but it isn’t your turn.”
HOSPITAL SECURITY Woah! Talk about overzealous and heavy handed. Security just escorted me out of the hospital. How the hell was I to know that stroke patients wasn’t an instruction?
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
S
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B GGER
*
SOME THINGS IN LIFE JUST CAN’T BE BEATEN AND A
STAYCATION’S ONE OF ’EM!
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Welcome to the 14th Century or really any other century before or after. This global pandemic may be a strange experience for us, but our parents and grandparents and great grandparents had experienced similar changes and upheavals in their lifetimes, some greater and some less traumatic than the one we’ve been living through. Think about it, just 80 years ago they were living through World War II with nightly bombing raids, food rationing, civil and travel restrictions - but it passed. Twenty-five years before that was World War I, followed by Spanish Flu, which also passed. In the 14th Century the country was swept by the Black Death whilst we were at war with France (although aren’t we always?). The Black Death decimated the population and the English lost all of their lands in France; the very important wool trade was devastated due to trade tariffs. Yet this too passed. With almost the entire adult population in the UK being vaccinated against the current Covid-19 pandemic, we can be certain that what we have been experiencing for the past 15 months will ultimately pass, although it’s highly likely that society will be changed somewhat in the future. I think that one change will be foreign travel, which will undoubtedly become far more tortuous, particularly if you seek to visit foreign climes ‘at the drop of a hat’. This is simply because the Covid19 virus isn’t going away and will continue to mutate, so we’ll all very likely have to keep up with our vaccinations and boosters, plus all of the necessary documentation although that will be much easier than in previous times with nearly everyone these days having smartphones etc. The problem is the rest of the world and whilst Europe got off to a shaky start with its immunisation programme, most European countries are catching up. But outside of Europe and in the US it’s a very different matter. For instance, Japan’s immunisation rate is only 15%, Cape Verde’s less than 4% and Egypt only around 2%. Even New Zealand’s rate is less than 20%. So do they let us in, or can we visit and come back without the need to quarantine? This remains unknown territory, at least for now. But with the WHO’s plans for a big vaccination push in the next two years, this too shall ultimately pass.
However, what isn’t going to pass, or change in the near future, is the mayhem, embarrassment and sheer folly that’s going on at my
beloved Spurs. It’s not just the complete idiocy of sacking a manager a week before a Cup Final, but the shambles both off and sadly on the pitch. When they announced that they were now one of ‘The Big Six’ – how embarrassing was that? And then they announced that we could attend the final home match of the season (versus Aston Villa), only what did they do? Firstly, we had to purchase next year’s season ticket to be eligible for the draw, and then we had to pay £60 for the ticket (but for that you got ‘Free Food’ - well, a Spurs Signature Pie or Vegan Pie). Only what was reassuring was that nothing else had changed. We lost, which in itself was reassuringly Spursy. That said, it was good to be back to the by now familiar surroundings of the new stadium, even if only 10,000 souls were let in. Oh well, at least we’ve had the Euros to enjoy before next season starts and I’m sure the England team will by now have done us proud. At least a place in the semifinals (well, we can but hope). But if we lose, then that too shall pass. (Written pre-the Euros starting!)
What’s going on in Chelmsford? Everywhere you go you see these abandoned orange e-scooters sometimes singly, sometimes in clusters of 2, 3 or 4, yet I’ve rarely seen anyone riding them. Are e-scooter riders being abducted by aliens? Or is this part of some form of silent e-invasion? If not, why are people just abandoning these e-scooters and who (or what) picks them up and when do they do this? If anybody out there in the galaxy knows, can they let us here at The Edge know what’s going on? Also, I’d like to know what is the point of an e-scooter? They are inherently unstable. Do they go on road or pavement? Are the riders insured? The few people I’ve seen riding them weren’t wearing any form of head protection - aren’t they simply asking for trouble? So again, is it an alien e-invasion? If not, what’s the point?
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The antithesis to pickups is undoubtedly the Prius. The very epitome of snowflake liberalism, apparently. Green(ish) and beloved of the metropolitan elites. Electric powered - sort of - and a sheep in sheep’s clothing. In fact, someone wrote a book about the American culture wars and actually called it ‘Prius or Pickup’. Everyone knew what he was talking about.
Greetings once more from the west coast where life is almost back to normal. Sports stadiums are at full capacity, restaurants ditto. Most people are still being careful, but by and large daily living is a damn sight easier than it was twelve months ago. The only thing that remains off limits in all practical terms is international travel, which is a bit of a bugger. Especially for anyone, oh, let’s say living in San Diego, who hasn’t yet seen the new Spurs stadium and would very much like to do so. Enough of that. In the nearly ten years this column has shifted electrons along the internet cables between the US and Chelmsford it has tried to relate anything reported from here in terms that a citizen of central Essex would understand. This month may be a failure, but let’s give it a go. We’re going to return to the culture wars again, but this time focus on one specific thing that in this country divides people into two very opposite tribes, although this is an issue that doesn’t really translate to Chelmsford. And what is this object that is so divisive here, but not there? Well, it’s the automobile.
lean left or right, live in the city, a suburb, or sticksville, drives something very similar. SUVs, hatchbacks, saloons - they’re all variations on a theme and the narrow and crowded roads don’t allow for much deviation from the basic formula. Out here though there is one type of vehicle that, when you buy one, signals to the world who you vote for and therefore which side of the culture war you stand on. It’s the pickup truck.
Over there the culture wars continue to be trumped (ha) up by the Government and its many cheerleaders in the press - yes, we’re looking at you Daily Mail/Express/Telegraph/Sun. For some reason they appear to think that even after the societal horrors let loose by the Brexit referendum, stirring up the division even more is a good idea. But their current weapon of choice is footballers taking a knee, not cars.
Yes, the pickup truck has gone from being a useful and necessary tool for those living in the country - which it still is to those people - to a full on icon for the white is best brigade. Why you would need a pickup truck if you live in a city is a question with but one answer. You don’t. But because it’s the symbol of gun toting old school masculinity, even if you’re female, a certain type decides it’s the vehicle for them.
One side of the UK’s cultural divide thinks that anyone who doesn’t wake in the morning, salute the Union Flag and sing a rousing chorus of Rule Britannia is a treasonous, woke, snowflake that hates their country and spends all day drinking lattes and trying to figure out what gender they identify as. In the reverse fixture there are puce faced Gammons getting apoplectic about forinners and spending their leisure time wetting their pants over a collection of model Spitfires.
Now, to be a proper pickup, it has to be American made - the Toyota versions don’t count - have a huge V8 engine and go like stink. It is also preferable if the wheels are stretched in diameter and width so that it looks as mean as a cornered rat. And when we say huge V8, we are talking of trucks with engines starting at 3.3 litres at the cheap end and going up to well over 7 litres. Green they ain’t. But the sort of person that buys these things doesn’t believe there’s an environmental crisis anyway, so bigger is better and bollocks to you.
The car doesn’t feature in the UK’s culture wars because by and large everyone, whether they
But there’s a sting in this particular tale (see what happened there - tale, tail…oh, never mind). The biggest and baddest of pickup trucks, the one coveted by every redneck for its sheer testosterone filled ballsiness, is the Ford F250. It has the biggest engine at 7.3 litres, the most horsepower, the greatest torque and can therefore pull a battleship. It’s a monster and obviously therefore the owner must be absolutely the most alpha of alpha males. Even if they’re female. But here’s a thing, and this is going to tie up in knots all those who get moist at the thought of an F250. Ford are about to bring out an electric only version of the pickup truck. Right, says Mr Redneck, you won’t catch me dead in one of those pansy-mobiles. Except… Compared to even the 7 litre petrol version the electric one goes faster. It accelerates quicker. It can carry a bigger payload. It can haul not just a battleship but an aircraft carrier. In fact, in every one of the butch stats, it’s a better vehicle. Agghhhh! Panic in Trumpsville. What to do? I can’t be seen dead in an electric vehicle. All my buddies at the gun club would laugh at me. But it is much more manly in everything that counts. It’s not fair to lay this complex dilemma on me. I’m a simple man. Really simple. You’ll not be surprised to learn there isn’t much sympathy for such a quandary coming from this quarter. All this macho willy waving bullshit has been the cause of most of the world’s problems for millennia. But speaking for humanity as a whole, if this is what it takes to make the rednecks become greennecks, then salut, Mr Ford, we owe you one. And on that optimistic note - until the next time. Anon.
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In a nutshell, Naked Attraction is post watershed Blind Date, only minus Cilla. Unfortunately, you don’t really get to see how the couples really got on during their date, although when they meet on the settee ‘supposedly’ a couple of weeks later, you can kind of tell by their body language as to whether they’ve gone the whole hog or not. Naked Attraction is almost 5 years down the line now (on, you guessed it, C4) whereby those lookin’ for lurve get to see their prospective partners starkers before they’ve even had a chocamocha together. Not only that, but us voyeurs - pardon me, viewers - also get to see all of the contestants in the buff too. Result! There’s no questions to be answered behind a screen though. The chooser (one guy and one gal each week) simply walks out to be confronted by what looks like six tanning cubicles, coloured green, blue, red, yellow, pink and orange (from left to right, and yes, The Edge purposefully made a note of their order) with a naked body inside each one. Sometimes guys will choose girls and visa versa, although these days same sex couples have also been brought into the fray. (Haven’t seen a Special Octogenarian episode yet though, come to think of it...?) The most memorable contestant to date has surely got to be the one-legged, dredlocked former Scouse strippergram on the very first show who had a large pair of elephant’s ears tattooed on his pelvis. Hey, you can imagine what the trunk turned out to be. If you think this is taking dumbed down TV to a whole new level, oh no it’s not; Big Brother beat them to it (not to mention Love Island - well, almost). OK, so the main point that this publication wishes to make is this: men are meant to be the stereotypical ones, right? Only considering the episodes your editor has viewed over the years, “Surprise, Surprise” (where the bloody hell did Cilla just come from?), on most occasions where the girl chooses the guy, she generally always goes for the one with the biggest dick. Which pretty much says it all, don’t you think? For years we’ve been hearing a load of old twaddle about how it’s possible to
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laugh a girl into bed, or that bald men supposedly have more testosterone (it’s nonsense, trust me), when what it really comes down to is what we all knew all along: SIZE MATTERS. Yep, you ladies have proper been shown up for the shallow creatures you undoubtedly are by this tawdry TV show. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that when the contestant/chooser has whittled it down to the last two (from six), they then have to get their kit off. Naturally there have been numerous comments on social media as a result of this programme, but it’s all just a bit of fun, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it? The fact that the contestants get to see their date naked before they even go out on a date is surely turning the whole concept of dating on it’s head and it’s certainly interesting to hear some of the reasons why naked people get rejected. “She doesn’t look like she takes enough care of her feet,” one guy said of a particularly flat-chested lass (The Edge will leave that one for you readers to consider the deeper meaning of). The programme is supposedly the brainchild of the same folk who are behind Gogglebox, Undercover Boss and Tattoo Fixers. But if you think Naked Attraction is bad, The Edge understands there’s a programme from Italy now on TLC called Undressed which sees matched up couples strip one another down to their underwear on their very first meet and then jump straight into bed together. Meanwhile, The Edge can’t wait for the first ever Celebrity Naked Attraction series to begin and no prizes for guessing that Keith Chegwin is bound to be an early front runner. Naturally the broadsheets frowned upon this all new dating show, predictably calling it ‘gratuitous’. But hey, it’s where we are today, post Brexit. Blind Date is the past; we’ve simply moved on (well, those who make TV programmes tell us they have at any rate). Of course Naked Attraction reduces human attraction pretty much to a base level and that of a meat market. But Stone Age man wasn’t complaining,
ANDREW ELEY
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I’ve been feeling a sense of guilt the last few days. I refused entry to a dad and his two boys to see the latest action film ‘Nobody’, due to it being rated 15 and his two cherubs clearly not being of said age, despite their protests. Upon accepting that they would not be seeing their movie of choice, they asked what else was on that they could see. To which I replied, “Well, right now there’s Cruella…” So off they went, overloaded with popcorn and fizzy pop, shuffling in dismay into Disney’s latest family film instead of enjoying some testosterone fuelled onscreen carnage. It wasn’t until the next day I watched Cruella myself and thought, ‘Hmmm….they must really have regretted not having any valid form of ID on them’. My biggest question with Cruella is why? Why does this film exist? Although the answer is obvious, I guess. Money. There is literally no other reason for it. When I first heard that Disney where making a live action reimagining of one of cinemas most iconic and downright despicable villains, my cynical side thought that this was going to be another female empowerment story that takes a tragic figure who has been unfairly vilified, before turning her into a sympathetic anti-hero who has been a victim of oppression and is simply misunderstood. And well, that’s exactly what we’ve got. I’m not sure where this trend started, but the popular musical 'Wicked' did this with the evil witch from ‘The Wizard of Oz’, and Disney’s ‘Maleficent’ took another evil character and turned her into a sympathetic heroine. Fairy tales have villains to show children there are dangerous people in the world. Only now it seems they must all have backstories so that we can ‘understand’ them and see they are simply victims. Only are we teaching kids that evil people do not really exist, that they are just people on their own path who have been misunderstood? There have always been evil women in this world. Elizabeth Bathory, Aileen Wuornos, Myra
Hindley, Rosemary West, Priti Patel... Classic stories give us clear definitions of good vs evil, right from wrong. When the lines are blurred and filmmakers feel the need to make previously evil characters sympathetic antiheroes, what are they saying? That it’s okay to capture and skin a puppy’s fur to make a nice coat (the reason given for her dislike of Dalmatians in this film is truly eye rolling)? Oh and Disney, the clue is in her name. Cruella DeVil literally means ‘cruel devil’. She was written originally to be the epitome of nasty. “But Andrew,” I here you protest, “wasn’t Joker, the best film of 2019, somewhat the same? Didn’t that take an inherently evil character and turn him into a sympathetic anti-hero?” Aside from the fact that Joker is a far better movie in every conceivable way, the answer is no. By the end, we, the audience, had a Keyser Soze moment as what we had seen was, most likely, a fabricated story told by an incarcerated Joker, before he casually murders his psychotherapist. There is no redemptive arc or sympathetic story to be had. But I digress, and maybe you now think my only issue with Cruella is my own personal opinion on its central theme. And maybe it is, which is why movies are so subjective. Yet taking that out of it, the film is still ponderously long, lacking in humour, excitement and tension, and whenever scenes tend to drag, they clearly need some seriously aggressive editing. Ultimately, I don’t know who this film is for. It’s too long, slow and dark to appeal to kids. And its almost certainly too shallow, self indulgent and silly to appeal to a dad and his two boy who wanted to come and see some guns, fisticuffs and gratuitous violence on a Sunday afternoon. Oh well, maybe next year, hey lads?
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BBQ Season
KiNGPiN
After what seemed like a winter worthy of Westeros, followed by enough rain to make me consider building an ark, we finally seem to be getting some decent weather, so as any right-thinking man would do, I immediately broke out the BBQ to cook as much meat as humanly possible.
Now my BBQ has seen better days and it’s only the intense heat it generates that stops me worrying about my dinner being served with a side of tetanus. I’ve only got one of those bogstandard black-iron barrel ones, but it does the job and facilitates one of my favourite pastimes, which is stuffing my fat gob, so up until recently I was quite content with it. But all good things come to an end, so it was time for an upgrade. Now I know this will horrify some of the purists out there, but I’ve decided to go for a gasfired one. I want less mess to contend with and the ability to wheel it out, fire it up and get cooking at the drop of a hat, rather than fannying around for anything up to an hour before I can even slap some dead cow onto the grill.
The Kingmeister reports
Farewell, old friend Sunday was a sad day at ‘Kingpin Manor’ and I’m in a period of mourning for a fallen hero. For almost 6 years my trusty Playstation 4 had been used on an almost daily basis, but on Sunday its beleaguered fan span for the last time and its workhorse of a processor finally staggered to a halt before being consigned to the metaphorical Knackers Yard. For 6 years, particularly the year just gone, that little black box has been my escape and
Jesus wept, cooking meat over fire is possibly one of the most basic and enduring actions of human history. Hundreds of thousands of years ago some Proto-Kingpin was probably squatting over a hole in the ground, cooking his dinner (and making a damn fine job of it too, I’m sure, which is probably where I get it from). The mechanics of it haven’t fundamentally changed since humanity realised pants were probably a good idea. Sure, the method can be tweaked and improved upon, but it’s still essentially ‘meat go on fire, then belly yum-yum’, just as it was way back then. Seven-hundred pounds my pert bottom! I’m all for innovation, but I’m totally against bullshit even more, particularly that toxic form of bullshit that always seems to end up adding an extra couple of hundred quid to the bill. If you want to pay silly money for your BBQ so you can chunter on about air-flow or whatever to justify such an expensive absurdity, then be my guest, fill your boots. Me? I’ll be getting a metal box with a hob and a grill-pan in it, and I bet my steaks will taste every bit as good as yours. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
The main issue is a lack of semiconductors, also known as microchips, which are notoriously difficult to produce, and any change or pause in this process can take months to return to normal levels. When Donald started rattling his sabre at China it caused a lot of companies to panic buy microchips, leading to a shortage that should have been fairly easily rectified until Covid-19 waded in with its size-12’s and started laying the boot into global manufacturing and supply chains. Pretty much everything uses microchips these days and this shortage is affecting all sorts of stuff from the likes of cars to coffee machines, but obviously the important thing to take away from this is that I don’t have a bloody Playstation. Luckily my fiancé, in a selfless display of kindness and love, has given me her Xbox to use until I can finally get my hands on the Loch Ness monster of consoles.
It had been a while since I shopped for a BBQ, but I figured around £200 should get me something decent. However, five minutes on Google showed me the meat-grilling world appears to have gone collectively insane and that £200 was definitely at the budget end of the scale. I was soon looking at contraptions costing between £500-£700, which is just mental! I don’t want to hear any nonsense about cutting-edge designs, heat retention and improved airflow either. You’ll never convince me that it’s not a metal box with a lid that has a hob and a grillpan in it. We all know these things could be knocked up for £100 (probably less than that when you factor in child-labour) and still cook a steak to perfection.
ting a brand new Playstation. The last time we had a global shortage of microchips was back in ’97 when, believe it or not, the immense popularity of Tamagotchi’s (remember those?) basically used up the world’s supply for a while. So I suppose I can take some small solace from the fact my inability to get a PS5 is down to a rogue President and a global pandemic, rather than a bloody Tamagotchi.
I’m genuinely sorry to see it go. I know that to some of you that’ll sound daft, but gaming has always been my psychological release-valve and I find nothing more relaxing than booting up my console, putting my headphones on, shutting out the real world and doing something like smacking a troll in the chops with an axe. As far as modern technology goes, 6 years of daily use is pretty good going and I definitely got my money’s worth out of the PS4, just as I did with Playstations 1 through to 3 before it. But as some of you may know, the PS4 is ‘old-gen’ technology now the PS5 is out on the scene. At least it would be if you could actually buy one. I think Sony are even looking at changing their advertising slogan to ‘Rarer than rocking horse shit’ seeing as finding a site that doesn’t show them as ‘out of stock’ has become even more elusive than Bigfoot. So why is something as simple as a games console harder to find than a prime minister that actually tells the truth? The short answer, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, is Covid essentially putting half the world on pause for a few months. The longer answer goes back to Trump starting a trade-war with China, so thanks a lot, Donald. Not only have you imperilled US democracy, you’ve stopped me get-
While I’m deeply appreciative, I do struggle with the Xbox as the controllers are slightly too big for me and my ickle hands. To this day, our editor still calls me ‘Lord Smallhands’ every now and then, and while they’re not quite as small as a ‘Beadle hand’, it must be said they are on the petite side - well, at least they are compared to the gnarled sides of ham some of you Neanderthals have stuck on the ends of your wrists. I’m well aware that this is the epitome of a ‘first-world’ problem and believe me, I know how fortunate I am that the biggest issue the pandemic has caused me is not being able to get a PS5. That being said though, gaming really is my way of winding down and destressing and I’m sure you’ll agree that being able to relax and de-stress is possibly more important than ever these days. Like I said, if this is the biggest problem on my plate at the moment I’m actually doing very well, but it is strange to have the main thing I relied on to fill my downtime suddenly taken away from me and that something so frivolous and commonplace as a games console has become virtually impossible to get. I’m sure things will settle down in a few months time, they always do, and I’m fairly confident I’ll be able to get my hands on a PS5 before the next global disaster happens. Of course, if you happen to be a Sony exec reading this, don’t be shy in getting in touch if you’ve got any spares lying around. Page 27
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Max Headroom’s
BIZARRE NEWS ELDERLY PARENTS EAT CAT FOOD
A mum ‘howled with laughter’ after her elderly parents asked her to buy them “some more of that gorgeous pâté” - only to discover they had eaten a tin of cat food. Angela Furball had been shopping for her parents, Margaret and Donald, throughout the Coronavirus crisis and usually separated the pet food from the rest of their shopping. Only one week she totally forgot and was confused when her mum told her they had eaten “a really lovely snack of absolutely gorgeous pâté and freshly baked bread”. The family members, who now all live in France, were happily relaxing in the sunshine and enjoying their snack, but hadn’t noticed the cat on the packaging, as you get a bit like that when you’re older, you know. Daughter Angela said that when her 80-year-old mum showed her the tin - which by then they had completely polished off - she almost pee’d in her pants. The family moved across the Channel in 2015 and admit that reading French labels can still prove to be a bit on the tricky side, though Angela thought the feline picture on the tin ought to have been enough of a giveaway. She said: “My mum eventually saw the funny side, after suffering no ill sideeffects, though it has to be said my dad was somewhat less amused. My mum told me his face was aghast when he found out what he’d eaten and he accused her [jokingly] of trying to poison him!” The family, who live in the Charente region, say they are having to find alternatives to British produce after Brexit has affected trade. Angela said that she can no longer buy meat and cheese products from the UK, including her parents favourite - Shippam’s paste - and are on the lookout for alternatives. The Headroom team bring you this story as some of the cat pâtés on sale these days really do look and smell good enough to eat (by humans).
TEENAGER ACCIDENTALLY MOVES INTO RETIREMENT VILLAGE AFTER ONLY VIEWING PROPERTY ONLINE
In what will probably be the last year of The Edge, let’s truly celebrate fogeyism by all you 65+ readers sending in your snaps, as this could be your last chance to appear anywhere that’s ‘full-colour & glossy’ too. The more interesting the photograph, the better, so try to use a little imagination. And hey, if you’re chairbound, well then, you’ll have to use a little more imagination still, won’t you? But that doesn’t exclude you. No way. So get your asses into gear and get those photo’s sent in. The Edge is looking forward to seeing them.
shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
A teenager claims she accidentally moved into a retirement village after signing her tenancy agreement without actually viewing the property, the lazy snowflake, or whatever you call them. The 19-year-old lass was left puzzled when all of her neighbours appeared to be fogeys (over the age of 65) after she moved into her flat in Great Baddow. A week later, she stumbled across a sign that explained everything loud and clear - she was the only teenager living in a ‘commune for pensioners’. However, while other teens may crave neighbours their own age, this local lass is absolutely loving her brand new neighbourhood as, she says, she “gets to have extra sets of grandparents”. When questioned about how a teenager was allowed to move into a retirement village, she explained: “It’s equal-opportunity housing that doesn't discriminate on age, despite it being designed for senior citizens. “I plan on staying here for quite a while. After all, why wouldn’t I at only £250 per month for a 2-bedroom flat? Having said that, I do absolutely love my new neighbours because it’s super quiet here and I always get to know where the best deals on coffee are in town!”
MASSIVE TIT FIGHT BREAKS OUT Blue tits may be cute little feathery creatures, but they can also be highly territorial, the same as any animal, says a local wildlife photographer who watched one lose an eye in a fight with another tit lasting fully two minutes.
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MOTCO
Man on the Clapham Omnibus RINSED
I would like to be talking about that part of the hairdressing process where you are in the final stages of a pre-cut hair wash. Most of you will know that beer was around 60 pence a pint and I was driving an Orange Ford Capri the last time that service was applied to my cranial expanses. But it is a different type of ‘rinsing’ I wish to discuss here. I issue a warning now, this is a Victor Meldrew moment/tirade/whinge. Our joint 60th birthday present was to take our family to Lanzarote for an all-inclusive week away together. A nice way for us to spend that time with our family enjoying recuperative sunshine whilst aided by the consumption of cold foreign beer. Job done. Except it wasn’t. Like all of us, those plans were scuppered back in the Spring, so the decision was taken to cancel the trip and instead opt to have a week away in the UK. Some of you may now be starting to get a feel for the ‘rinsing’ element of this article already. In fact, some of you may have already felt this pain yourselves. We soldiered on and booked a nice house that slept six adults just a mile outside of Torquay at Meadfoot beach. I am writing this article on 14th June, having just returned on 12th June and finding a small deadline ‘grenade’ from EE in my corporate email box. “Columns to me by the 15th of every month in future, please!” it read. There it was in the middle of my mailbox, which contained over 400 others waiting for me. Oh what joy. “It’s my birthday in early July,” he went on, and he wanted to get this very edition wrapped up promptly before going away himself to South Wales. Becoming a sexagenarian (you all know now) waits for no man. He will no doubt wish to indulge all of us Edge writers in the fabled Edge Writers Lounge to a lavish food and drinks buffet at some point. Meanwhile, I awake from such a fantasy and retune to Reality FM. So back to rinsing. Yes, I am referring to having holidayed in the UK properly for the first time in some years. In that respect I have been very fortunate. I mean longer than a long-weekend and not staying with relatives, as we do in Swansea. Many of you are now nodding with either sympathy and smugness, or with disdain, as I am an amateur and have fallen into all of the traps. Indeed, our very own EE falls into the second camp. A man with a firm grip on a fiver at the best of times and frequent UK traveller.
Next in line is the obligatory car parking. Everywhere one stops you face the minimum 3 hour basic charge. What good is a zero-to-thirty-minute pay bracket to a tourist wishing to see Devon’s biggest ball of string and accompanying budgie collection? None. So three hours it is. The crowning glory of charges though has to go to Torbay Council. They have made spending a penny actually thirty of those pennies. The amazing part is that you can only pay by bank card. In my youth, bank charges were struck on every transaction so that penny spend would have added up quickly. And yes, you are thinking especially for a now leaky old git such as yourself. Also, no cash at the car park machines. It is the now obligatory download of a ‘parking app’ to pay the smegging parking. Trouble is, I think the major mobile telephone companies have bypassed the beautiful Torbay area. I would have had more signal standing in a concrete encased lead lined box. It was amusing to see clusters of people wandering around the close proximity of the car parking machine waving one thousand pound smart phones in the air, just like a 1990 Nokia trying to get a signal. On the plus side, beer does not suffer the London tax. The six pound pint that I endure around Moorgate fortunately does not exist. And the beaches really are beautiful, once you have parked. If the weather wants to rinse you, as is it’s want in the UK, then off to the ‘attractions’ you go. This is where we get into some truly professional territory. Trip on the steam railway, boat trip, Agatha Christie’s house etc, then bring the deeds to your own home as security. The power boat trip round the bay was forty quid per person. Yes, you read that right. I think at that price EE would sit on a kids roundabout and spray salt water in his own face as a second best! Yes, this has been a rant fest alright, but I detract from the overall truth. We had a great time and would do it all over again at the drop of a hat. The coast in the UK, in all its different incarnations, is simply stunning, often butting up to some of the best countryside in the whole world. But, and it’s a BIG ‘but’ (no, I am not doing that gag again), why the hell does it have to be so very expensive? We made great memories even if the weather was a little indifferent. That said I, like many who will be holidaying in the UK for the first time in a long time this summer, will be asking the same question and thinking I could have had two weeks in the Canaries for but one week in Blighty. So the biggest question of all now concerns our main holiday in September. Will we be able to travel, or will it be a case of selling the family home for two weeks in Cornwall? I’m busy ringing the estate agents right now... Yours aye,
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Let’s look at a definition of the slang term ‘rinsing’. Consider this example: ‘To over-charge for a service in order to extract the maximum fee from the customer.’ That’s a fair starting point. Now let’s go back to the beginning of this article. I have just returned from a week-long holiday in the UK. I think it fair to say I have been fully rinsed, yeah baby! A good week was had by all and I truly love this country and all it has to offer. I just wish they could offer it more competitively. It is hard to reconcile that a week in Lanzarote, 1736 miles away by air, with all of the food and drink included, not to mention the obligatory airport spend up and in flight booze for six adults, weighs in cheaper than a week in Torquay! It begins on your journey where the Captain Hook fuel company lifts the price of diesel on the motorway by 25p per litre. Why, for heaven’s sake? I don’t suppose the staff are on premium wages. I now know BP
stand for British Pirates.
shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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they can perform like extras from Diversity. Fireworks accompany Beyonce and Michael Jackson dance routines, not to mention the latest one I saw on YouTube where the bride does the ‘Wap’ dance. Google it! If you know, you know, and it leaves nothing to the imagination (get a bucket and a mop - good grief, and with the vicar being present too!).
And oh what a tough one to predict it was, with no crowds, so no real home advantage, and who knew that defending champions Liverpool would lose their entire defence? Not only that, but noone foresaw Sheffield United dropping like a stone to the foot of the table. However, joint-winner Billy Hinken was the only person to predict the ‘top 4’ in the correct order, while fellow joint-winner Deaks scored an amazing 30/35 points on the teams placed 13th to 19th. So here’s the final table in full and your editor had an absolute shocker, predicting Arsenal to finish 3rd, Wolves 6th, Southampton 7th, Leicester City 9th and West Ham 19th!
STRUT YOUR FUNKY STUFF Forgive me, but this month, boy, have I struggled to type my column, despite threats of a whipping with a wet kipper by our ‘Ed’ in ‘Edge Towers’ for being late! Thing is, I’ve been in a deep depression. July 19th. July 19th? Are they frigging kidding me? Most of us were already out there ‘in our heads’ planning raving outfits, practicing our dance moves, not to mention a conga line from Chelmsford bus station to M&S. This was supposed to be a Street Party of such epic proportions last seen on VE day to celebrate our return to normality, freedom to hug, and freedom from those damn ruddy masks.
For those of you wondering how the points are scored, you get 5 points for predicting a teams final position bang-on, 4 points if you’re one position out, 3 points if you’re two positions out etc. And we also had to forecast the Premiership’s Golden Boot winner, plus the first manager to get the ole tic-tac. Only let me just explain to you how hard a competition this really is, when it really, really needn’t be. Look who finished third. Yes, it’s local fitted wardrobe maker Michael Bond who’s entry to The Edge consisted of just Harry Kane and Jose Mourinho, for which he picked up 5pts and 2pts respectively. Only then, when I explained to him that he had to predict where all the Premiership teams would finish, he said, “Oh no. I can’t be bothered with all that.” So I said, “Look bloke, why don’t I put you down as having 1-17 in exactly the same position as they finished in 2020 and the ‘bottom 3’ as the ‘top 3’ promoted clubs from the Championship?” “Yeah. That’ll do,” he said. Too right it bloody did. Makes me wonder why I give it so very much thought each year and keep on chopping my selection about right up until the deadline. Teams that were difficult to predict with any accuracy were Everton, Burnley, Southampton, Leeds United and, of course, Sheffield United, who did so well in their first season back in the top flight during 2019-20. Congrats too to Matt Delaney as the only one to pick up a maximum 10pts on predicting the first sacked manager (Slavan Bilic) and top goalscorer (Harry Kane), otherwise you’d have finished a lowly joint 16th, sunbeam, just above yours truly. Nine entrants had Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang to finish as top goalscorer, but he didn’t even figure. Similarly no, no, no, Roy Hodgson, Dean Smith and David Moyes never even looked like collecting their P45’s at any stage throughout the season. Oh and a special mention to Norman Ellis, former owner of the Options Hair Salon, who collected the ‘wooden spoon’....again! Page 30
This is the second birthday I have spent in lockdown and I am not getting any younger. By the time I can get out there and strut my funky stuff in Chelmsford’s finest establishments again, I will probably be needing a hip replacement and Tena lady pads. “Come on, Boris. Time is not on my side here!” My bestie’s already had her dancing shoes reheeled in readiness, at a cost of £15 quid, and she’s not stopped moaning about it and is wondering if she can claim her money back from Rishi Sunak on her next tax return as a Covid expense? We have all had ‘Rave Hands’ and ‘Jittery Feet’ for weeks, saying, “Not long to go now...” WhatsApp groups have been alight with chatter about that first dance in Wetherspoons; it’s now held in higher esteem than the first dance at a wedding. Talking about weddings, my bestie Lesa and I were talking the other day about the ‘No Dancing’ Covid rule at weddings, where only the bride and groom can have a short first dance. Obviously the person who made these rules are not accustomed to going to weddings in Essex, for no longer do the bride and groom demurely take to the floor in nervous anticipation and shuffle around for a couple of minutes until other loved-up couples, who were only hours before screaming abuse at each other in the car on the way to the wedding, join them. Oh no. First dances now are spectacular performances, with everyone joining in. They are rehearsed for months with a professional dance teacher until
I pity the man and his medical bills (I say ‘man’, because no woman would be that stupid) who has to go and ask ladies dancing around their handbags at a wedding to stop and go sit down. Aunty Pat and Nana June live for the day they can get up and dance with the young ushers. Clearly no government official has ever been to a ‘proper wedding’ of the lower classes. Oh and don’t sit there reading this column and raise your eyebrows at me, thinking to yourself: ‘I’m not lower class. I’m middle class. I live in the city of Chelmsford.’ Nonsense! Two glasses of Asti and a sausage roll and you’ll be up there strutting your stuff with the best of them. After which ‘Dad Dancing’ comes into its own after about 10 pints of cider. We were all promised Christmas lunch with our families, so were robbed of the chance of killing each other around the dinner table last year, and now we’re being robbed of the chance of a bit of a punch-up after the wedding too. Family get togethers are a time to settle old scores and rub it up to the rest of the family about your ‘new extension’ or ‘new car’. We all have that boring relative who always slides up at the bar to brag, “Well, I said to Barbara, let’s blow our money on a cruise. She wanted new boobs, so we settled on a Fiat 500 instead.” Bragging across the room to another table, people pretend not to hear when they cannot pin you up against the bar and bore the pants off you for hours upon end. I don’t care anymore. I gambled on June 21st. I just want to hug my friends and dance ’til I drop and watch my girlie friends in the toilets throwing up whilst we all struggle to get a rubber band around their hair. Men think they are all comrades at a football match. They should be in a ladies toilet on a Saturday night. Women band together to help each other out, like slagging off the guy who drove her to drink an extra bottle of chardonnay (and 20 shots) in the first place. Anyone who’s survived their head down a toilet in Chicago’s back in the day has nothing to fear from Covid. ‘Two Jabbers’ should definitely be allowed out to party. I don’t care about the Delta Variant, I just want to get dressed-up again. I am sick of wearing ‘loungewear’. I want to put glitter make-up on, chicken fillets in my bra, high heels and wake up the next morning looking like the offspring of Alice Cooper. Shut the borders. Get Dad’s Army back out there manning the beaches. Don’t let anyone disembark at Tilbury from their luxury cruises, spreading Covid (always makes me laugh, a luxury cruise around the World and then having to disembark at Tilbury. Talk about a wake up call!) Land of Hope and Glory? More like “You cannot organise a knees up in a brewery, Boris!” As Whitney, god rest her soul, said: “I just wanna dance with somebody.”
tracie123@aol.com
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BUILDERS
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