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IT’S OFFICIAL . AT THE T IME OF GOING TO PRINT
ENGLAND ARE/WER ES VERY MU TILL CH IN THE WOR LD CUP!
This was the scene outside JB’s Sports Bar in Chelmsford where the Lengthy Boy had been dispatched to capture the moment En-ger-lund put one over the mighty Slovenia to qualify for the last 16 of the World Cup Finals, where the Germans once again await. ’Course, by the time this particular edition of The Edge hits-the-streets, we’ll know whether there’s still a broad smile on everyone’s faces, or whether such happy scenes were just a passing, fleeting moment. But hey, there’s always The Fling on 10th July, followed by the Chelmsford Beer Festival, which starts on Tuesday 13th July in Admiral’s Park, so really, in our town at least, there’s never a dull moment!
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The Edge Editor’s Column
Visit To The Quacks
The wife had been good enough to book me an appointment at the quacks. “Edge Editor, ten o’clock, more hayfever tablets,” I announced upon arrival. “Er, no,” replied the receptionist, wafting a leaflet in front of my face, and also in front of a packed waiting room. I took it from her and sat down to wait my turn. Erectile Dysfunction it said on the cover. Hmmmm, so the good lady wife had made good her threats after all. A Problem Shared, it continued.
Apparently, impotence is a common problem in men, meaning they are not able to obtain or maintain an erection. However, the good news is that there are treatments available on the NHS. It’s a good idea to understand how an erection is obtained. When a gentleman becomes aroused (i.e. when seeing money off his favourite bottle of Shiraz at Tesco), the brain immediately sends signals to the Two P’s (the pockets and the penis). This stimulates the blood vessels so that they enlarge, so long as the penile muscle is able to relax (which sounds like a bit of a contradiction in terms, wouldn’t you say?). Apparently, ‘life events’ such as stressful situations, drinking too much and depression can all be contributing factors in a bloke not being able to obtain a stiffy. Having said that, an erection not dissimilar to a Give Way sign upon waking up first thing of a morning (piss proud or otherwise) is a positive sign that the underlying problem is far more likely to be psychological rather than physical, and therefore much easier to treat. So things, as they say, are definitely looking up.
Never In Doubt
England’s progress from the group stages to the last 16 of the World Cup Finals was never in any doubt.
Like hell it wasn’t. First two matches we were shocking. Absolutely awful. However, I’m typing this but minutes after our 1-0 romp over Slovenia (and but hours before this edition lands at the printers) and I’m already anticipating the flag of St. George to be once again fluttering proudly from white van man’s vehicles over the next few days at least, because by Christ, the entire country needs a lift. Trouble is, it’s hardly worth me pontificating any further as you’ll all have sat through the next most right riveting, nail-biting encounter against the dratted Krauts before you ever read a word of this. But, just for the record, let it be remembered that on 23rd June, The Edge forecast at least a last eight finish for our brave Lions.
Getting older is shite. I’ve just celebrated my 49th birthday, if you can call it a celebration. Mentally, I’m no different to what I was 15 years ago, whereas physically, don’t even go there. Having said that - pause, rewind mentally there’s definitely no longer the same desire to accomplish physical tasks, so maybe mentally I’m going downhill too? All in all, it’s very worrying indeed as I was, of course, utterly convinced it’d never happen to me.
You know when you’re having a bit of a lie-in on a Sunday morning, maybe with your hands behind your head on the pillow? Only what with all this football going on, I reckon I’m actually taking a throw in. Yes, using my head as a ball.
Hope the Rosebery Road Big Lunch is another huge success once again this year, Mark. Will try to pop along, if I can, on Sunday 18th July. Thanks for the invite.
So Nick ‘are you actually stood up, boy?’ Clegg has raised the age of compulsory retirement to 66 with a view to increasing it to, oooooh, 70 over the forthcoming years. “So that 65 doesn’t have to be such a momentous cliff-edge occasion,” he says. “Whatever,” says The Edge. In fact, maybe it’s best that we all stay on the great treadmill that is life, because the harsh fact is that most of us won’t be able to afford to get off before then at any rate, the way things are panning out. However, in order to be able to accept such ungrudgingly, we will need our little perks. Such as a World Cup victory. THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 01245 348256 firstname.lastname@example.org
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SHOCK! HORROR! Your editor and Lengthy Boy went for a weekends camping with our mountain bikes (well, I say plural - Matt borrowed a ladies Shopper for the duration, complete with fetching wicker basket on the front) down to Dorset recently and had a bloody great time. Trouble is, I was all for putting a ‘We’re NOT Gay’ sign on the back of the car, so that other drivers around the M25 and down the M3 wouldn’t think we were (two blokes being alone in a Ford C-Max and all), only young Matthew wouldn’t hear of it. Then, when we’d put our tent up, I made a point of saying “Mornin’” to all the other campers within our immediate vicinity, in the deepest voice I could muster, whilst swigging on Wild Turkey direct from the bottle at 8:55am. But that still didn’t stop some woman nearby shouting, “Hello, Gay Campers!” whenever she wandered down to the bogs for a tiddle!
Did you ever wonder why there are no dead penguins on the ice in Antarctica? Where do they go ? Wonder no more. It is a known fact that the penguin is a very ritualistic bird which lives an extremely ordered and complex life. The penguin is very committed to its family and will mate for life, as well as maintaining a form of compassionate contact with its offspring throughout its life. If a penguin is found dead on the ice surface, other members of its family and social circle have been known to dig holes in the ice using their vestigial wings and beaks, until the hole is deep enough for the dead bird to be rolled into and buried. The penguins then gather in a circle around the fresh grave and sing...
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After a month of the World Cup and Wimbledon, why not wind down at the second Prince of Orange Reunion at O'Connors in Hall Street on Saturday 17th July, from 14.00 ’til midnight, writes Crispin Coulson. There will be a free jukebox with a phenomenal choice of literally thousands of tunes to choose from throughout the day and evening. Subject to our unpredictable weather, there will be a BBQ and separate bar in the pub's garden. If it's anything like last year's event, which attracted enough visitors to fill the pub, the garden, and large portions of Hall Street, the second Prince of Orange reunion should be ABSOLUTELY SENSATIONAL! To complete the festivities, Richard at Mustard (in New London Road) will be opening the doors of his downstairs bar afterwards for yet more music, drinks and nibbles (’til 2.00am). PREPARATIONS FOR THE PRINCE’S RETURN O'Connor's landlady Margaret Morgan and her intrepid team of bar staff are preparing themselves for the arrival of happy ex-Prince patrons bent on having a great time and catching up with old mates. "We want people to enjoy themselves and we're really looking forward to welcoming them through our doors once again," sayss Margaret. "It's hard to believe that it was only a year ago that the first Prince of Orange reunion took place. We were expecting a few old drinkers...but nothing prepared us for the huge crowds of people who turned up. At times the bar was three deep, but there were no complaints because it was such a happy atmosphere." LASTING APPEAL It's certainly a testament to the Prince of Orange's lasting appeal and the enduring friendships that were forged over the years over a pint and a jazz cigarette. The Prince of Orange was never a pub to limit its appeal to one sector. It was as much a pub for the casual, or mature drinker, as it was for bikers, punks, hippies and any other group you care to mention. FAMOUS EX-PRINCE PEOPLE The Prince of Orange has, of course, attracted its fair share of famous punters passing through its hallowed portals including: ! Georgina Goodman - haute couture shoe designer ! Nitzer Ebb - electro pioneers and one of the biggest bands to emerge from Chelmsford ! Sian (Liz) Jarvis - BBC reporter ! Alexis Maryon - photographer of, Moby, Run DMC and Fatboy Slim, to name but a few ! Tony (T.S.)McPhee - guitarist with heavy rock pioneers The Groundhogs ! Bill Legend - T-Rex drummer ! Derek Pringle - Essex County Cricket player ! Ian Fortnam - Music journalist for NME and Classic Rock ! Francesca Shashkova-Jones - British Parachute team member and stand in for Rene Zellweger in the second Bridget Jones movie But enough of my ramblings, for you can find out more about The Prince of Orange reunion II and the pub itself on www.princeofo.co.uk, Facebook and http://twitter.com/Prince_Orange
Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation
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HEY, FAT LAD...HOW’S IT GOING?
The only time The Edge will ever go into a McDonald’s is if it’s desperate to take a leak, and that’s it. There’s just nothing about McDonald’s that it likes, and that includes their discarded wrappers strewn on every street corner. I suppose they could argue that it’s not their fault, but then it does surely say a helluva lot about the mentality of the custom who eat their take-outs, wouldn’t you say? And what a great advert this fat lad is for the global corporation (above). “What did you say, love? Another bucket of fries and a double chocolate milkshake? Eye pet, that’s me. Park it over ’ere.” The Edge honestly doesn’t know which it hates the smell of most..... McDonald’s or Subway? And how utterly depressing to see tourists wolfing the stuff down when you go off travelling to the likes of Thailand, Greece, Portugal....just some of the places McDonald’s venues ought to be banned. So, to conclude, the only good thing about a McDonald’s outlet is that if you get caught short, you can generally pop in and have a crafty pee for free....and that’s about your lot.
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Chelmsford Summer Beer Festival 2010 Admiral’s Park, Rainsford Road, CM1 2PL Tuesday 13th - Saturday 17th July
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Bird’s Eye View SPLITTING HAIRS
This is a bit of a sensitive question, but is your 'crack' in the small, medium or large category? We only know if we've got a huge problem or not if someone else broaches the same, awkward subject. For shy women, the wait can take as long as an NHS appointment, but for the twin-set tigers (open-minded and open mouthed), it only takes a bottle of plonk and some loose-lipped lingo to declare 'open season' on all cracks: you show me yours, I'll show you mine. Cracks, like women, come in all shapes and sizes. Some are small and perfectly formed and barely require attention, whilst others are big and ugly and are capable of destroying a woman's peace of mind. We never know what sort of cracks other women are hiding until they flap their lips. Take Kelly Brook, Britain's honed and toned airhead; her puppies and pins might take the crotch creases out of an army of male trousers worldwide, but behind closed doors, she was burdened with a pretty massive crack, in the form of Danny Cipriani. Take heart, Kel, time and another toyboy heals all wounds. Even the diminutive figure of Cheryl Cole was hiding a monster of a crack, but an army of legal experts have ensured that everything's been sewn up nice and neatly. Mrs Ronan Keating, despite her severe discomfort, is managing to live with hers (for now), whilst Tiger Woods wife experienced a marital earthquake when her husband was caught beating around far too many a bush beyond his own back garden. If you're becoming concerned about any cracks in your own life, be aware of CDS (Crack Dysmorphia Syndrome); sometimes things aren't as bad as you think. Most cracks require acknowledgement, but little aggressive action to heal up nicely. It's a mistake to confuse a paper cut in your relationship for a giant gaping gash. Other times, you need to get your hands dirty and delve around a bit in the dark to get to the bottom of things. However, if, as a woman, you know you're the sole reason for a crack opening up wider than an earthquake, then it's wise to remember that if you're going to open your heart - and your legs do try and keep your mouth shut after the event.
A recent study states that two thirds of women are unhappy with their lot in life and bored senseless with the banality of juggling domestic chores, child-rearing, careers and stale relationships. It's all D&G in a woman's world, and I'm talking 'Doom and Gloom' - not Dolce & Gabana. Single women might be perceived to have more time to indulge their insecurities and those of a fair few married men, but mental and sexual frustration - and a gnawing fear of the future - isn't just the reserve of the unattached; everyone in life is obsessively checking their eggtimer and fearing it's getting bottom-heavy before its time. Something tells me the statisticians will have a field day with their female bar charts if the green Euro MPs win the war against the use of PVC in the manufacturing process of our consumer products. By all means, call time on its use and all the other poisonous plastic crap that clogs up our landfill sites, but methinks a nest of vipers will spring to life should they try and ban our Rampant Rabbits and their pocket-sized mates alongside our washing machines and dishwashers. Come on guys, really think about this. If anyone thinks two thirds of unhappy females is a growing burden on society, wait until the other third joins the ranks.
The England vs Algeria World Cup match felt like watching a pack of young Jack Russell pups playing ball with some slothful Labradors. Even Rooney was more pit-stop than pit bull, except after the final whistle when his muzzle slipped. But what was really so bad about his comment to the frustrated booing crowd? Disappointment and frustration makes whiners of us all (players and supporters alike); but since when has spending a lot of money to travel across the world to support your country's team come with a fulfilment guarantee? Overpaid and publicity saturated sportsmen have their 'off' days and cringingly bad matches. Admittedly, these players can cheer themselves up with a high class hooker or a spin around their 200 acre estate in an Aston when the jet-lag has settled. Your average Joe, meanwhile, returns to a list of chores, a harassed wife and a credit card bill as long as the flight home. But that's the danger of making Gods out of ordinary men. Women all over the world have known this for centuries, only we call them husbands/boyfriends, and, years later, 'the twat.' The two sexes actually have more in common than they realise. It's called 'the triumph of hope over experience' and long may it reign. The Edge 01245 348256
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The Bankes’ Arms at Studland, Dorset
There must be something in the sea air down on the Dorset coast because this O.A.P. looks as though she can’t wait to get this chaps breeches off, and in public too, the dirty tyke. The Bankes’ Arms was where Lengthy Boy and I headed after first erecting (f’narr) our tent on a dark, dank and dismal Saturday morning. But look, see....come lunchtime we were bathed in glorious sunshine. You’ve heard about microclimates? Well I reckon Swanage Bay (which is just up the road from Studland and where we were headed on our twowheelered chariots) is definitely one of ’em. Sat outside this pub was where the pair of us came up with a (hopefully) money making website called www.pisspoorpub.com whereby you can REPORT a pub for anything it does which is strictly below par. Such as my bowl of chips for £2.95....there must have been about ten of them. The Bankes’ Arms is a great pub, but that’s just piss poor, is that.
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The Wacky Warehouse
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The Edge is a magazine for Chelmsford, yet doesn't seem to address one thing that thousands of Chelmsfordians have in common: kids, writes an anonymous single ‘Dad of Four’. Yes, we all know the Edge Editor’s sexual preference (‘protected’) and fair play to him for that. After all, it's one thing worrying you've left something in your hotel room as you jet back from a holiday abroad, but it's quite another having to worry about your kids when you're away (unless you fancy popping out for tapas in Portugal, but hey, that's another story). So therefore, I present to you a review of an indoor play area. Although I'd rather spend my time reviewing beers, the sexual attractiveness of women in our town centre, or even the joys of online dating for single dads (not dissimilar to the equivalent single mums guide: ‘How to hide the fact that you're a crazy bitch on an on-line dating forum’), or even all three at once. But alas, as a father of four, I am far better equipped to comment on indoor play areas for kids. Starting with one of my recent favourites: The Wacky Warehouse at the Queen B, just off Princes Road, Chelmsford. Situated on what is basically a tiny retail park (with Lidl and Farm Foods being the only other two stores occupying the site) half way between the Army & Navy and Tesco (Miami roundabout branch), there is never any problem with parking, which is free for all patrons. The big attraction for families is that the pub is pretty child friendly and it's not uncommon to see kids dragged kicking and screaming from the play area upstairs to eat lunch in the pub with their parents downstairs. The pub element also means that Dad can have a cheeky pint while Mum watches the kids. However, I feel the need to remind everyone that drinking alcohol and children do not mix. In fact, drink too much of the stuff and there's every chance you'll end up with another kid nine months down the line. The only entrance to The Wacky Warehouse which is a terrible name given that there is absolutely nothing wacky about it, nor any resemblance to a warehouse in the whole place - is via a stairway that you can only access by walking through the pub. Once you get up the stairs and walk through the child-friendly doors, you'll be forgiven for thinking your drink has been spiked due to the lurid colours that hit you. Being situated above a pub, the owners have done well with the space available and although the purple, orange and yellow walls manage to distract you for a while, you soon realise that there is little in the way of a view, with one side having no windows, another two sides being obscured by the play area itself, leaving the only obstruction free windows being the ones that occupy the party area of the room, which would be fine if you weren't actively discouraged from sitting in there if you're not part of a birthday group. The cartoons drawn on the walls are fairly good, even though Ben (10) looks as though he's suf-
fered a stroke, and the black eyes on the characters adorning the staffroom door, which I am reliably informed are ‘Tombliboos’ from In The Night Garden, are creepy to say the very least. Not that any kids seem to take any notice of the walls as, once they've put their drinks orders in with Dad, they’ll have already launched themselves towards the three-tiered play section. Mine seem to race between the slide, which covers all three tiers, and the rope zip-line, which they love hurtling each other across the inside face of the second tier as fast as is humanly possible. The slide has a camera pointing at the exit, with a monitor at the top, thus allowing the next slidee to see when the way is clear for them to set off, though I've seen more kids gesticulating and showing off to the camera once they've seen it instead of using it for what I assume is a safety aspect. In fact, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was a Michael Barrymore tribute night given the amount of showing off there is going on in front of the camera. For the younger kids who want to avoid the general hustle and bustle of the main area, there’s a dedicated U5's area which takes up a corner of the ground floor and is split with a mezzanine platform which leads to the top of a slide. The sign says that a maximum of 10 people are allowed. By people, I assume they mean U5's as there is barely enough room for more than half a dozen pre schoolers to fit in and bitch about the quality of rusks these days, let alone a higher number of anyone over 3ft tall. With regards to seating for adults, there are about a dozen or so tables scattered around, all with padded seats. If this sounds nicer that the normal hard plastic seats that most activity centres seem to pick up in job lots by searching on eBay under ‘uncomfortable seating’, then you'd be right. The only drawback being that the majority of seats have more stains than the shoulder of Stephen Hawkins jacket. In fact, the close proximity to the play area ensures that any level of comfort for adults is screeched out in a cacophony of noise that reverberates around the room. So Thank God for the pub downstairs. Although this venue lacks a huge amount of variety, there's enough to keep most ages entertained for the permitted hour, and sometimes even beyond if it's not busy and the staff turn a blind eye to you overstaying your welcome that the £2.50 per child entrance fee entitles you to. Talking of the staff, there only ever seems to be a maximum of two working at any one time, but given the relative small size of things, that's plenty. Even better is that they actively take part, encouraging kids to get drawing with materials supplied on a reserved table in the corner, and showing that they have experience of dealing with kids by engaging on a level that a five year old can relate to and enjoy, which is more than many other places offer. Things that need to change are the abysmal powdered coffee they serve, along with better chairs and tables being required. When all three are combined, you begin to realise the sacrifices you truly make in order to keep your kids happy. Things that need no improvement are the staff and their attitude, combined with a wont to see kids enjoy themselves and partaking in little competitions that take place during school holidays (the wall of pictures is testimony to this). Returning customers can save up stamps towards a stuffed toy, with five paid entries getting you one stuffed toy, which at the moment is a choice of a tiger, lion, elephant, zebra or giraffe. For something a little different, there is a vacuum system, which I've chosen to nickname Katie Price, set up on the outside of the play area which will suck the plastic balls you insert and take them back to a ball pit. Hardly innovative, but I've yet to see any young kids not be entirely fascinated by it. All in all, it's a thumbs up from me. The kids love it, it's a welcoming place and it's not too hard on the pocket.
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Local Lovelies at Ascot Oh yes, readers, Chelmsford lasses scrub up well enough to attend Ascot too, you know. Here’s local lovelies Cheryl Green, Karen Brown and Perminder Birk, and Cheryl says, “The races were everything we’d expected, and more. Lots of gorgeous men in top hat and tails. Limos full of hen parties who were seemingly up for just a little too much fun. The one we took, from Chelmsford to Berkshire, came complete with it’s very own disco, bar and bar/stripper’s pole, so that certainly helped to get the party started. Mind you, we never managed to get into the Royal enclosure, so that was a bit of a bummer. But afterwards, the partying continues in the bars down Ascot High Street where people flash their winnings or sponge drinks if they’ve had a shocker. All in all, it’s all jolly good fun, darling.” Footnote: Did Ang & Wendy’s invites get lost in the post then, hmmmm?
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O’CONNORS Original Irish Pub
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Knight Meats Ltd. Knight Meats are local suppliers of high quality meat, poultry, game and delicatessen products to the trade. Years of experience, together with well trained, highly motivated staff working in an excellent environment means that you get exactly what you want: consistency.....time after time after time.
Suppliers to: BARDA, BARN BRASSERIE (Great Tey), THE BLUE BRIDGE (Writtle), BLUE STRAWBERRY (Hatfield Peverel), BISTROTHEQUE (London), FLASH (Royal Academy of Arts, Burlington Gardens), GRAHAMS ON THE GREEN (Writtle), IVORY ROOMS (Billericay), THE LION (Boreham), MASONS RESTAURANTS etc. “Knight Meats play an integral part in the success of the restaurant and banqueting facilities within our hotel chain.” David Hart (Group Executive Head Chef, Elizabeth Hotels)
Unit 1, 29a Robjohns Road, Widford Industrial Estate, Chelmsford, CM1 3AG. Telephone: 01245 354167 Fax: 01245 354123 Email: firstname.lastname@example.org www.knightmeats.com Page 12
ALL NEW BEVERAGE REPORT
Many features of pubs cause me to question whether the proprietors actually wish to make a living. Bad food, sour beer, grotty toilets and surly staff, to name but a few. These, however, are generally found only intermittently or in isolation, so they are diluted in the overall experience of the bar-room. One feature, however, has become so pervasive as to be all but unavoidable; music. My regular readers will be aware that I am by no means opposed to music in general. It is, indeed, the subject I studied at university, and the means by which I make a substantial secondary income. It is my love of music, rather than any dislike of it, that causes my aversion to its being pumped out continuously in virtually every pub in the country. The ubiquity of background music in pubs, shops, restaurants, and so on, has rendered the vast majority of people almost totally immune to it effects. Most people seem incapable of responding to anything other than the motive pulse, which means that rather than forming a human response to an art form they are exhibiting an animal response to a noise. Indeed, I have recently been made aware of the existence of a computer program that generates repetitive and unadorned drum tracks for the purpose of background 'music'. My point is perhaps best proved by an incident I witnessed in a pub just the other day. A song started up, and the male half of a couple sat just near me said, “Oh, I love this song.” He managed to stop talking and listen to it for all of five seconds before continuing his conversation. After about two minutes, he stood up and went outside. Yeah, that's always my response to a piece of music I love. A major problem with music in pubs is that it's so difficult to get the level right. This shouldn't be too much of a problem when the place is quiet (although you'd be surprised) as the level can be set much as it would be at home. But as the pub gets busier, the music is either turned up to a level at which conversation becomes impossible, or it remains at a low level and no longer functions as music; it becomes a slightly unsettling background noise in which the functions of different notes and the relationship of one part to another are indiscernible. Choice of music is also an issue. I am not alone in being forced out of The White Horse in Townfield Street by the persistent diet of rubbish chosen not by the largely post-thirty clientele but by scarcely pubescent bar staff. The breaking point came when I was exposed to the sound of that talentless bastard Dizzee Rascal being pumped out at excruciating volume to a pub containing about fifteen people, of whom I was the youngest (apart from the bar person, who was not in any way choosing the music to please himself rather than his customers. Oh no.) Anyhow, I digress. I was supposed to be discussing music, but I've ended up mentioning Dizzee Rascal, which is something else entirely. Frankly, I don't know what I'm complaining about. As I write, in the middle of June, music is the least of my worries when visiting a pub. Think twenty-two overpaid idiots kicking a ball about on a field, watched by an audience of adult children. HELL ON EARTH! www.theedgemag.co.uk
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COME DINE WITH ME World Cup Special
The Edge really likes Come Dine With Me and enjoyed watching the pre-World Cup offerings of both The WAGs and The Lads on consecutive nights. Firstly, The WAGs and, surprise, surprise (to The Edge at least), Emile Heskey’s missus, Chantelle Tagoe, is absolutely gorgeous. Not overkeen on the scouse accent, but the rest of her....phworrr! Smother me in chocolate and pop a cherry on top. I think she actually ended up winning, which was nice for her. She was up against clumpy blonde (fancy being described as a ‘clumpy blonde’ by a Chelmsford pamphlet) Jessica Lawlor, the other-half of Manchester City’s Stephen Ireland, who wasn’t shy in showing off their massive fish tank, not to mention stepping barefooted into dog wee (and what stupid teeny-weeny dogs they were). Then there was that skinny lass Nicola who was on Big Brother that time and who used to chase Teddy Sherringham around, only now she’s dating a player on Crewe Alexandra’s books called Simon something-or-other who nobody’s heard of. And taking it up the rear was the horrible, revolting, Jude ‘crass’ Cisse, the ultra-minging wife of the continually weird hairdo’d Djibril, who, quite frankly, The Edge would have thought could have done an awful lot better for himself....not that it’s one to be bitch. Jude Cisse was the spanner in the works, whereas the blokes simply took the piss out of each other and got along like a house on fire - and that’s the difference between men and women, folks. Does it even matter what they cooked? The formula of Come Dine With Me works, simple as. So much so, The Edge is honestly thinking of suggesting to Lengthy-Boy, Kingpin and one other (but who.....hmmmm? The Fat Clown? I wonder whether he’d be up for it?) a four week schedule of Thursday nights when we each take it in turns to cook for each other at our own abodes, score each evening out of ten and offer the grand total of £20 to charity (a fiver each) at the end of it all. Kingpin’s a dab hand in the kitchen, I understand. The Length is, well, pretty much useless. Not too sure about The Clown, whilst I can heat up a mean Pot Noodle. Anyway, I suppose some of you might want to know a bit about the food (other than The WAGs Christian Louboutins collection)? The stunning Chantelle (left), who reckoned she’d never even boiled a potato even though hubby Emile does look like a bit of a Mr Potato Head to The Edge - somehow managed to rustle up a delicious looking sticky rib and pak choi starter (load them ribs onto The Edge’s plate, love, and arch your back whilst you’re doing it), followed by cajun spiced salmon and new potatoes, rounded off with the old favourite, banoffee pie. But back to The Lads, and other than Carlton ‘Jug Ears’ Palmer’s sterling efforts, they were an absolute bloody disgrace. Worst of all had to be ‘lothario’ (he’s always described as such) Frank Worthington. Now any of you ladies viewing ‘Our Frank’ in the show will be forgiven for thinking that he’s simply a dirty old man (he is) who’s stuck in a timewarp (he is). But let The Edge tell you, Worthers played in the first old Division One football match that it ever saw, way back in the late sixties, when Huddersfield Town beat Manchester City 1-0 at their then Leeds Road ground, and Frankie-Boy led the line with all his thick, back-combed brown hair, looking for all the world like a Yorkshire version of Detective ‘Dirty’ Harry Callahan...but now look at him (above). His avocado vinaigrette was utterly appaling (he chopped a couple of avocados in half and honestly poured some Sarson’s over them....what a twat). This he followed with spaghetti bolognese (we all surely love a spag-bol, but come on, Frank, you’re on the bloody tele, lad) and summer fruit jelly (basically, jelly and ice-cream) for dessert, which The Lads promptly threw all over each other. What was also alarming was the difference in the small terraced house that Frank lived in and Stephen Ireland’s gaff. Whilst The Edge thinks the Irish lad’s a good player with a bad choice in women, Frank was totally different class and if he were playing today, he’d be absolutely raking it in and would definitely have enough dosh for a bloody decent hair-piece. Great show though. Thoroughly entertaining. As was a semi-naked Neil ‘Razor’ Ruddock dressed only in cowboy boots and a pinnie. The Edge 01245 348256
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USH ly SUGAR R Friday 2nd Ju ID LIFE CRISIIS l :M ly Friday 9th Ju ly: HEDGEHOG Ju th 6 1 y a rid F ITTI July: GRAF rd 3 2 Friday d July: Friday 30th NCED! U O N N TO BE A
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WHAT’S GONE WRONG in the past 50 years? This is an actual extract from a sex education textbook for school girls, printed way back in the early sixties when The Edge Editor was born... “When retiring to the bedroom, prepare yourself as promptly as possible. Whilst feminine hygiene is of the utmost importance, your tired husband does not want to queue for the bathroom, as he does his train. Always remember to look your best when retiring for the night and do try to achieve an appearance that is welcoming, without being obvious. If you need to apply face cream and/or rollers, wait until your husband is fast asleep as this can be a shocking sight for a man last thing at night. If the possibility of intimate relations with your husband rears its ugly head, it is important to remember your marriage vows and in particular your commitment to OBEY him. However, if he feels he immediately needs sleep, so be it, that is his prerogative. In all things, you must be led by your husband’s wishes; do not pressure him in any way to stimulate intimacy. Indeed, perish the thought, you dirty, disgusting... But should, on the other hand, your husband suggest congress, it is therefore your duty to agree humbly, all the while being mindful that a man’s satisfaction is far more important than your own. When he reaches his moment of fulfilment, a small moan from yourself is suffice to indicate any enjoyment you may have had. Should your husband suggest any of the more unusual practices, be obedient and uncomplaining, remembering to register any reluctance on your part by remaining totally silent. However, it is far more likely your husband will fall promptly off to sleep, so take the time to adjust your nightdress accordingly, freshen your womanly bits, and only then apply your night-time face and hair-care products. You may then set the alarm clock so that you arise shortly before your husband in the morning, thus enabling you to have his morning cup of tea ready and waiting for him when he wakes up.”
The Final Big Brother - EVER The eleventh and final Big Brother is underway, writes Bird’s Eye View. The heterosexuals, bisexuals, homosexuals, the disabled and the delusional are crammed in like sardines and performing like seals. So why do I watch them? For no other reason than I was once stuck at Geneva airport for forty-eight hours at fifteen years of age, without food, money or parents. This was nearly thirty years ago! A tattooed bloke called 'Dog' offered me two triangles of Toblerone, if I made him laugh. Hunger and desperation turned me into an organ grinder's monkey. I didn't make him laugh, but my humiliation at trying led to tears, which softened his heart and I got the whole bar. I didn't choose my situation, but the BB housemates have; so whatever cracks appear and however deep they are, I'll be enjoying every casualty. Blokes aren’t into women like this these days.....much!
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The Edge has most definitely got to get itself a pair of these babies! ‘HANDERPANTS - underpants for your hands.’ That is pure genius, is that. Why would you wear ’em? Au contraire, Rodney, my lad....why the hell wouldn’t you? The Edge honestly wishes it had invented Handerpants, patented it, trademarked it, the lot. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that short-arsed Bill Gates tosspot has probably made a helluva lot more money with his computers and what have you, but what raises more eyebrows around the dinner table, eh, when the question eventually arises (as it invariably does at such social gatherings), “What do you do then?” “What, me? Why, I invented underpants for the hands.” Beautiful. Sublime. Gorgeous. ‘Handerpants Inventor’ it’d say in my passport, and I’d waft it about like nobodies business as well, even to those thieving bastards at the bridge going over to Bluewater.
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TALK ABOUT SWEATING LIKE A PREGNANT NUN!
Quasar Elite is a game of wits and cunning and that’s probably why I am absolutely, totally, completely rubbish at it....but for all that, it is great fun, writes The Edge Editor.
It did make me think about our brave boys in Afghanistan and Iraq as I was creeping around the Quasar Elite maze in Witham, the second largest Quasar Elite venue in the world, The Edge will have you know.....that feeling of never knowing what’s around the very next corner, or indeed what’s creeping up behind you. Bloody kids, usually! We’d been split into RED and BLUE teams and I was thinking: ‘We really should be formulating a strategic plan.’ But no, any thoughts of teamwork unsurprisingly went straight out the window as soon as our guns had been ‘energised’ and we were let loose into the eerie, swirling mist of the arena (which, if truth be told, felt a bit like stepping foot onto the dancefloor at Dukes circa: 1985). But back to those damn pesky kids and why oh why are they seemingly so naturally damn good at this sort of thing? I’d be tip-toeing along, vigilant, or so I thought, when all of a sudden my pack would shudder (you wear a plastic vest with a light cell on the front and rear that registers
Lengthy-Boy gets into the spirit of things at Quasar Elite. whenever you’ve been hit) and I’d lose the power of my gun for a few seconds - which is a definite sign you’ve been had - only I’d turn around, yet no-one would be in sight.....save for a bit of distant sniggering. Honest, games like this are no good for me at all as I got livid with the little....with the little....with the little dears, bless their (horrible) cotton socks. I mean, you shouldn’t be swearing - and bloody well meaning it - at twelve year olds, should you? But I was continually getting so wound up as I never saw the little perishers tagging me. And talk about sweating like a pregnant nun. S’truth, after two x 20 minute games I was absolutely drenched, so seriously do take a towel and a change of T-shirt along to Quasar Elite with you! Quasar Prices: Arrive & Play: 20 minutes of Quasar Elite £5.00 per head (plus a one off charge on your first visit of £2 for a full years membership). Children's Group Party. Play only: 20 minutes of Quasar Elite, £4.50 per head (minimum 4 people, free membership included). Children's Party Package: 20 minutes of Quasar Elite with children's food and one soft drink, £8.00 per head (bring your own cake if required). Free membership included for a group of 4 or more. (All prices listed do not include Bank Holidays or school holidays.)
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New Best Mates First of all, Christ only knows what I was playing at when I took this photograph. How did I manage to get it so blurry? Anyway, two weeks after I was in Dorset with ‘The Length’, I was back there again with the good lady wife and The F ckwit’s for yet another long * weekend beneath canvas. On the Sunday, after cycling on the Saturday, we chose to park up at the Durdle Door and walk along the coastline to The Smugglers Inn at Osmington Mills for lunch. It’s a two and a half hour trek at a leisurely pace with three steep bits to get the heart pumping. So anyway, we’re enjoying our lunch, sat outside in the sunshine with a bottle of Shiraz and a couple of pints of Lemony Snicket for me and The Butcher, when the question is raised about walking back; the unanimous decision being that The Durdle Door none of us can be arsed. So we ask the pub to find out how much a taxi will cost. Apparently it’s £25. We’re just about to order it when the couple above, who were sat on a nearby table and had borrowed our girls’ lighter a couple of times (they only have a tab or two on camping weekends - it’s their little treat), piped up and asked us where we were headed. “Lulworth Cove,” we said (they sell this fantastic ice-cream at Lulworth Cove and it’s worth the steep uphill trudge back to the Durdle Door just to sample it). “We’ll take you,” they said. Only get this, readers, they weren’t even going that way. Now how about that for the milk of human kindness, eh? Not only that, but they had a Q7 as well and I’d never been in a 3.0TDi one of those before, so I was like a kid in a sweet shop. Gary’s ex-Army and certainly doesn’t look like the sort of bloke you’d mess with, whilst Jo has got the most fantastic chest. Whoa! Bugger....what have I just said? Now Jo, I actually reckon you’ve ‘had them done’ as I’m a bit of a breast connoisseur and all that. But hey, that doesn’t in any way, shape or form make you a bad person (far from it in The Edge’s eyes), because like I say, you giving us all a lift really did restore our faith in folk because that sort of thing just doesn’t seem to happen anymore these days. What else? Well, Gary and Jo own a gym and an insurance business and Jo had some proper weird (but ‘good weird’) ‘Terminator style’ toenails going on. All silver, they were. But not painted. There were certainly no brushstrokes in evidence. And, to cap it all, they even said, “Next time you’re down this way, give us a call and we’ll try to hook up.” Only I guess I’ve gone and blown that now!
Keep Banging On I know I keep banging on about Corfe Castle, Swanage and Worth Matravers, readers....but that’s simply because it’s so very blissful down there. Can any of you recommend another location that’s just as good for both cycling and walking that you reckon I’d appreciate equally as much? Come on, The Edge is ALL EARS, because it’d really like to know. A change is as good as a rest and it’s always nice to visit pastures new, it’s just I’ve never visited anywhere that rivals that which I know and trust. Plus it needs to be not more than 3 hours drive away. Looking forward to hearing from you at email@example.com
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theEDGE DVD REVIEW
I just loved Law Abiding Citizen, starring Gerard ‘strange mouth when he talks’ Butler and Jamie Foxx.
It’s all very Seven - good versus evil - type stuff, so I guess there’s really no wonder I was taken by it so much. Clyde Shelton’s (Butler) wife and kid are killed in front of him after two bastards break into his house, leaving him bound and gagged and unable to do a damn thing about it. The criminal justice system fails him, so Shelton painstakingly plots his revenge (“It’ll be Biblical,” he says) over a period of 10 whole years (now that is what you call patience), before going on to wage his war against the whole inefficient, ineffective justice system itself. Gripping, right until the final curtain, which doesn’t let you down either. Also watched The Fourth Kind, which I’ll be honest and admit to it really giving me the creeps....but then I am a bit of a wuss when it comes to flicks of this ilk. There’s this little town in Alaska called Nome where people have (apparently) mysteriously gone missing and..... Whoa! It was honestly all too much for me because I kind of believe in all that shit! All DVD’s hired from BLOCKBUSTER, Springfield Road, Chelmsford. (Free Parking at rear of premises)
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to theedge! ***
CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. firstname.lastname@example.org C.P.R.
Dear Mr. Edge, Having seen your helpful and educational article on mouth-to-mouth resusitation on page 6 of the June issues, I thought you might be interested in having a look at www.seewall.tumblr.com/post/6103 60579/super-sexy-cpr I have found it both informative and useful in my day to day life. Regards, Holly Brewer. Nice, Ms Brewer, nice. And tell The Edge, are you one of the girls in the film-clip? E.E.
Dear Edge, I read your article entitled ‘The Snip’ (June Edge) with great interest. I had ‘the snip’ back in 1977 when it really was a snip with a sharp knife. Thing is, time has moved on, progress has been made and I honestly think your article might frighten some men off, what with all its talk of the after effects. My own personal experience was totally different as I only felt a slight discomfort for about a couple of hours afterwards. Then there was no pain whatsoever, and certainly no swelling. Once you’re checked to make sure the little soldiers are not getting through, you and your wife/girlfriend can once again sleep easy (bad metaphor). In short, you can bonk anytime, anywhere, any Page 20
This month’s STAR EMAIL!
Hello there, I have been receiving your superb publication for the past 18 months from a source which will become obvious as you read on. I have wanted to contact you earlier, but with nothing of interest to write I have remained shtum, until now. My story begins when my daughter was sent to Writtle College; not as a punishment, but to study. Not long after, she told me she had something important to announce. My hair stood on end and the worry lines on my face immediately deepened, although I composed myself as best I could and tried to give off the appearance of an ultra-cool pops. “Dad, I’ve got a boyfriend who is also studying at Writtle College,” she informed me. Naturally, I panicked. After all, she was only 27 years of age. Being a retired police officer, I immediately took control of the situation and asked for his name. To which she replied, quite calmly, “Woo.” Woo, for heaven’s sake? What sort of a name is Woo? “Is he a local boy?” I asked. “Yes,” replied my daughter, “he lives in Chelmsford.” This came as quite a blow. I have faced many threatening situations in the line of duty, but this was another matter entirely. However, following a strict diet of medicines, I eventually came to accept that a chap called Woo had entered our family life and the wife and I were promptly invited to Chelmsford to meet him. We arrived in our Picasso and took a preliminary spin around the area. We were both surprised to note that Chelmsford did indeed appear to be like any other town, full of numerous take-away establishments, a W. H. Smith, an M&S, a Carphone Warehouse and, surprise, surprise, a bloke selling The Big Issue. Then came the moment the missus and I had been dreading; meeting this Woo character, but oh what a pleasant surprise to be greeted by a polite, smart, well spoken, 6’ 1” really good looking guy who was a hard worker and clearly adored our offspring. “May you grant me permission to marry your daughter?” were pretty much his opening words. So I grabbed my comfort blanket and gave my thumb a good sucking, although eventually gave in and nodded my approval. I couldn’t believe it - I was entrusting the future happiness of my daughter to a Chelmsford man. Suffice to say that at precisely 1:00pm on Saturday 18th September, I shall be at Writtle Church to give my daughter’s hand away in marriage to Woo. So if you’re passing, do pop in and raise a glass with me. All the best, Mike Williams, Long Sutton, Nr. Spalding, Lincolnshire. OK, so some of you readers might be forgiven for thinking, ‘What the hell’s so Star Letter quality (and it was a genuine Royal Mail delivered article) about this?’ and The Edge takes your point. But it’s Mike’s address that proper shook me. Hand on heart, I don’t know this fella from Adam, yet I happened to live in the arseend of nowhere that is called Long Sutton from the age of 16 to 21, so I just had to write back and tell Mike the news. E.E. Dear Shaun, I am so sorry, but in my previous letter, I omitted to say how your organ comes to be in my possession every single month. Naturally, my daughter knows my sense of humour and sends it to me. I then read it and post it on to my son who lives in Swindon, who reads it before forwarding it to his brother in Worthing, Sussex, before it makes its well-thumbed way back to me to be stored as a keepsake. I am not looking to blow smoke up your ass, but I think The Edge is brilliant (I wish we had something similar in Long Sutton) - certainly the best of its kind I have ever read and I’ve been around a long time. Speaking of Long Sutton, and your confession that my original letter freaked you out, wait ’til you hear this. On the very morning of the day I received your reply, I was stood talking to a chap on the very corner of the road you said you used to live on, yet in all my time here, I had never previously been anywhere near that road. Then an hour or so later I opened your letter and couldn’t believe what I was reading. What are the chances of that? Surely billions-to-one. Best regards, Mike. So basically, readers, I guess I am indulging myself by publishing Mike’s ‘star letter’, but sometimes it does appear to be such a small world, don’t you think? If not a little creepy at times too! Hope the ‘Chelmsford lad’ proves to be a good husband to your daughter, sir, and an A1 son-in-law to you and the missus to boot!
place, without fear of any additional mouths to feed looming on the horizon. The only cautionary tale is that you have to be absolutely certain you will never want any more children. In today’s age of more and more frequent divorce and split-ups, it’s possibly best to wait until you are in your 40's or even 50's before taking such a drastic step as ‘the snip’. After all, man's best friend should still be able to work and perform its daily duty well into its ninties (if you don’t smoke or drink, that is). I remarried in my 60's and my new wife is 20 years younger than me. Whilst she knew I'd ‘been done’, the option had been totally closed off for her. So whilst she was polite about it, as she had no children of her own from her previous marriage, she has totally missed out on having children of her own. On another related matter, what’s this about problems with ejaculating 25 times in four weeks? Whatever has happened to ‘Essex Man’, for goodness sake? In my sixties, it was still around 25 times a week for yours truly, and it’s only down to around 25 times in four weeks now that I'm in my seventies! Essex ladies, I put it to you, if your husband isn’t in the mood at least once every day, perhaps he has a girlfriend (or a boyfriend?) somewhere else! John H. Blimey sir, you sound like the proverbial ‘rat up a drainpipe’. Don’t you watch TV? And what’s all this about not smoking or drinking? The last time I was as rampant as you sound was probably just after puberty when I was chasing anything in a skirt about the school playground (I was allowed back then as I was at school too) and even joining in with their skipping, just so’s I could be near ’em. E.E.
Bit of Rubble
Dear Edge, Spotted this on the pavement opposite Pizza Express as you
walk down the side of Quadrant to the Candy Club. It appears the only reason why this barrier is up is because someone couldn’t be bothered to sweep up a very small pile of rubble. Brilliant! Peas Hey, many thanks for that, Peas. They’ll be errecting barriers around dog turds next. E.E. The Edge 01245 348256
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On Saturday 10 July, the finely formed festival of assorted amusements, The Fling, will feature nine different venues, each filled to the brim. And now, with a drum crescendo build-up, two festival headliners can proudly be announced… Howard Marks will be bringing the Wordsmiths tent to a climax with ‘Tales of his Adventures’, whilst over on the Barhouse Music Stage, Buster Shuffle will be delighting the crowds with their own unique style of cockney feelgood songs.
The Typing Touch (see page 18) are a secretarial company, established since 1987, offering professional and confidential typing services for students, companies and members of the general public. They have recently relocated from East London and opened up a new office in New London Road, Chelmsford, so The Edge would like to give them a very warm welcome to our town and thank them for getting in touch with Chelmsford’s premier pamphlet. Whether you choose to use TTT professional services to cover the workload of your secretary when they are absent through holiday or sickness, or to assist with an overflow of typing, TTT reckon they’re one of the most competitively priced and fastest services within the London and Essex areas. TTT also guarantee full confidentiality and work can be brought in and returned by hand, post, fax, email or courier.
Tantalising, amusing and provocative entertainment is more than adequately provided at The Fling - whether you fancy a tease from Beatrix Von Bourbon in the burlesque big top, heckling the stand-ups in the comedy tent, having a spin in the silent disco with the finest local DJs battling for your attention, gambling a small fortune in the casino, or just doing the hop with Joseph from jiveswing.com in the dance tent. What’s more, there's a whole host of other activities, sideshows, peepshows and tasty nibbles from local foodies acanteen and Mustard, plus a great range of alcoholic sips on offer from Hopleaf. There’s certainly plenty to do at Essex's only adults-only festival from 4pm until late on Saturday 10th July. So why not fish out your frilly frocks, summer hats and 'sensible shoes’, dust them off and prepare yourselves for the all-encompassing jollity of The Fling. Simply bring your playful side (and no children) with you to Central Park. See www.chelmsford.gov.uk/fling or find 'Fling Chelmsford' on Facebook to get all the latest information. Tickets for The Fling are available to buy in person (over 18s only) from the Chelmsford Theatres Box Office on Fairfield Road, Chelmsford, by telephoning 01245 606505 or via www.chelmsford.gov.uk/flingtickets and cost £15 or £12.50 concessions. Subject to availability, tickets will also be available on the gate priced at £20.
Howard Marks was described by the Daily Mail as the most sophisticated drugs barren of all time. In the 1980s, he had no less than 43 aliases, 89 phone lines and 25 companies trading throughout the world; all money-laundering vehicles for his core activity - dope dealing. In 1996 he released his autobiography, Mr Nice, which remains an international bestseller. Howard will be visiting The Fling to tell his cautionary tale. Buster Shuffle have been energetically slinging a piano, double bass, guitar and drum kit all around the country for a couple of years now and with their brand of piano bashing cockney ska, authentic rock'n'roll sound and eminently catchy feel-good songs, they have already established a large fan-base across the capital and beyond. The band's line-up consists of Jethro Baker on piano and lead vocals, Terry "the best drummer we could find" Mascall, Tim Connell (aka Popeye Doyle) on double bass, and James Stickley on guitar and backing vocals.
THE HAIR BUSINESS
on COLOURS and CUT & BLOW DRYS TUESDAYS & WEDNESDAYS ONLY (Half head foils + cut & blow dry £70)
Fisherman’s Friends Ten Cornish fishermen from Port Isaac, one of The Edge’s favourite haunts when it’s down in that county, have signed a £1million deal with Universal Music (home to Lady Gaga, Take That and Amy Winehouse) in order to sing their sea shanty’s.....how bloody good is that? The guys have all known each other since childhood and were due to release the album themselves, until Universal stepped in.
14 Rainsford Road, Chelmsford, CM1 2QD.
TEL: O I245 358253
Chelmsford & District
Following on from MIND Week in May, Chelmsford Mind is carrying on the theme of suffering mental illness in the workplace. The figures speak for themselves; mental ill health costs employers £26 billion every year. In fact, 1 in 6 workers experiences depression, anxiety and stress as a direct result of problems at work. If not properly supported, work can have a negative impact on an employee's mental health. That's where MIND come in. A large proportion of their client base suffers from work related stress and anxiety and in most cases talking to someone can help. They have a long history of providing talking therapies at Chelmsford MIND and are excited to announce not only the expansion of their counselling services in Chelmsford and Braintree, but also the arrival of two new groups to support work related anxiety and depression. Active MINDS will support with extending social networks and gaining confidence through new activities, whilst the Healthy Living & Confidence Building Group is aimed at disorganised eaters with body image issues and low self esteem. There are also Anger Management and Anxiety Management Groups. For further information, please contact Julie or Donna on Chelmsford (01245) 345083 for a discreet chat in total confidence.
DOORS - DOORS - DOORS ‘Cheerful Bob’ - ‘Alive & Fitting!” Family Business Est. 1979
Internal/External, Hardwood/Softwood, Stairs & Spindles a speciality. Visit our door stall on Saturday’s at Chelmsford Market
01245 361201 0777 893 8920
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NEED TO TALK? Counselling CAN help. Please call us on
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Chelmsford & District Mind All calls treated confidentially Page 21
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ONLY JOKING! How Cool Is That?
I met a 14-year-old girl in an internet chat-room. She was clever, funny, flirty and sexy, so I suggested meeting up. Turns out she was an undercover detective. How cool is that....at her age?
An infamous stud delighted in sharing his list of conquests with his buddies at the bar, only tonight he looked distinctly worried. The bartender asked him if anything was wrong. "I'm scared," the stud replied. "Some husband wrote me and said he'd kill me if I didn't stop screwing his wife." "So stop," said the bartender. "How can I?" asked the womaniser. "He never signed the letter."
The Maths teacher asked Little Johnny, "If you have £50 and you give £10 to Mary, £10 to Sally, and £10 to Susan, what would you have?" Evidently, ‘a bit of an orgy on my hands’ was not the right answer.
A woman goes into Harrod’s to buy a rod and reel for her grandson's birthday. She doesn't know which one to get, so she just grabs any and goes over to the counter to pay. The Harrods salesman is standing there, wearing a pair of dark glasses. "Excuse me,” she says, “can you tell me anything about this rod and reel?" He says, "Madam, I'm completely blind. But if you drop it onto the counter, I can tell you everything you need to know about it, just by the
sound it makes." Shocked, the lady doesn't believe him, but drops the fishing rod on the counter anyway. The salesman says, "That's a six-foot Shakespeare graphite rod with a Zebco 404 reel and 10-lb test line. It's a good all round combination and it's on sale this week only for £75." The lady says, "Wow! It's amazing that you can tell all that just by the sound of it dropping on the counter. I'll take it." As she opens her purse, her credit card accidentally drops on the floor. Almost immediately, the salesman says, "That sounds like a Visa card to me, madam. That’ll do nicely.” As she bends down to pick up her card, she then accidentally farts. Naturally she is highly embarrassed, but chooses to say nothing, hoping that the salesman might be a little deaf as well as blind. Meanwhile, the assistant is busy ringing up the sale and says, "That'll be £89.50 please." “What?” The woman is totally confused and asks, "Didn't you just tell me it was on sale for £75? So how did you get to £89.50?" The salesman replied, "The rod and the reel are indeed £75, madam. But the Duck Caller is £11 and the Fish Bait an extra £3.50."
I've caught a stray parrot in my garden. All it says is, “Good morning, you ugly bastard?” It's not yours, is it....by any chance?
Black & Blue
A woman goes to the doctor, beaten black and blue. Doctor: "Whatever happened to you?" Woman: "Doctor, I don't know what to do. Every time my husband comes home drunk, he beats me to a pulp." Doctor: "I have a real good medicine for that. When your husband next comes home drunk, just take a glass of sweet tea and start swishing it around your mouth. Just swish and swish, but don't swallow until he goes to bed and is fast asleep." Two weeks later, the woman returns to see the doctor looking absolutely radiant. Woman: "Doctor, that was a brilliant idea of yours. Nowadays, every time my husband comes home drunk, I simply swish sweet tea around my mouthy until he falls asleep and he no longer lays a finger on me. You are a genius. Thank you so much.” Doctor: "Well, that really is good news. You see, I had a hunch that if only you could keep your mouth shut, the problem would sort itself out."
Sick To Death
I am sick to death of people knocking on my door asking for donations. Why, just this minute I've had some woman round from the sperm bank. I give her a right mouthful, I tell you.
Frank & Mildred
Mildred, the church gossip and self-appointed monitor of the church's morals, kept sticking her nose into other people's business. Several members did not approve of her extra-curricular activities, but feared her enough to maintain their silence. But one day, she made the mistake of accusing Frank (who looked a bit like Clint Eastwood does now), a new member, of being an alcoholic after she saw his old pickup parked in front of the town's only bar one afternoon.
Mildred emphatically told Frank (and several others) that everyone seeing his truck parked there would naturally draw their own conclusions. Frank (like Clint) was a man of few words. In fact, he just stared at Mildred before turning his back on her and walking out. He didn't explain, defend, or deny. He simply said nothing and went. Later that evening, Frank quietly parked his pickup out front of Mildred's house and left it there all night.
I was walking past a mental hospital the other day when all I could hear were the patients shouting, “Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!” out in the garden. The fence was too high to see over, but I saw a little gap between the planks, so I thought I’d take a look through to see what was going on. That was when some idiot poked me in the eye with a stick. Then they all started shouting, “Fourteen! Fourteen! Fourteen!”
Little Johnny (Again)
A grade three teacher was giving a lesson on nutrition when she decided to ask her students what they had had for breakfast. To add in a clever spelling component, she asked the students to spell their answers. Susan put up her hand first and said she had had an “E-G-G”. “Very good, Susan,” said the teacher. Peter then put his hand up and announced that he had had “T-O-A-S-T”. “Excellent, Peter,” said the teacher. Little Johnny then put his hand up and blurted, “I had F-U-C-K A-L-L for breakfast this morning and I’m absolutely starving.” Well, the teacher was mortified and scolded Johnny for his rude and inappropriate answer. Later that day, the same teacher was giving her class a lesson in geography and asked her students some rudimentary questions. Once again, class favourites Susan correctly identified the capital of Canada, whilst Peter was able to tell her which ocean was off Canada's east coast. But when it comes to Little Johnny's turn, she remembered his rude answer from earlier on that day and decided to give him a very difficult question indeed to answer. “Johnny,” she said, “where is the Pakistani border?” Little Johnny pondered this question for a moment before finally answering, “The Pakistani boarder is probably still in bed with my mother, which is why I got F-U-C-K A-L-L for breakfast this morning in the first place.”
Paddy & Mick
Paddy and Mick went to London to donate some sperm, but it was a complete disaster. Paddy missed the tube and Mick came on the bus.
Paddy calls Easyjet to book a flight. The operator asks, “How many people will be flying with you?” Paddy gets cross and replies, “How the hell should I know, it’s your f ing ’plane.”
Two Irish couples decide to swap partners for the night. After three hours of the most amazing sex, Paddy says to Mick, “I wonder how the girls are getting on?”
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to email@example.com
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Writtle Village Gardens Open Day
You know you’re getting old when you attend a bi-annual village gardens open day....and actually enjoy it! Some of the houses in Writtle opened up their gardens on Father’s Day last month, organised by the Friends of Writtle Parish Church, and it was actually fair champion having a nosy at that which you wouldn’t normally be privy to. The good lady wife hails from Writtle, so felt immediately at home, whilst I was in my element sampling tea, coffee and home-made cakes. Without a shadow of a doubt though, The Edge takes its hat off to Pat and Paul Carslake of ‘The Cricketers’ on The Green, for theirs is a garden and then some (not shown above, actually, but this is still a nice feature). The programme notes read: “Like it or loathe it, come see the mess.” Well, there was absolutely nothing to dislike. The imagination the Carslake’s have shown was unparalleled, so top marks to them. But hey, it was an absolutely splendid afternoon, so thanks to all involved.
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Check this out for a not so ‘fuddy-duddy’retirement property... Here’s a cracking way to beat overinflated property prices. Just imagine having a Boeing 727 as your home. Not convinced? This ’plane set a lady called Joanne Ussary back just $2,000. It then cost her $4,000 to move into and $24,000.00 to renovate. Not bad for her $30,000 investment, what, what, what, what? The stairs open with a garage door remote and one of the bathrooms is still intact. Oh yes, and best we don’t forget the personal jacuzzi in the cockpit. Sweet! This Boeing home is featured as part of a collection of ‘creative conversions’. And just check out the view too! Me and Mrs. Edge have been having a tentative look at the property market in Chelmsford of late, but we never found anything quite like this ...nor at such a nice price, for that matter. So does Chelmsford really have any ‘creative conversions’ you’d like to share with The Edge?
"HIPs are DEAD - but beware the trap!" The suspension of the requirement to have a Home Information Pack (or HIP) has been welcomed throughout the property sector.
that is new on the market, so time is of the essence and we aim to act extremely quickly when a property first becomes available.
From now on, nobody needs a HIP.
When other sellers may be breathing a sigh of relief at the demise of HIPs, make sure you don't fall into the trap of being caught out, like in the ‘old days’. Very often a buyer would be found, only to find that the seller's solicitor had not even been appointed, let alone made a start on preparing the various required documentation.
This is really good news if you are thinking of selling but are worried about the possible delay and costs involved in securing a HIP in time. It is also good news if you are one of those clients ‘quietly’ on our books who could be tempted to consider selling if the right buyer came along. Many such excellent opportunities were often thwarted by HIPs.
Scott Mason - Director
The Estate Agent that works....for
There is, however, still a legal requirement to have an Energy Performance Certificate (EPC) commissioned, although you do not have to have actually received such prior to marketing your property. An EPC is generated by a qualified Domestic Energy Assessor and can be actioned as soon as we visit your home for an initial marketing meeting. However, it need no longer delay the marketing of your property. People are generally much more interested in a property
Our advice is therefore to consider getting a solicitor in place early. Your sale is far more likely to proceed smoothly and you will be reducing the window of opportunity within which it could fall through. If you do not have a solicitor in mind, we are happy to recommend some well respected local professionals to you. To quote Henry Ford, "Before everything else, getting ready is the secret of success."
www.thehomepartnership.co.uk 88 Duke Street, Chelmsford CM1 1JP Telephone: 01245 250222 Page 24
The Edge 01245 348256
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TV -- CANNON TV GOLD GOLD CANNON TV GOLD - THE LIKELY LADS
THE SWAN INN
‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible....’ And this month it’s those two geordie rascals, Ant & Dec.
@ HATFIELD PEVEREL
The Street, Hatfield Peverel.
‘Live’ Music in July’10
Fri. 4TH K R U S H H SAT.2nd 6TH R ERPELPI CL IAC A Fri. Fri.9TH 11TH B ECAHGAL RE SL I E ’ S A U N T Fri. Fri. Fri.16th 18th B RTEHA KE FCOORMTPH AE NB YO R D E R Fri. 23rd Fri. 25TH S CTOHOEB YB U S I N E S S DADDY COTT’S fri. SAT.30th 26THT O & BT HEE CM OE RNC HFAINRT MS EEA MDE N ALL ENGLAND WORLD CUP MATCHES SHOWN ‘LIVE’ + BBQ! No, no, what’s The Edge talking about? Why, it’s Bob and Terry, of course. Now The Edge used to absolutely love this programme, only it was sadly reading recently how James Bolam (who played Terry, left) has refused to sanction repeats of the show, thus leaving Rodney Bewes (Bob, right) fuming as, well, he hasn’t done half so well as Terry since the series ended. The Edge thinks that’s particularly mean of Terrence for depriving a whole new, younger generation the opportunity to savour some classic black and white tele (before the show progressed to colour) and what’s more, it’s a darn site better than that bloody New Tricks of his. The Likely Lads was one of the very first shows to bring regional dialects to a mass audience. Terry Collier was fiercely working class whilst Bob Ferris was somewhat more aspirational. There were three series of The Likely Lads in total, before the superior Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads came along in 1973.
THURSDAY NIGHT ‘JAM NIGHTS’ One of the best weekly ‘jam nights’ in Essex with resident band Legend.
All musicians welcome. Just turn up, plug in and play!
Telephone: CHELMSFORD 3 8 0 2 3 8
Great Bra Inventions of our time! The Edge will have to have a word with Cara at Pets Etcetera (see Edge Classified section, page 31) to see whether she’s thinking of stocking any of these lovely hammocks in the future. Aren’t they essential for offering uplift to all pet lovers, readers? So why not send in your photographs, lady readers, of you and a pet in your bra?
VUVUZELA If you’ll take The Edge’s advice, you’ll think long and hard before contemplating blowing one of these at a Premiership football match next season....particularly when you consider what they were previously used for. There is a fantastic website called vuvuzela.fm if you really like the authentic sound of them....go on, have a listen. The vuvuzela is also known as the lepatata... or, more commonly, the stadium horn, incessantly blown by many ultra-annoying pricks. Unlike the clarinet or the banjo, it produces a loud, distinctive monotone. In early 2010, members of the Nazareth Baptist Church claimed that the vuvuzela belonged to their church and threatened to pursue legal action to stop fans blowing them. So why didn’t they?
NYHZZJ\[[PUNSH^UJHYLOLKNL^VYRZ[PK`\WWY\UPUN[\YMPUN^LLKJVU[YVS NYHZZJ\[[PUNSH^UJHY LOLKNL^VYRZZ[PK`\WWY\UPUN[\YMPUN^LLK J VU[YVS
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NEW FOR SUMMER 2010
Paper mill Lock Our Old Stable Tea Rooms are open 10am - 5pm seven-days-a-week throughout Spring & Summer serving teas, coffes, hot chocolate, freshly made sandwiches, hot toasted sandwiches and real home-made cakes. Canadian Canoes available for hire £10 per hour. Now taking bookings for River Chelmer boat trips on our ‘Ceffyl’ and ‘Victoria Barge’ - the latter also available for private hire inc. birthday parties, weddings, anniversaries etc. ‘Live Music’ boat trips 7pm - 9pm on Thursdays (please ring for dates) at £20pp inc. Ploughman’s supper. ‘Live Music’ the first Sunday or every month in Tea Rooms 2pm - 5pm (All weather permitting....so pray for some sunshine!) FOR FURTHER DETAILS PLEASE SEE WWW.PAPERMILLLOCK.CO.UK
North Hill, Little Baddow. Tel: 01245 22 55 20 Page 25
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A few days ago I found myself at a bit of a loose end one evening. I was having one of those nights where you just can't seem to settle on anything, so I ended up wandering from room to room. I’d start doing something, then put it down and wander off to another part of my flat but two minutes later. After about an hour of this I decided to break the habit of a lifetime and just plonked myself down in front of the TV in order to have some brain cells liquified by 150 channels of sheer and utter drivel. That is, until I flicked over onto a program about ‘Monkids’. For those of you who don't know, ‘Monkids’ is the term used by people who adopt a monkey, not as a pet, but as a surrogate son or daughter; a practice that's both genius and jaw droppingly idiotic, all rolled into one furry, screeching package. Some couples found they were lonely after their children had grown up and left home, while others found themselves unable to conceive, and yet some felt their lives were too busy to have a regular human-type child, so obviously, the cure for all these problems was to buy a Capuchin monkey and stick it in a dress. Now, I'm fairly ambivalent about the whole children issue myself, but let's not beat about the bush here. If you adopt a monkey and start dressing it up and treating it like it’s your little son or daughter, the only reason that's actually believable is that you're as crazy as a shit-house rat.
Little Timmy's first day at school
Sticking a dress on a monkey and calling it Katie doesn't change the fact that it's a wild animal, and therefore prone to wild animal type behaviour, which often includes biting people's faces off for no apparent reason. It's actually quite common for these ‘Monkids’ to be perfectly well behaved for years and years, and then suddenly remember that they're a monkey trapped in a three bed detached in Surrey and being made to wear a dress. Cue escape plan: ‘Go for the eyes! Go for the eyes!’ I can, of course, see how having a monkey living with you is appealing because, well, it's a monkey! Lest Page 26
THIS MONTH I HAVE MAINLY BEEN... we forget, other typical monkey behaviour is masturbating in public and flinging their own shit at people, two things I dream of doing on a daily basis. So who knows, maybe I'll end up with a whole tribe of monkey babies one day? But one thing’s writes for definite; I'll make sure the first thing I do is train them to bite other people's faces off, as opposed to my own.
I'm in the process of moving flats at the moment, though by the time this publication hits the streets, I'm hoping it will all be over bar the shouting. Unfortunately, this has required me to deal with estate agents once again, and by the beard of Crom, they're a gigantic pain in my lopsided knackers.
actually show you a house that fits your bill, you then have to fork out your admin fees to start the ball rolling properly. This ‘admin’ consists of them printing out a pre-written document for you to fill in, and them then performing the necessary credit and reference Kingpin checks. I'm sorry, but if you tell me that getting a reference and a credit check involves anything more than a quick couple of ’phone calls, or emails, then I'll call that bullshit, yet for this you can expect to be charged anything from £70 to £200 plus.
Really? Well here's an idea straight out of left field for you: Take the f ***ing things off the bloody website then. (Just out of idle curiosity, I checked again the other night - a further two weeks after my initial interest in them - and, you’ve guessed it, they're still both on there.) The next minefield to navigate is trying to explain to them what you actually want. I was extremely specific in both my calls and emails, stating plainly that I needed 1 or 2 bedrooms, within a 10 minute walk of the town centre, up to £700 per month. Fairly simple instructions, right? So why was I getting ’phone calls about a 3 bed semi in Great Baddow for £900 per month? I've always thought that estate agent is the dictionary definition of ‘money for old rope’ and the so called ‘admin fees’ certainly seem to prove that. When the stars have aligned correctly for them to
I really can't see the big deal. Fair enough, it's an excuse to get drunk and act like a bell-end more often than usual - I can understand that. But thinking that a bunch of blokes kicking an inflated pig’s bladder about on a rectangular piece of grass actually matters? Do me a favour. That said, I did actually watch the very first England game and despite myself, I must admit that I quite enjoyed it too. Particularly when Team America equalised, as I could just imagine all the face painted, chanting lackwits going berserk in living rooms and pubs all across the country.
But let's just take the middle ground and call it £100, for the sake of argument. I worked out that if I got paid £100 for every 2 emails and ’phone calls I made during each and every day, I'd be earning approximately £4,000 a day - and I’d probably shit solid gold to boot.
First stop, of course, is good old Rightmove.co.uk. Now, in theory, Rightmove is an excellent tool to use when looking for a place to live; or at least it was until they started to let estate agents use it. Within minutes of searching, I found two lovely properties that fitted my needs (and price range) down to the ground. So I rang both estate agents concerned to arrange a viewing, only to be informed that both properties had already been let several weeks previously.
Speaking of things I am forced to suffer every few years, it's (apparently) World Cup Fever time again. Well, I for one bloody hate the World Cup as I’m forced to spend an entire month trying to find a pub without a TV so that I can enjoy a nice quiet pint.
Team America: F** k yeah!
Just to be sure though, I rang a friend of mine who's a particularly ardent supporter, and chanted "USA! USA!" down the ’phone which I’d intended to be an amusing aside - only to be told to "f k ** off" in no uncertain terms.
A typical estate agent
Now, paying all this money wouldn't be so bad if you weren't then forced to chase them up about stuff every 5 minutes. Let's not forget, you're going through all this for the privilege of paying them money every month, so surely it’s they who should be doing the chasing. In fact, if I'm signing up to hand over £700 every month for the next year or two, they should be doing more than just chasing me; they should be sending fleets of naked virgins to blow me, preferably riding down rainbows on the backs of Unicorns, I reckon. Thankfully, this is something I only have to do once every few years, and I'm seriously considering getting into the game myself, as getting paid lots for essentially doing sod all - whilst also being in the privileged position of being able to really annoy people just for the hell of it - is my idea of Utopia. Thieving swines.
The way I see it is, if I have to suffer a month of this cobblers every four years, then I at least have to try and take whatever enjoyment out of it that I can. I believe our next game (at the time of writing) will be against Algeria, so I'm off to learn their national anthem now.... and make sure my friend Tom's number is at the ready on speed dial, just in case.
When a friend told me about this website, I thought she was winding me up. I'm obviously not as jaded as think I am, as I was shocked to find that www.crabrevenge.com really does offer up the eggs of pubic lice for the purposes of revenge on ex-lovers. “What a comfortable vagina you have madam, I think I'll stay a while.” That's right, for the bargain price of just £25.00 you get a vial full of eggs to sprinkle on his or her clothes and/or bedding to, as the website so eloquently states, ‘make the bitch itch’. OK, so there’s a twisted/funny side to this, but selling an STD to people for revenge purposes is just plain wrong, only I’ll bet this is just the start. www.theedgemag.co.uk
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SUMMER’S HERE! Summer offers heat and naked flesh and if you check out this woman (below), you’ll see she’s had a little plastic surgery to help keep her in tip-top condition. Yes, readers, she’s had her butt lifted. It used to be all saggy and hang down the back of her thighs, only now it’s been raised to a position where you’d normally carry a rucksack. Quality.
Hi Elsie, Many thanks for your recent order from Sex Toys R Us - we really appreciate your continued custom. You asked for the LARGE RED VIBRATOR as featured on our display wall. Unfortunately we will have to ask you to kindly select another item as that is our FIRE EXTINGUISHER. Thank you for your interest in Sex Toys R Us and we hope you have a very nice day. Regards, The Sales Team.
Dad’s voice (in distance): “No, No, tarquin....leave that ginger boy in the sand....you don’t know where he’s been.”
GET CLOSER TO THE ACTION. Available in 40” and the NEW 46” screen sizes, BeoVision 10 is the slimmest LCD flat screen full HD ready television we have ever created, guaranteed to get you closer to the action, it’s almost like a live match in your own living room. Despite its ultra slim profile, BeoVision 10 stays loyal to the celebrated Bang & Olufsen tradition for great sounding televisions with high quality loudspeakers. Wall mounted or floor-standing, BeoVision 10 comes with a choice of coloured magnetic loudspeaker grilles for when you change rooms, or in case you change your mind.
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Bang & Olufsen of Leigh on Sea 91 Broadway West, Leigh on Sea, Essex, SS9 2BU Tel: 01702 477741 Email: firstname.lastname@example.org www.bang-olufsen.com/leighonsea The Edge 01245 348256
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FIFTY...NOT OUT topdraw media.com web site design solutions that work! website design media design internet promotion www.topdrawmedia.com T: 0208 133 8279
by Steve Ward Dada Dada Dada Dada The word 'timeless' is a favourite for advertisers. Well, a certain type of advertiser anyway. It's often used to describe, for example, a set of plates with British Birds on them…. "A timeless collection…". Maybe a framed collection of pictures of Second World War planes, that are, of course, ‘timeless’. Or a CD of ‘timeless’ Pan Pipe music. Yep, it's crap now, and it was crap centuries ago.
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Quite who buys this sort of stuff is a mystery, but one presumes they are not necessarily the sort of person you'd want to go to the pub with. You get the gist - it's a word that has undisputed links to naffness. And naff is a word that will re-occur a lot in the next few minutes. All this came to mind a little while ago when it was announced that one of British cinema's most revered names has been sold. And no, we're not talking about someone auctioning off Gwynie Paltrow to the highest bidder, no matter how tempting it is to believe her and her luvvie ways have gone for good. Not to mention Chris Martin. No, what did actually happen is that Pearl & Dean was sold by its then owners, Scottish TV, for the princely sum of £1. Yes, one pound. Quite what STV was doing with a cinema advertising company in the first place isn't clear, but the very mention of the name will resonate with every single person reading this, no matter whether you are in your teens with your underpants on show, or going to the Post Office for a bit of company. That's because P&D has been in existence for 57 years, and anyone (which is surely everyone) who has been to a cinema during that time will know the name. Even as you read the words Pearl & Dean, in your head a tune is playing. It goes dada dada dada dada etc. OK - it doesn't work well written down, but it's going to be running around your brain for hours now. In many ways the Pearl & Dean theme tune (which is actually called
Asteroid, don't you know), the star burst logo, and the adverts it precedes and succeeds are a wonderful barometer of public taste and expectations. And it's here that we will reuse the word naff for the first time. Those of us old enough to remember the sixties and seventies will recall the appallingly amateur adverts for local businesses. What P&D did was to film, say, the exterior of a curry house in Slough High Street. Then they'd go inside for a few shots of trendy and incredibly well dressed young men and women smiling as they ate their Madras. All the time a bloke, and it was always the same bloke, intoned in a chippy voice some garbage about excellent service, value for money and good quality food. Then, for the last few seconds, this picture of unbridled class and happiness was overlayed with a bog standard text naming somewhere in Chelmsford. "Just minutes from this cinema," said the chap. There are a couple of things to indicate the changing times here. Do you know anyone who dresses up to go to a curry house? It just doesn't happen any more, yet way back then, going out for a meal anywhere, even for an Indian, was considered a special occasion and worth a bit of effort. Then there’s the style of the advert itself. Decades ago you didn't realise it was naff because you knew no better. You hadn't seen the wonderful things people can do with computers. Nobody had ever thought of irony or humour being good ways to sell things. No business would have dreamt of spending much on shooting a decent minifilm to make you want to buy stuff. All you got was a straight up the line statement of facts. But that's all there'd ever been, so you expected nothing else. These days, of course, although the P&D theme and the logo are completely unchanged from fifty years ago, the adverts sandwiched in between are of an altogether different class. But, and it's something to think about, will they still look good in 50 years time? Now, go on, admit it. Even the P&D tune, when you hear it, does seem just a little bit naff. Your brain won't admit it right out, and it's never there at the front of your mind, but come on, doesn't it sound just a tad, well, dated? So there we have it. P&D has new owners and it remains to be seen whether things change or stay the same. But one thing will certainly not have changed. There's still a curry house just minutes from this cinema.
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Driving down to Dorset, The Length and I, in a rare non-gay moment, got to chatting about things (other than red leather hot pants on Scandanavian men) that just aren’t right, and here’s one of the things we mentioned. You know when you see speed camera signs, only there ends up being no speed cameras whatsoever? Well, that’s just not right, is it? What are they trying (successfully) to do? Shit you up into slowing down? That’s trickery and skullduggery, is that, and it’s simply not cricket. Another thing that The Length pointed out is that nine times out of ten, when you spot a speed camera, you’re never 100% sure what speed you’re supposed to be travelling at (due to paying a complete lack of attention to roadway signs and not knowing your Highway Code inside out and back to front), so you could, for instance, perhaps be travelling at as much as 10-20mph over the designated limit, and there can obviously be serious consequences if such is the case.
Edge Colonist Steve Ward
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So I thought I’d bounce this subject off Edge columnist Steve Ward, and this is what he had to say:“Don't get me started. I haven't owned a car for five years (Wardo lives in London, folks, having tired of life - what life? - here in Chelmsford) and I'm still trying to wean myself off my anger, hatred and downright bitterness about the totally unfair nature of speed cameras and all the lies that various authorities tell you about them. I still fantasise about blowing them up, and that's the truth. The government sets the laws under which speed cameras are used. So, there are laws stating where and how they can be used, the penalties imposed and what happens to the money generated. The government then hands over responsibility for enforcing those laws to the police. So each police force can decide whether to use them a little, a lot, or not at all, within the boundaries set by the government. Police forces vary greatly in how they use speed cameras. Enlightened places, like Swindon, have all but abandoned them altogether, whereas there must be a man in the Essex Police Force whose job is to put them up wherever he can - the M25 has miles and miles of average speed cameras, as does the A127 between Wickford and Southend. All the lies they tell about reduced accidents have been proven over and over again to have been bent/selective statistics. I don't even believe they are there to generate revenue primarily. I think that a certain type of person just loves to be able to tell you what to do, and speed cameras are an ideal method of showing you who is in charge and how little you matter. South African Border Patrol are asking citizens to keep their eyes Heck, I haven't had a good rant about these buggers in years, so I feel a litpeeled for a 1951 Chevy that they strongly suspect might be being tle better for it now.” used to smuggle illegal immigrants over the border from Zimbabwe.
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the queue at Starbucks or Costa, waiting impatiently for someone further up the line to work their way through all the infinite options on offer. By the time they’ve decided that this morning its going to be a Venti-Skinny Decaf Frozen Macchiato with Soy Cream and a dusting of nougat on the top, I'm just about gasping.
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Why do we have to make everything so complicated nowadays? Coffee is a simple drink. Coffee granules, boiling water, a little milk, and there you have the perfect cup of coffee to kick-start your morning. When I think of coffee, I think back to Gareth Hunt and him shaking his ...coffee beans...or those two on the adverts who flirted outrageously for seven years with each other, but never quite made it into the bedroom. I remember my Nan always used to say to me, “Never invite a man back home for coffee, dear, because they’ll always expect more.” And oh how right she was, because nowadays, many men would no doubt expect freshly filtered Organic Brazilian/Mocha/ Kenyan Roasted Ground Beans with just a hint of syrup. Only by the time you've plugged in the machine, ground the beans and filtered it all through, any thoughts of hanky panky have gone right out the window. Coffee in the old days was just that - nothing more, nothing less. If you wanted to appear a little more sophisticated after a meal in the local Beefeater, you simply ordered an Irish Coffee with a good glug of whisky, topped off with some artery clogging cream floating on top in a funny, curvy glass handled jug which you could never properly hold without burning your fingers. Then you drove home (and you did as well back then) and that was about as exotic as it got. In the early 90s, we saw the return of the hubble-bubble coffee-maker. Do you remember that blooming advert where the woman used to hide in the kitchen, gurgling and pretending to be a coffee-maker so that her guests would think she was making freshly brewed coffee? Today, if you haven't got a Gaggia or a Krups all singing, all dancing, coffee-maker that does espressos, cappacinnos and filtered coffee, you're an absolute nobody. Only you can’t even leave it at that these days. In fact, I now spend a fair sized chunk of my life dodging people who’re going to work in the morning with their cartons of steaming coffee held out in front of them as though they’re carrying the flaming Olympic Torch. What’s more, I can quite easily spend an hour in
Do you remember the good old days when Kentucky Fried Chicken was completely upfront about being fried? When that goateed old Colonel would pop up in the TV adverts and proudly slurp a mouthful of his secret grease recipe off every one of his digits, whilst some voiceover would tell us: “It’s finger lickin’ good”. I have always been convinced that Colonel Sanders was really Rolf Harris in disguise - have a good look next time you’re passing - it’s definitely him alright. On a Saturday night, we would all sit around the table with a party bucket discussing what the secret formula could be. We all used to speak in hushed tones, like it was a secret that if we uncovered it, someone would pop out of the woodwork and shoot us. Rumour had it that the secret was locked in a vault somewhere in the USA and was worth a million dollars, but that was before millionaires were ten a penny. Many a night I would sit up in bed trying to formulate the special chicken recipe in my mind. I was really impressed with a girl down our road who got a job in the local Kentucky Fried Chicken shack and I was constantly on at her to tell me the secret recipe. ’Course, she always declined, but her status on our street was greatly enhanced because she was the one who actually coated the chicken in the secret formula. We kids were just so in awe of her. My dad used to refer to her as ‘Big Bird’ and I always used to think that that was her undercover name for the top secret job she did. I never for once equated it to her being 18 stone due to dealing with fried chickens all day long. Then what happens: they re-brand it as KFC and it suddenly sounds like some highfalutin’ firm of accountants. Why did they do that? Kentucky Fried Chicken was mega successful as it was with branches on every street corner of every town and it always used to be way ahead of the likes of McDonalds and Burger King in the pecking order. There are times in this life when you really need a good old greasy bite to eat - as opposed to some wheat free toasted flatbread with an organic piece of grilled (plain) chicken which contains no trans fats or artificial additives. Yes, every now and again it makes for a decidedly pleasant change to be licking the grease off your fingers instead of forever eating bland, tasteless chicken that’s only got a measly 20% of the fat content. Quite clearly, the flavour’s in all that lovely grease.
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Published on Jul 14, 2010