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EDGE
the ISSUE NO: 159
MACK
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JANUARY 2010
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bum chums n. Primary school term for any two boys who always sit next to each other .
Welcome to the very first edition of The Edge in 2010, readers - the year in which England win the World Cup in South Africa, arf-arf. So, we’ve been together now (our cosy little monthly tete-a-tete sessions) for, ooooh, a little over 13 years (yep, that’ s how long The Edge has been going) and if this mag were a child, well then, it’d definitely be going to ‘BIG SCHOOL ’ by now and no longer trotting home to see its mummy every day for lunch. Admittedly, The Edge has been kind of slow to grow up, but that’ s entirely for the reason that it doesn’t really want to. Hey, I even went to a School Uniform Party recently (see page 14) and it was wicked. I absolutely loved it, dressing up in short p ants and a blazer. What’s more, I dug out an old school bus pass from 1976 and also found my Bronze and Silver swimming proficiency badges from some dark recess of our lof t. Then I stuffed my blazer pockets full of sweets and pens and even managed to bag a recent copy of Readers Wives mag to stick in my satchel, along with a couple of old school report cards that read: Shaun could do better. So, if you compare that to ‘real life’? W’hey, that’s precisely why The Edge has absolutely no intention of growing up in 2010, I trust (hope) you’ll be pleased to know . However, we are belatedly - it has to be said - looking at crap the likes of Facecock and Twatter, for the simple reason that The Edge deserves a far wider audience, so we’re trying to build up our electronic readership (nope, that’s not robot readers, but human beings on-line - see page 6). To do that, The Edge desperately needs your help. So here’s me, The Edge Editor, asking you good readers, cap in hand, to assist us. Are you game? Because this publication simply doesn’t exist without you.
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EDGE
the
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frigment of one’s imagination n. A subject conjured up in the mind’s eye to help oil the wheels of self-abuse.
The Edge Editor’s Column
HAVE A SPANKING 2010
I’ve just been thinking about a few people I wouldn’t mind putting over my lap and spanking in 2010, readers, and (a) none of them are Rupert Everett, and (b) I really think it’d be great if they all dressed up as schoolgirls. Lock me up and throw away the key if you like, but I attended a School Uniform Party (they’d definitely get my vote) recently, and I tell you what, it was right up my street. Speaking of which, four of the ladies I’d like to place over my knee and give a damned firm righthanded pasting to are all Coronation Street ‘starlets’. They are Underworld’s sultry Carla Gordon. Next up, I’d summon Michelle from behind the bar in the Rovers Return - isn’t she really called Kim and didn’t she used to be a singer in a R.S.P.G. (right shit pop group)? Then it’d be Sally and Kevin W ebster’s eldest daughter ’s turn, who needs to be taught a damn good lesson by someone, so it may as well be a provincial fanzine editor, hey what, Rosie? However, top of the tree simply has to be David Platt’ s ex-girlfriend . Christ on a bike, The Edge clocked her in some of the classic summer of 2009 episodes , when the good lady wife was otherwise distracted (perhaps putting another couple of shrimp s on our barbie) and I tell thee, some right devilish thought s
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crossed my mind about me and the lass sorting through the morning ’p apers in The Cabin , even though I am old enough to be her father (though thankfully, to the best of The Edge’s knowledge, you still can’t get arrested for thought crime). Mind you, if ever a bloke was growing older disgracefully, sadly, I’m your man. Another lady I wouldn’t mind my p alm giving a right good seeing to would be Holly Willoughby, who I think co-host s This Morning with special needs type-bloke Philip (one ‘L’) Schofield. It would also be hugely import ant that all of these ladies thanked The Edge for the pinkness of their sweet posteriors af terwards, because politeness costs absolutely nowt. Ah, sod this for a game of soldiers. I’m honestly even boring myself with all of this sexist claptrap. You want to know the truth? I am the least sexist person I know. Just ask Edge Mum. “I’m not, Mum, am I?” “No, darling, you’re not.” “What am I, Mum?” “You’re my son.” I honestly reckon I could commit genocide and my Mum would still say , “He’ s my son”, as if that’d somehow excuse my actions. Edge Mum was a R.T .P. (right tidy piece) in her time. What do you mean you can’t say that about your own Mum? ’Course you can. After all, I’ve just said it. And she was too. She used to wear these little mini-dresses that weren’t much longer than sweaters to walk to the shops in (N.B. supermarkets hadn’t even been invented back then) and lorry drivers were forever tooting her up and shouting stuff like “Whorrrr!” out of their windows, which I used to find p articularly embarrassing if I happened to be toddling along beside her . So really, what I’m saying is, in my own defence, I’m definitely not sexist because, all these years later, my Mummy still loves me and says I’m not. Furthermore, I’d like to think I could rely on the full
support and cooperation of the good lady wife in this matter, though doubtless not that of her (best) friends. Oh no, no, no, no no. The p air of ’em would gladly place a st ake through my very heart given half the chance. They’ve seen me ‘at my worst’ on an occasion too many, y’see, and them’s the consequences, so you’ve just got to abide by it. However, I still like to think that neither of them would regard me as being overtly sexist. In fact, here’s conclusive proof, if any were needed. On a recent trip up to London to oil the larynx with ‘the lads’, I happened to find myself (and I truly know not how) in one of those colourful public hostileries in the East End where ladies parade around with the distinct anticip ation of collecting plentiful £1 coins in their cup, prior to them disrobing on stage to the sound of Freddie Mercury. Anyway, I happened to observe a small altercation that one of these temptresses was having with a shifty piece of ‘local scum’ who was claiming not to have any such coins about his person at that precise moment, so when she approached moi, I kindly placed two £1 coins in her pot and whispered into her ear, “There’s an extra quid for that wanker who wouldn’t cough up, darlin’.” Now come on, you cannot get much more chivalrous than that, surely? The fact is, readers, life’ s way too short for any unpleasantness. It just is. Where the p ast 10 years have gone since Robbie was but a whippersnapper singing ‘Millennium’ Christ only knows - but gone it bloody well has. So please, in the year 2010, do your bit to always try and spread a little joy and happiness. And if you were a right sexist pig up until 31st December 2009, well then, what better time is there to change all that right now?
THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 01245 348256 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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cottage v. To visit a thatched public lavatory with climbing roses round the door , looking for a bit of Colwyn Bay action.
MICK DUCK
I was up at my printers the other day when I noticed a set of pigeonholes along one wall with employees names written on them. My eye was instantly taken by one Mick Duck. Readers, come on.....how fantastic a name is that? Let me set the scene for you so that you can better understand where The Edge is coming from. At the font, just in front of the ‘posh seats’ in the church, a vicarary type bloke in a long black dress is busy pouring water over a screaming baby’s head, before announcing (as if it were the time of the last bus home), “I now baptise this child MICK DUCK.” Nor does The Edge think Mick Duck’s parents had a clue what they were doing, because they probably only ever had his full name of Michael in their minds. Christ, what if they’d set their heart on Richard, yet no sooner had the poor child walked through the school gates for the very first time than everyone’s calling him Dick. Tell The Edge you don’t have a brother called Dick, Mick? Thing is, I honestly don’t know who Mick Duck. He’s just a name on a wall to The Edge. But I just can’t get over the fact that every time he’s asked his name, chaos must immediately eschew. “Last call for Mick Duck.... snigger.”
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Every now and then Only every now and then do I fill out a Lotto ticket, because that way, on every 1st January, I can look back at the previous year and say, “H’hey, there’s another £52 per annum I’ve saved by not doing the Lottery oncea-week!” (Cos you never win, do you? Least of all, I sodding well don’t.) Having said that, the other Saturday I was feeling lucky, so I filled out an entry form and said to the woman behind the counter, “This is for tonight’s Lotto draw, isn’t it?” “No, love,” she said, “this is for blahde-blah....you need to fill out another form if you want to go for tonight’s jackpot.” So I filled out the another ticket, only with an entirely different sequence of numbers (I just choose numbers at random, me). Thing is, I thought I’d save the duf f ticket I’d also filled out (that included the numbers that wouldn’t count, even if they came up) by means of some sad, sick joke. And guess what? On my actual ticket, I scored 0/6, as per usual. But on my duf f ticket, as you can imagine, I actually got three numbers right. That’s a bloody TENNER, is that, isn’t it? Jesus, I’ve never won diddly squat on the Lotto, only when I do, it’s on an invalid entry. Which is why I will forever believe that gambling is a pure mug’s game.
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give Bruce Willis a rubdown v. Celebrity slaphead wanking terminology. Take Captain Picard to warp speed etc.
WHAT THIS PICTURE SAYS TO THE EDGE... WHOA! SHAMONE! What’s this? THE EDGE MAGAZINE? Chelmsford? Essex? Where the **** is that?
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known universe. That’s still an extra 50,000 people The Edge could be reaching electronically - if you all took the trouble to forward the Edge’s web address to but five people each. So please, readers, DO IT NOW!
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Simply hit the BIG RED SUBSCRIBE BAR.... you honestly cannot miss it! What’s the web address again?
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And, once your family and friends hidden in all corners of the globe have logged on to www.theedgemag.co.uk the rest is easy.
What, you want it bolder? Thing is, in order for The Edge to achieve world dominance, it needs to build up an electronic database of recipients (in short, email addresses) who actively want to receive Chelmsford’ s most right rivetingest fanzine via their computer/laptop screens at the beginning of every month - because you cannot just send out unsolicited mail in this day and age or you get your knuckles well and truly wrapped.
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Which is precisely where you - The Edge’ s loyal and devoted subjects - come in. It’s simple mathematics. Ten thousand physical copies of The Edge are always snapped up by you hungry local punters gagging for your drivel fix every 30 days. But how many friends have you each got?
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Worst case scenario, say you were all proper Billy No-Mates kind of person and you only had 5 friends and/or acquaint ances in the entire
P.S. And you DON’T need 3D specs to read the damn thing on-line with either!
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Go Greek n. Where the rusty bullet hole is the main target.
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Bird’s Eye View It's officially here, Edge readers. No, I don't mean my Bird's Eye column; I'm talking about another New Year. Only it's not just any ‘old’ new year , is it? Nope, it's the first in a brand spanking new decade. So do me a favour and raise a glass of your favourite poison to the start of 2010. And, while you're at it, t ake a trip down memory lane, because you'll realise that time really does fly; unless you're on the waiting list for a hip replacement, or stuck behind me reverse parking. So where did the last decade go? I still cannot believe that it's been ten short years since I stood watching the inky skies along the length and breadth of the Thames light up like some sort of Gok W an makeover during the Millennium celebrations. I was right there, with a twenty year old bottle of champagne in one hand and a thirty nine year old bloke in the other. Yeah, I know - I screwed up the maths big time. But there I was, despite not being a fan of New Year's hordes - bolshy elbows, t actile strangers, boozy bonding and alien halitosis always makes a Catherine Wheel and some cider in the back garden seem like nirvana. Usually, any strangers pressing their body mass index against me will only keep their testicles intact if they can prove they're under 1 1 and extremely lost. Oddly enough, on that 2000 evening, the t sunami of bodies felt more like a comfy winter duvet than a stifling straitjacket. It was all about a new era, tip sy bonhomie and feel-good firework awe. Well, it was, until the gunpowder-glitter faded and the hugging and kissing frenzy began. You either love that New Year moment or you loathe it. For me, it screams of 'stranger-danger' and it's my cue to head for the Emergency Exit. S tarting January with a crusty cornflake lip and some winter-flu fever, courtesy of Barry-somebodyor-other from Bermondsey , is my idea of hell. Saying that, I hold my hands up to the crime of hypocrisy because I'm cap able of OTT displays of unwanted af fection when I'm out and about and I've downed a gallon or two of the ‘giggle juice’. Being a selfish soak, I prefer to select my t argets. I'm forever the dart and never the dartboard. Looking back, I had Herculean plans for my life back then. I was brimming with enthusiasm and spirit, nurturing a mammoth desire to completely change my life and p arts of myself that I (and other twats) thought were holding me back. All this was backed up by a ballsy belief that if I attacked
my makeover mission like a rabid dog, the world would reward me with a big fat happy life. As it turned out, by the end of 2000 I was still nurturing those t asteless 'trait s' and I'd gained an extra eleven stone that I couldn't shift for love nor money. So, seven years later, I gave in and married him. As a result, my new surname wasn't the only change I had to get used to. As the years on the clock ticked by , I found myself suddenly excluded from everything that involves the youthful 18-35 bracket. Up yours, you advertising ageist s! The shelf might have been up for a while, but what's on display is still in satisfactory condition, thank you very much. Now, I was never the sort of girl to book myself onto one of those Chlamydia Cruises or Herpes Holidays when I was still young and horny enough to go for it, but I now resent the fact that I'm securely in the ‘goodbye cradle, hello grave’ box. Arthritis Adventures with a stopover at Ye Olde Incontinence Inn seems to be the forecast for 2010 onwards. Such is the schizophrenia of advertising and marketing nowadays. "T rust us," they bleat, "the forties are the new thirties!" Postscript: Just remember to p ace yourself, love. Bump up the Botox and pursue your pelvic floor exercises. This might have all been a bit tongue in cheek, if it wasn't for the fact that I've been of fered more shortbread samples and dishcloth demonstrations in Chelmsford lately than I have perfume and lip stick freebies. The rest of those promotional meerkats just ignore me. Your loss, cherubs, because I'm the sort of 'forty-something' bitch that will wear lipstick and Chanel No. 5 to bed as well as to clean the house in. Thank God for The Salvation Army. They still love me. Apparently, the Yanks are calling the last ten years 'The Decade from Hell.' I guess if you take a look at the world scene then the description would seem an apt one. S tanley Kubrick's 1968 film, S pace Odyssey 2001, predicted a Millennium world of sp ace travel, moon shuttles and flying cars. Instead, the reality was planes flying into US buildings in 2001 and, nine years on, the limbs of soldiers and civilians alike are still being scattered tragically across the world's desert s, rocks and p avements. Maybe this next decade will be 'The Decade of Change.' I sure hope so, but I'm seriously praying that it doesn't mean the Menop ause in my house; I might easily lose that eleven stone I gained in 2000 if it does. All I know is, I'm older , a bit wiser and a whole lot battier, but I've still got enough Tiger in the t ank to jumpstart the dream machine once again and see where it t akes me. If I'm still around in 2020, I'll bore you all with how it went. But, right now , I simply must go pee...again.
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lard of the manor n. A fat bloke who lives on your estate / down your road etc.
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Essex Cars & Limos
Local well known tall bloke Clive Weir has not long been back from his holidays and this is what he has to say about...
WHY NOT ARRIVE IN STYLE?
Boa Vista: I have recently returned from the island of Boa V ista (which roughly translates as: good views), the second island in Cape Verde that I have visited. Situated approximately 350 miles of f Senegal on the west coast of Africa, Cape Verde is a collection (archipelago) of 10 islands, nine of which are inhabited - and the really good news is that it’s just an hours extra air miles than the Canary Islands.
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Cape Verde Monster: Direct flights from the UK have been available for the p ast few years since the Riu hotel chain st arted erecting their complexes. They currently have three completed hotels with an additional 2,000 bedroom monster also under construction. Beach full of Chavs: I had a weeks all-inclusive at The Riu Karamboa, a massive 750 bedroom hotel situated on the fabulous Chaves beach on the west cost of the island. Whilst Riu claim it is a 5* hotel, I would say , by our standards, it is a nice, clean and tidy 4*. Tropical: The benefits of the islands are that they are the nearest tropical destination to Blighty with a steady year round, near perfect summer weather conditions, there’s no jet lag, no hurricanes and lovely warm water temperature, even in January.
FOR A NEW YEAR’S TREAT visit The Gipsey Moth in Greenwich! The Cutty Sark and The Royal Observatory are both fine - if you’re into that sort of thing. But if you want a real reason to go sarth o’the river this winter, then look no further than The Gipsey Moth. If you don’t make it ’til the summer , well then, they’ve got a ‘T ime Out rated’ beer garden to chill out in - although this weather , far better to stay indoors and get stuck into some traditional Beef & Dumplings or Belly of Pork and savour some of their tot ally wicked ciders. Get off the train at Stratford, nip across on the DLR (did you realise there’s a stop called Mudchute and all of the f’narr-f’narr connotations that deserves?) and you’re there, simple as. Mind you, before entering the doors of The Gipsey Moth, do take a detour into Greenwich’s excellent covered market and treat yourselves to a Louisiana Smoked Sausage in a French stick, topped of f with red peppers, salad, onions, cranberry sauce and must ard. Stand on The Edge, you will not spend a better £4 all day long! After which, you’ll no doubt be ready to t ackle a few beers. The Edge Crew did and took some notes of our random musings, which included: Small Bird Catalogue, Monkhouse in your Pyjama Bottoms, a 5ft/10minute Thai Hotpot before finally: a Dirty Pink Sack. From there we went to Borough Market and had a Reindeer Burger for a fiver and a couple of dodgy pint s in The Rake. Last winter was my first ever trip to Borough Market and I absolutely loved it. Twelve months down the line though, and for my money , Greenwich Market and The Gipsey Moth has definitely got ‘the edge’ . Oh yeah, and if you catch a respect able 8:30pm train home, you can then drink Port & Guinness in The Ship ’til closing time and annoy Alison with tales of your right riveting day out (many apologies, Ali)!
The Gipsey Moth, Greenwich Church S treet, SE10. The Edge 01245 348256
Value For Money: In terms of value for money, I think at under £700 for a week all-inclusive it simply has to be right up there. The waters offer great scuba diving, fishing and, due to the strong winds (most welcome on a hot day), Cape Verde makes for a perfect windsurfing/kitesurfing venue. Whilst the islands themselves are hurricane free, hurricanes do start some 20 miles west before working their way over to the Caribbean.
Clive & his lovely missus, erm...Mrs Weir!
Sal: Personally speaking, of the two islands I have visited, I prefer the more developed Sal with its pretty tourist town of Santa Maria. Sal is also home to a pair of adjoining Riu Hotels, The Funana and The Garopa, although I would strongly urge people to venture into the town to mix with the friendly locals and to sample some of the excellent seafood restaurants. ‘Live’ English Football: There are also several bars in Sant a Maria that show ‘live’ English football which, for me, is an absolute must on any holiday I take - barring the close season, of course. Whilst the islands are fairly barren and uninteresting visually - and will therefore definitely not appeal to all - if it’ s simply a ‘beach type holiday’ that you’re after with lovely warm, clear, turquoise waters and pretty much guaranteed sunshine, then Cape Verde is certainly well worth a visit. Thanks-a-lot for that, Clive-baby. Being so tall, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be able to actually string a sentence together (Lengthy Boy can’t). So, all things considered, what you’re really saying is, Cape Verde is a poor man’s Maldives? Does that sum the place up? E.E.
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tramp’s mate n. Someone who looks like they probably stink eg. Danny Baker , Jocky Wilson.
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And a Happy New Year to you too....no matter which one of you polished off the last dregs of the cider .
who do you think you’re going to satisfy with that?
er...me???
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marks of Mecca n. Carpet burns on the knees caused by excessive worship at the hairy temple.
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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 staf f working in an excellent environment means that you get exactly what you want: consistency.....time after time after time.
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David Sherman’s
BEVERAGE REPORT FAIR CHAMPION
One of my more prestigious duties in the world of beer is to organise CAMRA's annual competition to find the Champion Beer of East Anglia, writes David Sherman. To that end, the early days of December saw me assembling a select band of trained tasters at Harwich Beer Festival to judge this year's finalists. Any regular reader of this column should be aware that there is more to beer than session bitter, and the early stages of the competition are arranged to ensure a spread of styles in the final. Similarly, the judges are drawn from different parts of the region and have different areas of expertise. This year's panel consisted of the beer manager from Chelmsford Beer Festival; two members of CAMRA's Norfolk Tasting Panel; a former Regional Director of CAMRA; and our 'man on the inside' at Greene King. First up was Elgood's Cambridge Bitter, always a favourite of mine and not at all disappointing on this excursion. "There's a lot going on in there for a session beer," said Alan. Fellow Norfolk taster Martin heartily agreed. "Liquorice and a big bitter finish. Lots of length." All told, a good one to open the account. Next up was Milton Pegasus, a mid-strength bitter that was unfortunately cloudy and disappointing on this occasion. (For the record, the panel tastes 'blind', with the identities of the beer kept secret until the score-sheets are submitted.) A swift moving on brought us Nelson's Revenge from one of the region's most highly regarded micros, Woodforde's. A pale brown strong bitter with lots of sweetness, this one rather divided the panel. "Not enough hop to balance the sweetness," claimed Andy (Greene King). "Fine for the style," I contested. "A lot of strong bitters tend to be sweet - like Abbot!" "Yes, but I prefer Adnams Broadside," he laughed. In fact, so do I. On to the darker beers. Milton Nero, a sweet stout, had amazed the preliminary panel at Chappel Beer Festival and this was at least as good. "Cherry cheesecake!" was a comment put forth by several judges. Cherry brandy and port were other suggestions in the sweet, fruity line. "Just the right amount of roast to dry out the finish," said Dave (Chelmsford). This was my favourite by far; any pubs planning to stock it, please get in touch!
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B&T Shefford Old Dark continued our journey to the dark side. A surprisingly vivid citric nose was noted by several members and some debate was had as to whether this was appropriate for what was an otherwise typical full-bodied old ale. What followed left no doubt, however. A noticeable but not over-full sweetness and a delicate hop character, with increasing bitterness in the finish. "There's a really good blue cheese character under the surface," said Martin, to universal agreement. Last out was Adnams Tally Ho, a powerful barley wine which was a little young and did not have the depth of the year-old sample we had tasted at Norwich. Still very pleasant for a fireside beer on a dark winter evening, with no unpleasant tones. A few beers were re-drawn for judges to taste off their personal favourites prior to calculation of the scores, with B&T and Nero being the most hotly debated, although Alan campaigned quite heartily for Nelson's Revenge. With all the figures finally calculated, the result was incredibly close, with B&T SOD being declared champion by a margin of just 0.6% over Milton Nero. Elgood's Cambridge came a respectable third, although the identity of this beer surprised some of the judges. People will no doubt ask why I have dedicated my article to beers that, regardless of their merits, are rarely seen in local pubs. Landlords of Chelmsford - the ball is in your court!
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Palm Sunday n. A relaxing day of wrist spent in one’s own company.
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The natural evolution to the fated fishfinger sandwich...
We all surely love a fishfinger sandwich, don’t we, writes The Edge Editor? The only question is whether to have HP or ketchup on it? Or, if you’re posh, salad cream or mayonnaise? But if that’s the extent of your association with fish (ap art from the cod liver oil tablets you swallow with your breakfast cupp a), surely it would be one of life’ s natural evolutionary processes to treat yourself to a dedicated fish supper at Chelmsford’s Loch Fyne restaurant and see how you feel about the experience afterwards? Let me assure you, it’s a whole lot different to trying to digest a half-side of cow in your belly, that’s for sure! It was a freezing cold Tuesday evening in the depths of winter when the good lady wife and I turned up. “I can’t imagine many other people will be braving the conditions tonight, my love,” I’d said to her, “so doubtless we’ll be rattling about the place.” Hardly. Being nosy, on a couple of walks both to and from the loo, I’d noticed that certain diners were simply drinking water. “We do attract an awful lot of regulars who simply come for the fish,” Loch Fyne’s lovely Lisa informed me.
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Well good for them! Personally speaking, I felt a lot more comfort able once I’d got a full glass of Argentinian Malbec in my hand (although if you can run to it, do opt for the Awatere Merlot) and Anka from Transylvania (“Dracula is not a myth!”) was ready to take our order. Honest to God, readers, I am not pulling your plonkers....Anka (shame it wasn’t spelt Anchor, her working at Loch Fyne and all) is genuinely from Transylvania! We had kinglas fillet of smoked salmon, sashimi style, with wasabi & soy sauce (£7) and char-grilled south coast squid with bok choi & sesame dressing (£6) for starters, followed by a whole grilled sea bass (see above) with a caper and parsley salsa (£14) and the seafood selection - grilled salmon, bream and king prawn with seared scallops, served with spinach & lemon p arsley butter (£16) together with some new potatoes (£2.50) and seasoned veg (£2.50) on the side....and it was all absolutely gorgeous. No readers, I really mean it....it was absolutely positively delicious. And that really bloated feeling you get af ter eating meat; you feel miles better after eating fish. I wouldn’t say Loch Fyne’s particularly cheap tho’, so next time we go it’ll be on a Saturday evening to reflect the t ariff, if you know where The Edge is coming from? However, this month, manager Anson is offering two courses for just £10 seven days a week, served between 12-7pm - so he can’t say fairer than that! Things you might not know about Loch Fyne: It’s even open for breakfast and snacks (from 9:30am every day , apart from Sunday’s when it opens at 10:00am) Tuesday nights are Moules & Frites nights (from 7pm for just a tenner) Fresh haddock & chips is available cooked-to-order to t ake-away for just £6 (adults) or £4.50 (children) - available all day Sunday - Friday Meat and pasta dishes are also on the menu - it’ s not solely fish, you know! There’s even a cold counter where you can purchase high quality fresh fish and shellfish, Glen Fyne steaks, pork and other meat product s. Watch out for ‘Live @ The Loch’....’live’ music (telephone for further details) 109-111 Bond Street (bottom of Waterloo Lane), Chelmsford, CM1 1GD 01245 293620 P.S. I also ate my first ever grilled oyster and would heartily recommend you try one (or six). P.P.S. Now, back to that Transylvanian waitress...
VERDICT: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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HAPPY NEW YEAR! extÄÄç età{xÜ XÅ
MANY THANKS yet again to Boot Camp’s Holly & Glynn for organising just the best New Year’s Eve Party (it was actually st aged pre-Christmas, readers, but here at The Edge, we DON’T like to use the C-word in any month other than December) with this years theme, quite obviously , being ‘School Uniform’ ....and not ‘Norfolk Broad Boating Holidays’ as it must have said on your invite, Sweeney, you dozy bloody mare!
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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piss mist n. The fine mist that forms around the urinal trough at shin level when three or more blokes are all spraying their hoses.
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Boring as it is, that’s what many people will be st arting on 2nd January 2010. But hey, some people have more of a ways to go than others, right? Take this slender beauty in the pink bikini on the right. Why , she looks positively slender compared to her mates. Only UGH....look how the lass on the lef t is ‘fondling’ the belly of the munter to her left. What’s all that about? ‘Fat Friends’ is one thing, but ‘Fat Lesbian Friends’ is really quite another. The Edge tells thee, THIS PHOTOGRAPH IS THAT WRONG that it appears that persons numero uno and numero, er, three, aren’t wearing any bikini bottoms. How out of order is that? Yet some folk find ‘CHUBSTERS’ horny, horny, horny!
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pyroflatulate n. To light one’s bottom chuffs.
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Notes the Battlefront THE from WAITING GAME
We seem to spend most of our lives waiting. There are the big waits, such as waiting for a holiday, waiting for the right p artner, waiting for the right job. Then there are the daily, mundane waits, such as waiting for the train, waiting for the queue at the cash machine to disperse, waiting for the weekend.
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I'm sitting here right now waiting for the other half to stop drilling in the loft for some much needed peace and quiet.
to the bottom of the st airs (which seemed like some five minutes later) that I realised the group in front of me did not all know each other. One older woman had a walking stick and had obviously had a problem negotiating the stairs whilst the others were all rallying round to help her.
by a Fat Capitalist Pig residing inLeafy Surrey!
Another favourite is waiting for the internet connection to pick-up again so I can get back online. I wonder if, in today's society, we have more aspects of our life that are Cheryl consumed by waiting, or if we just notice it more when we are forced to stop? In this era of instant communication, the likes of text, e-mail and the web in general, mean we don't have to wait to find things out, or wait to speak to people. We are used to being instantly gratified, so we get upset whenever there's a gap between anticipating our desires and achieving them, whether that be waiting for a meal, waiting for a promotion, or waiting for a baby to arrive. I think because of this, we're all becoming a lot less patient. It's something I can completely identify with. A lack of patience is one of my most particular flaws. Not so much with people (although yes, that can occur quite frequently too), but noticeably with time. Just last week, I had to wait half an hour at the doctors, twenty minutes for a train, forty minutes to wait for a table in a restaurant, fifteen minutes in a queue at Sainsburys and ten minutes outside the ladies toilets. And these are just the moments of waiting that I can remember - no doubt there's been many more. Thing is, I don't deal with these waiting spells very easily and am known to tut and sigh and roll my eyes a lot. However, I truly shocked myself the other day with my total lack of impatience. I was trying to walk down the st airs in a shop in Chelmsford and a group of people were in front of me chatting and taking their time, meaning I had to stop and wait and dawdle my way down behind them. So I tutted and sighed and looked pointedly at my watch, due to the fact that their cheery chattiness was eating into my valuable shopping time. But it wasn't until we got
Well, I felt bad for quite some time afterwards. It's a moment such as this that makes you think just how intolerant you can really be. Whatever's the problem with waiting for a few extra moments compared to not being able to walk properly?
Barry
Like many others, the reason behind my levels of impatience is due to the fact that my free time is obviously precious to me. My week is dominated by work and I spend just over two hours every single day getting both to and from there. I know many of you are in exactly the same boat and ones intolerance seems to rise when waiting occurs. I always find myself getting extremely irritated about what I could be doing if I wasn't waiting for a train to leave on time or a loo queue to decrease. I wonder if people who are retired, or who work p art time, are more tolerant - I'd really like to know? I read in a newspaper recently how one man, Paul McCrudden, recorded his queuing time and invoiced more than 50 companies for it. His reason for doing so was because, he said, "My time on this planet is limited. It frustrates me every day of my life that I have to waste time queueing." Ridiculous? Maybe. But he received several payments including a cheque for £62 from the Pret A Manger cafe founder. Whilst I'd love to charge National Express for the amount of time I've been kept waiting for trains over the years, particularly considering the obscene amount of money I pay for a yearly ticket, I'm realistic enough to realise that waiting is an inevitable part of life. As we enter 2010 and thoughts turn to New Year’s resolutions, I'm going to make an effort to practice some patience. I will try not to see the waiting spells as wasted time, but look at it as a chance to break from the busyness of life. Yeah, right. Failing that, I'll try and keep my tutting, sighing and eye rolling just to myself.
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quim strings n. Imaginary internal female organs that resemble Coronation Street star Deirdre Barlow’s neck.
am often asked by people how different it is living here, down in the south, as opposed to my hometown roots of Sunderland in the North East of England. Firstly, I feel the need to clarify the fact that I am a Mackem, as opposed to a Geordie. Geordies are from Newcastle and this term derives from the name 'George' - but no one seems to know the exact identity of the ‘George’ in question. It might simply be that the name was so popular in the region that it became a nickname for all of it s inhabitants, in much the same way that 'Bruce' means Australian, 'Sharon' means Essex girl, 'Nathan' means twat from Hoxton, and 'Tarquin' means tosser from Kensington. Mackems are from Sunderland. This term seems to have its roots set in shipbuilding, with the most popular theory being that it derives from 'we mack ’em and ye tack ’em (i.e. we make the ships and you take them away). Sadly, they're far more likely to 'mack' cold calls on W earside these days, which no bugger want s to 'tack'. So, what are some of the main differences between the ‘Northern Monkey’ and the ‘Great Big Sof t Southern Jessie’? Ask a southerner what the main
differences are and they'll scoff that they've got gas and electricity and don't have to boil the kettle to fill the bath (or ‘barth’ as they call it).
invariably sold to us as 'luxury compact apartments' on estates that are slightly less crowded than Harrods on the first day of the January sales.
The Angst of Ang
However, a few genuine differences are: Northerners are far friendlier. A northerner will walk into a shop and greet the person behind the counter. What’s more, if the shop is situated in the north of England, you’ll get greeted back as well.
In fact, one of the beauties of living up north is that you can generally ‘pop home’ after work before going out for the evening. Many northerners live so close to where they work that they can easily go home and have a shower before going out on a week night which is something you south easterners probably can’t even imagine? That also means you don't have to wear dull office clothes down the pub after work, or drag huge laptop cases around with you. And deodorant - lovely!
The North-South Divide
We remember to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and generally make small talk in queues. We even, God forbid, chat to people who live in the same street. And if you try to turn out of a side road in the north, a fellow motorist will always stop and usher you into the traffic with a thumbs-up sign. Try that in the south and it’s a totally different hand gesture you’ll get altogether. Northerners have a bit more sp ace around them - they don't have to cram themselves into trains and buses so tightly that they catch a cold off each other. Furthermore, we don't all have to go home to wardrobes that estate agents have
So, contrary to the stereotypical view that we only use baths to store coal in, or ride down hillsides in winter in, most northerners are actually cleaner than their sweaty, southern counterparts. Northerners too will always give their seats up to pregnant women on buses and trains, where as in the south, a huge percentage will simply bury their heads deeper into their
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broadsheets, pretend they haven't seen the lady in question, and mutter, “She's made her bed, so she can jolly well lie in it”. When it comes to drink, northerners can actually hold theirs. What’s more, they’re harder - despite their being no actual evidence. Oh, come on, just look at them! Where as the hardest men in the south - such as Vinnie Jones and Ross Kemp could easily be beaten up by a fishwife from South Shields wielding nothing more sinister than a mackerel. In fact, even the words southerners use to describe hard people - such as 'naughty', 'handy' and 'tasty' - sound soft to me. Strangely enough, the north is actually warmer. OK, admittedly the statistics don't back me up, but just think about it? Northerners wear T-shirts and skimpy dresses all year round - whilst southerners run off crying to the big coat shop as soon as October arrives. Finally, if you recognise the fact that you’re a Great Big Southern Jessie and, after reading this article, you're intrigued by the rich culture of the north and are actually considering paying it a visit, tune in next month for my special cut-out-and-keep 'Tips For Southerners Heading Oop North' section. Alternatively, you can hadaway and shite, man!
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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romancing the bone n. An evening spent at home, alone, with a meal, a bottle of wine, soft music, and a raging boner.
YOUR letters
&
e-m@ils
to theedge!
country has gone completely mad and I do not wish to have anything more to do with it. I realised that things were not working properly a couple of years ago when, despite (like thousands of others) paying 40% of my hard-earned cash in income t ax, 1 1% in National Insurance, a further 17.5% of what's left in VAT, nearly 70% t ax, sorry, fuel duty, on the stuf f I need to put in my car in order to reach the edge of town supermarkets (since there are none in walking dist ance from my house), £1,200 tax to the local authority for the
train to Canary Wharf. More delays were experienced coming home in the evenings and the last straw was the Friday of that week:I arrived at Chelmsford early - 6.20ish - in order to arrive at work early to catch up on the previously late days. It was cold but, because I had foolishly assumed I would have no trouble catching the 6.30am train (or thereabouts) which st arts at Chelmsford and is therefore empty, I had not worn an overcoat. Obviously , 2.5 hours later, when I had still not managed to get on a train, despite having been
This month’s STAR EMAIL!
***
CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Duck
Dear Edge Bloke, I read with interest your article about Mick Duck on p age 5 this month and can categorically tell you that our Michael’ s brother is not called Richard. Do you think we would be so stupid to leave a loved one to the mercy of heartless school children calling him Dick Duck? So we called him Donald instead. Yours sincerely, Mr & Mrs Duck Phew! That’s a relief then. E.E.
Aussie Road Sign
Dear Edge, I don’t ing think so!
****
Love, Kerry x I am inclined to agree, bitch. E.E.
Relocation
Dear Edge, Much as I love England, much as I love all things English (breakfast s, pork pies, Sunday shopping, curry , Stella, Shiraz, etc), I'm afraid that the
The Edge 01245 348256
Hello! I was introduced to your fabulous mag by friends when they were visiting us in Perth, Australia, in July 2009. How was I introduced, you may ask? We were on the coast and had stopped to admire beautiful, wild surf and rugged, Heathcliff-like....well, cliffs, when lo and behold, aforementioned friend stands on the look-out rail, makes sure her botty crack is just grinning out from above her jeans, put s mag in her back pocket, muttering about The Edge being right near her crack, or some such nonsense. A photo was then taken by her chortling, snuffling husband, while the rest of us clueless Aussies looked on with grave concern. We honestly thought they'd taken leave of their senses. Lengthy explanations ensued and we were delighted to think that a photo of our lovely coastline (surf, clif fs, cracks and all) may appear in a future issue of The Edge as proof that it really is an international, jet-setting, global kind of publication. I, for my sins, then read The Edge as we drove through beautiful vineyards, flat lush countryside and st ately forests and just laughed and laughed and laughed. Gleefully so. With great Aussie aplomb! Just wanted you to know that you have Australian fans who can't wait to read future issues. Warm regards, Melita Thomas, Perth, Australia. Let me tell you, dear readers, that is about as good as it gets. My ickle ‘art pamphlet’ has been to places I’ve never been and I honestly think it’s incredible that some of you lovely people out there make a conscious decision (because that’s what it is) to pack a copy of The Edge into that little zipped up comp artment in the lining of your suitcase (af ter all, we DON’T want Customs getting their grubby little hands on it, do we?) in order to t ake a shot of ‘THE EDGE ON ITS TRAVELS’. Thank you from the bottom of my bottom for your email, Matilda (!) . . . it genuinely means a lot. P.S. And the rest of you, just you make sure you READ PAGE 6! privilege of living in my house and over £3,000 (non-t ax-deductible) in train fares, I discovered that the government could not use this money wisely enough to ensure the railway system operates correctly. I spent 3 days in the same week waiting for over an hour for a train to Stratford, with further delays at Stratford waiting for a Jubilee Line
directed between plat forms 1 & 2, a total of 4 times, I was rather cold. It was November, after all. So it was that I started to look for work away from London, even looking for employment outside the UK. Then the world went mad and went into financial melt down. Sadly , I became one of the thousands of casualties from the banking industry and
was (apparently) redundant in January 2009. I then had the miserable misfortune of needing to register as unemployed and claim Jobseekers Allowance. Being proactive and pragmatic, I could see no immediate reality of finding a job back in banking so, with the extremely generous assist ance of a good friend, I attempted to set up a small business. As this was being done entirely from scratch, it ate up a considerable proportion of my redundancy settlement and would obviously take some time to reach the point where I could draw a wage. Therefore, the small weekly p ayment from the Job Centre was very import ant for myself and my wife to keep our heads above water. The action to st art a business was entirely my own initiative in an effort to get me of f the unemployed st atistics and back to self-suf ficiency. However, the Dept. for W ork and Pensions had an entirely different view. Despite me being completely honest about everything I was doing in setting up the business, after just 4 weeks my Jobseekers Allowance was stopped without any warning or notification whatsoever. That was at the end of March and, despite countless ’phone calls, I still have not received an explanation, or even a decision on whether or not I was actually entitled to the allowance. I still have not received a P60 for the end of the 2008/09 t ax year, nor a P45 for when I gave up, signed off, and went to do some selfemployed motorbike courier work back in May. I discovered that it was (is) impossible to speak to the people dealing with my case and, although every time I called the st aff assured me that they would send an e-mail to the team dealing with my case, and that someone would call me, I have received neither a ’phone call nor any post al correspondence. To put this in perspective, I have p aid over £5,000 in National Insurance contributions in each of the last 5 years (I had been continuously employed in various financial institutions since 1980) and Jobseekers Allowance is only around £60pw. I was not trying to cheat the system and was actively looking for work back in the financial industry, whilst attempting to set up a business, possibly with the prospect of employing others. As proof of my endeavours, in July I was offered a job in Switzerland in the finance industry . I accepted, moved out and started the job in August. I love it here. My commute to work is around 5 minutes, I earn about the same as I did this time last year (with no train fares) but only p ay a tot al of around 10% in t ax, including National Insurance and local authority t ax (council tax). The scenery is fant astic, the climate is amazing and crime is minimal. Education and healthcare standards are very high, I feel safe walking down the street at any time of the day or night, there are very few pitbull terriers (and the law to clear up their crap is enforced), everyone is fit, whilst laws are made by the populous, by consensus, and not by politicians for political gain I have no intention of returning to Britain. David Lloyd.
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Rolf Harris eating a banana sim. Descriptive of a close-up intercourse scene in an early VHS blue movie.
Notes from the Battlefront
gargantuan taxation on tobacco is not to discourage the consumption thereof. If it were, a So my friends, completepacket of fags would ly broke? Credit Card cost £30, or be banned statement thudded onto altogether. Neither is it a the front door mat yet? health issue, despite Excessive Christmas NHS's attempts to persespending? Full of cute smokers by refusing remorse? Don't worry, them treatment. It is simjust follow the example ply a case of ‘cake and of our own Government. eating it’. Get loads of Borrow tons and tons of revenue and let it continmoney (much more than by a Fat ue. However, there is a you need, actually, but fatal flaw. Taxation has Capitalist Pig borrow it anyway before residing in Leafy now reached a level your rating isn't worth where it is economic for the paper its written on) Surrey! peddlers of contraband and borrow it over at to operate within very comfortable least a 15 year period so you can margins, thereby depriving the forget it’s actually there, as the Treasury of billions in lost revenue. repayments won't be very big, Far better to reduce taxation so that unless (and until) you need to bora packet costs, say £3.50. row again. Yes, my friends, Calvin Paradoxically, the contraband trade would surely turn in his grave. As would be forced out of business would Schopenhauer or Nietsche... overnight, more people would but I digress. Saving for a rainy smoke and revenues would actually day simply isn't worth it anymore, rise. Whilst on the subject (OK, I we learn, because the institutions declare an interest), anti-smoking we used to trust go bust, and even legislation needs revision. Pubs, if they don't, the longer we're with clubs and the like should be able to them, the more they take the piss sign up to allow smoking on their out of us. The secret today is to premises. This would be openly always be a new customer, declared and consumers would be otherwise you’re a sucker. And free to make their choice. The same once you’ve borrowed the money, goes for potential employees. with a couple of clever tricks, you Choosing to work in such places won’t even have to repay it would constitute explicit acceptance (or perhaps just a little bit) - just that they are well aware of the go bankrupt instead, which is dangers allegedly inherent therein, surely the best way not to p ay and as such they would not be peranyone and still keep your yacht. mitted to pretend their ‘human Bonus anyone? rights’ or other such tosh, have been infringed. By all means charge Coveting my a levy for the privilege. With the neighbour’s ass... weather we ‘enjoy’ in this country, it is just plain madness to enter an The Queen doesn't want us t aking empty pub, where 70% of it s pictures of her or her family when customers are huddled outside, they're "orf duty". Fine with me. indulging in their favoured addiction. Am I the only one in this country No wonder so many pubs and clubs who actually believes that a private are closing. Oh, and by the way, life means exactly that? The fact Happy New Year. Only 5 months to that we all pay some minuscule go until the General Election. amount to their upkeep (I'd far
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Borrow, borrow, borrow...
rather treat Her Maj than the professional larcenists for whom we are supposed to vote) is of no relevance. Everyone should be entitled to some level of basic privacy, whether they’re ‘in the public eye’ or not. Photographs of me coveting my neighbour's ass (a heinous thought) is not in the public interest, unless it takes place (guess what?) in public. My back garden is not public, even if there is the odd hole in the fence.
Poor smokers... And now a word for our poor , demeaned, put-upon smokers (providers of billions in taxes for the NHS to fritter away on Management Consultants). We all know that the
Pukka... Some words of praise: Yours truly, fat capitalist pig from leafy Surrey, made a trip in September to the cultural heartland of this great nation of ours: Chelmsford. Remember, corpulent money men like me don't do ‘public’ services like the NHS (we go private, dear). So imagine my surprise, finding myself in A&E at Broomfield Hospital early one Sunday morning, in a waiting room awash with pink velours tracksuits, sovereign rings and multicoloured hair. However, I was seen to quickly, efficiently, and treated like the King I am. So three cheers for the superb staff at Broomfield Hospital. Pukka, innit?
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schizophrenic face n. A lady with positively stunning eyes, but a nose like Ricky Tomlinson’s.
ONLY JOKING! Suspicious
I'm not normally the suspicious type, but the wife told me yesterday that Gavin from Autoglass came round and injected some of that special resin stuff into her crack....and she doesn't even have a car.
Blonde in Distress
A blonde goes into work one morning crying her eyes out. Her boss asks her symp athetically, “Whatever's the matter, pet?” The blonde replies, “Early this morning I got a ’phone call saying that my mother had p assed away.” The boss, feeling incredibly sorry for her , says, “There, there. Look, why don't you go home for the day? Or the rest of the week even? Just t ake some time off to relax and get some rest.” “Thanks boss, but I think I’ll be better of f here,” says the blonde. “I need to keep my mind of f it and the best chance I have of doing that is if I stay here and get on with some work.” Her boss reluct antly agrees and a couple of hours pass by before he decides to check on her again. When he sees her , she is crying hysterically once more. “Are you sure you’re OK?” he asks her. “No!” exclaims the blonde. “I just received a horrible ’phone call from my sister and her mum’ s just died too.”
Surprise Surprise
A little girl walks into her p arents' bedroom. "Holy ****!" she screams. "And you want me to see a doctor about sucking my thumb?"
Sexual Harassment
Every day, a male co-worker walks up very close to a female colleague whilst she’ s at the cof fee machine, inhales a big breath of air and tells her that her hair smells nice. After a week of this, she simply cannot st and it anymore so t akes her complaint to a supervisor in the personnel dep artment and st ates that she wants to file a sexual harassment grievance. The Human Resources supervisor is puzzled by her decision and asks, “What's sexually threatening about a co-worker telling you that your hair smells nice?” The woman replies, "Er , hello. It's Keith. You know, the midget."
Lost Over Ireland
A man is lost in a hot air balloon somewhere over Ireland. He looks down and sees a farmer in a field and shouts, "Hellooo. Where am I?" The farmer shouts back, "In a basket.”
Materialism
A Londoner parks his brand new Porsche in front of his comp any’s Northern of fice in Matlock to show it off to his colleagues up there. As he is getting out of the car a lorry comes speeding along, far too close, and t akes his driver’s door clean off before zooming away.
More than a little distraught, the Londoner grabs his mobile 'phone and immediately calls the police. Five minutes later, the cops arrive, but before the policemen have a chance to ask any questions, the man st arts shouting and screaming hysterically, "My Porsche!” he cries. “Just look at my beautiful silver Porsche. It’ s ruined. No matter how long it's at the p anel beaters, it'll never be the same again." To which the policemen shake their heads in disgust. "W e can't believe how materialistic you bloody Londoners are," says one. "You lot are so focused on your possessions you don't notice anything else." The Porsche driver is aghast. "How can you say such a thing at a time like this?" The policemen reply, "Don't you realise that your arm was torn of f at the socket when that truck went past?" The Londoner looks at the bloody stump by his shoulder for the very first time and screams, "'Aghhhhh! My watch! My watch! Where's my bloody Rolex?"
Bereaved
A wee Irish boy is sat crying by the side of the road. A lady eventually wanders by and asks, "What's wrong, son?" The boy says, "Me Ma’s just died." "Oh bejaysus," says the kindly lady. "Do you want me to get Father O'Riley?" The wee boy quickly replies, "No thanks, missus. Sex is the last ting on moi mind roight now ."
Apple iTit
Apple Computer announced today that it has developed a computer chip that can store and play high fidelity music inside women's breast implants. The iTit will cost between £500 to £750 depending on the speaker size. This is considered to be a major breakthrough, due to the fact that since time began, women have always complained about men staring at their breasts and not listening to what they say.
Accident
Paddy is cleaning his rifle when he accident ally shoots his wife. He immediately dials 999. Paddy says, "It's me, Paddy . It's the wife. I've accidentally shot her and I think I've killed her ." The operator says, "Please sir, calm down. Now, can you first make sure that she really is dead?" CLICK, BANG. "OK," says Paddy, "now what?"
Bagpiper
As a bagpiper, I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man who had no family or friends. The funeral was to be held at a cemetery in the remote countryside and this man would be the first to be laid to rest there. As I was not familiar with the backwoods area, I became lost and, typical of a man, did not stop for directions. I finally arrived an hour late. I saw the backhoe and the crew who were eating lunch, but the hearse was nowhere in sight. I apologised to the workers for the inexcusable lateness of my arrival and stepped to the side of the open grave where I saw the vault lid already in place. I assured the workers that I would not hold them up any longer and they quickly gathered around, still eating their sandwiches. Well, I played my heart and soul out. And as I played, one by one, the workers began to weep.
I played and I played like I'd never played before, from Going Home and the Lord is my Shepherd to Flowers of the Forest, before closing my session with Amazing Grace. As I was getting into my car to leave, I overheard one of the workers saying to another , "Sweet Jeezuz, Mary'n'Joseph, I never seen nothin' like that before....and Oi've been putting in septic tanks for over twenty five years."
Jack & Jill
Jack and Jill went up the hill, so Jack could lick Jill's fanny. Jack got a shock and a mouthful of cock, 'cos Jill was a pre-op tranny.
Bullfrog
A woman went into a store to buy her husband a pet for his birthday . After looking around, she found that all the pets were very expensive. She told the assist ant that she wanted to buy a pet, but she didn't want to spend a fortune. "Well," said the assist ant, "I have a very large bullfrog that’s specially trained to give blow jobs." "Blow jobs!" the woman replied. "We've already sold 30 of them this month alone," said the assistant. The woman thought it would be a great joke gif t, but if true - h’hey - no more blow jobs for her. So she bought the frog. When she got home and explained the frogs special t alent to her husband, he was extremely sceptical and merely laughed it of f. That night though, the woman went to bed happy, hoping that she may never again need to perform such a demeaning act. But then, in the middle of the night, she was rudely awakened by the sound of pots and pans being crashed around the kitchen. So she ran downstairs, only to find her husband and the frog busy at the stove. "What on earth are you two doing making all this racket at this ungodly hour?" she demanded. With a huge grin of satisfaction on his face, her husband replied, "If I can teach this frog to cook, you’re history."
Zoo
Turning on the SatNav it said: 'Bear lef t'. H’hey, waddayaknow .....there on my lef t was a zoo. How good is that?
Skunk
A man and his wife were driving home one very cold night when his wife suddenly shouted, "STOP THE CAR! STOP THE CAR!" She had spotted a baby skunk lying by the side of the road, so she got out to see if it was still alive. Fortunately it was. So she said to her husband, "The poor thing's nearly frozen to death. Can we t ake it home with us, get it warm, then release it in the morning?'" "OK, honey," said her husband. So she carefully picked it up and climbed back into the car . "Where shall I put it to get it warm?" she asked. "Why, put it between your legs," her husband replied. "It's always nice and warm there." "OK”, she said. “But what about the smell?" Her husband said, "OK, so pinch it’ s nose."
Terrorist Business
I hate all this terrorist business. I used to love it when you used to be able to look at an unattended bag on the train or bus and think, ‘I'm f ***ing having that!’
Shortsighted
Did you hear the one about the short-sighted circumciser who got the sack?
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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taxi driver’s tan n. An area of sunburn on the right index finger caused by hooking it on top of the cab whilst pootling along.
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The lengths Edge readers will go to get themselves in the mag... Here’s Miles Gawthorp reading The Edge whilst sat on the very plug that keeps all of that lovely turquoise water in the Red Sea (and that’ s a fact, readers), just off the coast of Hurghada, Egypt. Now come on, eh? This mag’s received a few ‘Edge On Tour’ snapshots in its time, but surely this one t akes the biscuit? And see, look how WATERPROOF the mag is (thanks due to the truly excellent job Printwize of Witham do in ‘sealing’ it). Miles confesses, “The plug is about twelve feet deep and appears to be made out of a car tyre with some concrete in the middle and a handle with a chain attached to a pontoon, which doubtless it’ s there to anchor.” Hmmmm, that’s all getting far too technical for The Edge....although surely the question begs, just how is this bloke managing to sit there so coolly without floating back up to the surface?
EDGE GR AFFI TI
IATELY D E M M I Y T I L A U BISEX NCES A H C R U O Y S E L DOUB ON A OF HAVING SEX T! SATURDAY NIGH Quite obviously, it’s true. It does. It has to. Having said that, it’s surely a huge price to p ay....unless you’re a woman. Oh, come on, we all know that it’ s different for woman, right? A little woman-on-woman action has never been classed as full on lesbianism. In fact, it is to be positively encouraged.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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hoyin’ a Woodbine doon Northumberland Street sim. In Newcastle, unsatisfactory sex with a bucket-fannied heffer.
Workplace Dangers
An all too common sight in the building game. Christened the ‘Isadora Duncan ef fect’, this ignorant workman, fresh back on a Mo nday morning after a weekend spent up in Macclesfield ‘visiting friends’ (a likely story) is about to suffer a freak three month sabbatical with a severely broken neck. Which brings into question the whole British Standards rule book about ground workers not being able to whistle at pretty women as they p ass by, yet they’re seemingly allowed to sport long pink feathery scarves whilst ‘on-the-job’???
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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tin of Vim with an apple on top sim. Fictitious penis measurement.
TV GOLD - HECTOR’S HOUSE!
‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know , you’re indestructible...’ and this month, readers, it’s Hector’s House.
“What are you going to do with that lovely long pole of yours?” Zaza the cat asks Hector.
You do remember Hector’s House, don’t you, readers? It used to come on just before the 5.45pm news five days a week. Originally broadcast by the BBC in 1965, The Edge remembers it best for it s 1970’ s heyday , starring Roger Moore as Old Hector and Tony Curtis as Danny Wilde. Hell, no! That’s The Persuaders I’m confusing it with, which will be reviewed later in this right riveting series. Hector’s House was in fact a French production (just like the more famous Magic Roundabout ) originally called La Maison de Toutou (The House of the Doggie) about Hector, a dopey puppet dog, and Zaza (whose voice was by Joanna Lumley), an irrit ating cat who Hector had mist akenly shacked up with in a house in the middle of a beautiful garden filled with flowers. And do you remember that, quite frankly , rather pathetic frog (trust the French to put a frog in it) called Kiki who lived next door and was forever up a ladder trying to spy on Hector and Zaza, no
doubt trying to catch them up to no good in some form of dog/cat carnal entanglement? Zaza and Kiki of ten used to play tricks on soppy old Hector, leading him to say his famous catchphrase, “I’m just a great big (whatever) Old Hector!” at the end of every episode, of which some 78 were broadcast, all of them pure (not) gold....GOLD....always believe in your soul (ahhh SHUDDUP, Hadley). A typical episode would begin thus: Hector and Zaza begin work on their garden, but Hector is disturbed to find a small hat on one of his plant s. Who could it belong to? A hat? A bloody hat? A caterpillar, maybe. But a hat? S’truth. Or: Hector gets upset when Zaza and Kiki do not believe he has a Scottish cousin. Lord preserve us. And: Hector is very irritable. He cannot stand any noise and gets extremely annoyed when he tries to meditate but keeps getting disturbed. Only then things start to look up: Hector is bored. So bored, in fact, that he calls for Kiki to entertain him.... Now that’s more like it (I knew there was life in the old dog yet etc.), only I can’t say as though I remember that episode as a 10 year old. Ha! I’ve just this minute watched an episode on You T ube called Hector Never Forget s and it’ s taken almost 40 years off me at a stroke. Blimey, I never remember the suave old dog being so incredibly debonair (he genuinely could be a canine version of Roger Moore af ter all). Mind you, shame about his Parkinson’ s Disease (watch it and you’ll see exactly where The Edge is coming from, readers). Email The Edge with your favourite TV GOLD!
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step on a duck v. To create a quack. “Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve just....”
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EDGE DVD REVIEW
Can’t believe it’s taken me so very long to watch it. Set in the grubby backstreets of Mumbai, this is a rags-to-riches classic, although I was taken aback by just how brutal some of the scenes are. As you can guess, it’ s Who Wants To Be An Indian (rupee) Millionaire (£280,000) and the boy genius from the slums goes all the way (there’ s really no prizes for guessing that, whilst knowing the outcome does not alter the enjoyment of this movie one iota....definitely a great flick to see the New Year in with). Oh, and Freida Pinto (on the DVD cover) is absolutely gorgeous - and I do mean jaw-droppingly beautiful (in The Edge’s humble opinion) - whilst Anil (anal) Kapoor makes for a superbly smug (bastard) Chris Tarrant. I suppose I should have guessed that under Danny Trainspotting Boyle’s direction there’d be nothing namby-pamby about this marvelous flick. All movies hired from BLOCKBUSTER. VERDICT : You’ll love it!
YET ANOTHER RIGHT RIVETING IDEA FROM THE EDGE! OK, now no disrespect to cab drivers intended, alright, because The Edge knows a lot of cabbies read the mag and they’ve been having a tough enough time of it as it is of late. BUT.......if there’s one thing I cannot st and it’s cab fares! I just can’t stand ’em. And I’m not saying they’re too high for the service of fered....I’m simply saying I HATE paying ’em, so I don’t. (But I’m lucky in so much as I live pretty close to town and if I’m out on a Friday night, I’ll cycle down to Lengthy Boy’ s, park my bike in his shed - I have my own key at a very reasonable rate, it has to be said - and walk into town from there, irrespective of whether I’m actually going out with him or not.) But the times the wife and I visit The F ckwit’s or The Bates Motel over in W rittle and have to return * home in the wee small hours in a cab..... aghhhh, I just hate parting with the best part of a tenner. So, why hasn’t any enterprising individual, or comp any, come up with the idea of Booze Buses on Friday and Saturday nights that don’t even start running until, I dunno, midnight? It’d be brilliant, wouldn’t it? Climbing aboard a Booze Bus for the journey home, complete with proper conductors in uniforms who have machines on leather strap s over their shoulders, and when you tell ’em where you want to get of f, they twiddle a few digit s on their machines (just like real conductors used to do on my School Bus back in the seventies), turn a handle really fast and HEY PRESTO, issue you with a proper paper ticket that doesn’t cost an arm or a leg. OK, so the good thing would be that it’d probably cost about 75% less than the fare of a cab, whereas on the downside, it’d take a fair old while longer to reach your destination (what with continually having to stop to eject any passengers who puke)....but who cares? You’re shit-faced and it’s well after midnight already, so what’s another hour? Now is this a GRAND IDEA, or what? And how cool would it look......a fleet of old bright red buses driving around Chelmsford between midnight and dawn, depositing late night stragglers to their humble abodes? Bugger, a SPECIAL SERVICE could even be run between 19:00hrs 20:00hrs that’d drop people off in the middle of town from all over Chelmsford and in summer there could even be OPEN TOPPED BOOZE BUSES with the sounds of Oona Paloma Blanca blaring out (or whatever it’s called)! So COME ONNNNNNNN.....The Edge is handing this idea to someone on a plate. What more do you want? Get the bugger started! I honestly think I’ve thought this one through and I cannot see any drawbacks. And it wouldn’t affect cabbies P155 UP either because most people would want to get home quickly. But surely I’m not the only tightwad in town who would just LOVE a BOOZE BUS?!
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sticky toffee pudding n. A particularly clingy Thora that sticks to everything it touches, particularly one’ s anal hair.
DRINKING & YOGA ...same difference!
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Balasana
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stirring the porridge v. To have sloppy seconds, to have a dip in the billposter’s bucket.
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This month I have mainly been learning about the history of crime in our great capit al city by t aking a visit to ‘The Black Museum’.
THIS MONTH I HAVE MAINLY BEEN...
Yes, it's pretty macabre, but seeing a p an that was used to fry a man's brain before being eaten, complete with little bits of grey matter still stuck to the surface, was definitely ghoulishly fascinating. "You Slaaaags!" For those of you who don't know , ‘The Black Museum’ is a more colourful name for the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum, based at New Scotland Yard. It's been open since 1875, af ter the Prisoner's Property Act in 1869 gave the police the authority to keep cert ain items of property that directly related to various crimes.
Case af ter case of weaponry was on display, ranging from iron bars and pipes, to solid gold knuckle dusters and medieval morning stars. One bizarre looking piece was a leather glove that had scalpel blades attached to each finger, a la Freddy Krueger . Apparently, this was used by a p air of lunatics who enjoyed riding through the street s of London on a moped, slashing
almost MacGyver like abilities of some of our criminal underclass. Apparently, this is a good thing, as there's a popular police saying that goes: "stupid criminals make stupid coppers". W e've all heard of the classic ‘sword stick’, a walking stick that cont ains a sword blade, and there were several of them on display. However , some enterprising scamp s had made several other walking stick weapons with a far more modern twist. In fact, some were fully working 12 guage shotguns and you really wouldn't have been able to tell the dif ference between them and a normal walk-
writes Kingpin
He became known as the ripper af ter he began mutilating their corp ses with an old style tin opener , which looks absolutely nothing like the one below.
Would you care for an evisceration, madam? Probably my all time favourite was the preserved p air of arms that had been hacked off at the elbow , a large chunk of bone clearly visible protruding from the ragged flesh on the right hand appendage. This belonged to an ex-Navy man who turned to smuggling af ter his term of service ended. Falling foul of the law in the UK, he fled to Germany where he soon began to run short of funds.
ry a man's f to d e s u s a w g a pan that in e e s matter t y u e b r , g e f r o b a s c it a b m le y plete with litt “Yes, it's prett m o c , n te a e ascinating.” f g in ly e h b s e li r u o o f h e g b brain His wife still lived in the UK though, was definitely , e c a f r u s e th so naturally he popped back over to to k ing stick, which is both brilliant and c stu murder her and his mother-in-law , and
The Museum is used primarily as an instructional aid to the police force and regular visit s to the
museum are actually a required part of CID training. I was very lucky to gain entry as the museum is not open to the general public, but what with my super powers and all...
pedestrians across the back and buttocks.
Some of the weaponry on display was devilishly inventive and shows the
The term ‘Black Museum’ was actually coined by a reporter for the Observer newspaper way back in 1877 af ter he was refused entry (clearly for having a distinct lack of super powers, the nerd). Luckily, I have a friend who is an upstanding member of our capit als constabulary and he managed to wangle me an invite to go along with him a couple of weeks ago. It's odd to know that, outside of police and law enforcement professionals, I st and in the select comp any of visiting heads of state, members of the Royal Family , Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, somewhat bizarrely, Laurel & Hardy. We pretty much had the place to ourselves for an hour or so and despite the museums small size, I could have easily spent another couple of hours in there as there is so much to see. Everything in the museum has been part of a serious crime, murder , or assault in London, and as everything has been used as evidence at some point, nothing is cleaned, so blood stains and even, in cert ain inst ances, chunks of flesh are clearly visible.
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majorly disturbing.
Stupid criminals were still much in evidence, of course, as shown wonderfully by the p air of fake legs with size 8 shoes att ached. These belonged to a burglar who was tired of being caught due to the distinctive size 12 footprint s he kept leaving at the scenes of his crimes, so he made a fake p air of size 8 feet and used to ‘walk’ them around the crime scene before he left. Trouble was, he did this by pushing the fake legs down with his hands while he walked along behind them, merrily wiping out the fake print s with his easily recognizable size 12 clodhoppers! Some of my favourite pieces on display were Dennis Nilsen's infamous bath tub, cooker and pot that he actually used to boil heads and body p arts of his numerous victims. However, the Kray twins were obviously the main attractions and I loved their ingenious briefcase murder weapon, with the spring loaded, poison filled syringe sticking out of the side of it, though curiously , it was some of the more unknown crimes and artefact s that were really interesting.
Pinch of salt, stock cube, severed head…
I'd never even heard of ‘The Blackout Ripper’ before and part of me still wishes I never had. This cheeky chappy used to spend his night s st alking the darkened streets of London during the Blitz, hunting down lone women and strangling them with a pair of silk tights.
then scarpered back to Germany. His plan was to cash in on his wife's life insurance policy and live a life of beer and Schnitzels in the Fatherland for a few years. Unfortunately for him though, the Met police knew exactly who was responsible and asked the German authorities to extradite him. Knowing he was going to get caught, our intrepid hero blew his own head off before he could be arrested. Now , the Met knew it was him, but to clear the double-murder on their books, they needed to formally identify him, so they asked the German authorities to send over a copy of the suspect s fingerprints. Our German cousins aren't particularly well known for their sense of humour , but whoever decided to get the Met their fingerprint s by hacking of f the suspects arms, putting them in a box and posting them to Scotland Yard was obviously the exception to the rule. I could write p age af ter p age about ‘The Black Museum’ as it was so full of fascinating stuf f I honestly can't do it justice here. The fact is though, I really do feel privileged to have been invited. Only next time - if there ever is a next time - I really must remember to try and sneak out with that solid gold knuckle duster because I reckon it could come in handy.
To comment on this right riveting article, go to www .theedgemag.co.uk/Kingpin
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tantrum n. A (female) monthly exhibition of petulance.
Making Profit From Debt
Michael Macintyre, the well known comedian, cancelled a performance at the O2 Arena when he discovered that he had been booked to perform at a show to celebrate a successful year of trading by a debt recovery comp any; they had made £13m profit from debt recovery charges. You know the kind of thing; "What's that you say? You've lost your job, due to the recession, and you can't pay your bills? Well, the bad news is we're going to add to your debt. First of f, we'll rack up the interest, then add our outrageous fees, sell all your possessions and repossess your house. When we've sold everything you own, you'll still owe us a huge sum of money . But don't worry, it's not all bad news; your life may be in ruins, but we’re making a great profit out of your loss." Mr Macintyre walked out on a £28,000 fee. W ell done, he’s obviously a man with principles. Surely it is difficult to conceive of a more lowly profession than that of a debt collector in a recession.
Good News for 2010 - Electricity Bills to Rise AGAIN
We are encouraged to use less electricity to reduce our carbon footprint and save the planet. So we all cut back, but what do they do? Put the bloody price up, because our economising to save the planet reduces their profit. We use less, they charge more; it's a great system.
Elderly Drivers
In the space of one week I saw an elderly man drive into a parking bay and straight into the post displaying the ‘disabled parking’ sign. He
just drove in and hit it. No messing about. Then, both he and his wife sat there, tot ally bewildered for a few minutes; they were probably wondering why their car had come to such an abrupt halt. An elderly lady pulled out in front of me at the Wood Street roundabout the other day. She waited at the ‘give way lines’ until I was just about to pass in front of her before she pulled out. It was a very near miss. Then I saw another elderly gent drive over a high kerb in the Homebase car p ark causing significant damage to his front wheel and the underside of his car. He kept going though, despite the terrible noise his car had st arted to make; eventually making it to a p arking bay. He then went into the store, tot ally oblivious to the damage to his car. A few weeks ago, an elderly lady hit a mother and child on a zebra crossing in Brentwood High Street, causing critical injuries to the child. And let's not forget the elderly lady who pulled out of Hylands Park into the p ath of a (non speeding) motorcyclist who died as a result. Speed kills? No, elderly drivers do that.
Cancer Treatment
I saw a television news story about a camp aign to raise funds to send a little girl to America for cancer treatment. The report showed a group of little girls engaged in a swimming event to raise money for their friend. One little girl said, "W e want to make her better so she can st ay alive, like us." Isn't it comforting to know that, while a little girl dies, this country, the seventh richest in the world, will pay £500m in bonuses to bankers at RBS.
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Who cares? We clearly don't. We'll all sit on our arses and simply do nothing, won't we? Happy New Year and **** our sick and disgusting society.
Ten things we can do without in 2010
The Grumpy Goose
1. Jordan - a truly pointless, useless, vacuous waste of space. 2. MPs - their shameful dishonesty devalues our democracy. 3. Religion - particularly the hypocritical, corrupt, morally bankrupt, sadistic, cowardly Catholic church. 4. The war against terror - the pointless deaths of soldiers and civilians in Afghanistan and Iraq. 5. Wind farms - the total uglification of the countryside. 6. Greed - MPs, bankers, debt collectors etc. 7. Elderly drivers - bringing death to our roads with alarming regularity. 8. Michael Jackson - he's dead! For God’ s sake let him rest in peace. 9. Petrol station supermarkets - you know the sort of thing, you fill your car up, go to the counter to pay, and wait, and wait, while someone pays for their weekly groceries. 10. The Daily Mail - The Sun for the middle classes - the great orchestrator of public outrage - spreading intolerance and fear throughout the land.
OK!
So it was decided that The Edge needed a cartoon strip, so here you go. Here’ s numero uno. By The Edge Editor, for my sins. The strip came off t’internet and I bastardised it to suit (i.e. I rubbed the speech-bubbles clear and added my own dialogue). Is there a follow-up to this p articular strip? The short answer to that is ‘no’. However , you readers are welcome to have a cra ck at it, if you like? And, if I think that which you provide is funny enough, or maybe I see it’ s got some legs, then it will most c ertainly appear within these pages at some future point in the not too dist ant future. But somehow it’s got to have a Chelmsford twist, OK? Furthermore, if there are any student s out there who’re studying (presumably) art at any of our town’ s colleges and reckon you can draw a decent cartoon from scratch, then please do get in touch as The Edge might well be an outlet to display your considerable t alents (only please get in touch prior to putting pen to paper, as it is my experience that although you might well be able to draw , you’re often quite hopeless when it comes to figuring out the dialogue). Unquestionably there are strictly NO PRIZES to be gleaned for sending your stuf f in (what do you want, a crayon set?). The prize, as it is, would be the opportunity to have your work exhibited in Chelmsford’ s finest gallery, which is, undoubtedly, this very organ, which naturally could lead to greater things (a job painting road markings on the street???). Furthermore, if there are any resident s of Beaulieu Park, and in p articular down the notorious Frances ‘red light’ Green area, who take umbrage to my exceptionally fine creation (below), then let’s be hearing from you too. Oh, come on, the rest of Chelmsford all knows that you’re all ‘fur coat s and no knickers’ up at Beaulieu. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover? Pagh! You can say that again. But you can all be forgiven for that (you can), just so long as you t ake it upon yourselves to confess!
PARK L I F E Look Jasmin, be reasonable. My wife will be home soon...you need to get yourself sorted and I’ll call you a cab.
On the outside looking in...how THE EDGE sees life in Beaulieu Park Be reasonable? Understand you? It’s all about YOU, YOU, YOU in this sordid little excuse for a RELATIONSHIP, you prick.
I say, now hang on. That’s a trifle harsh, isn’t it? After all, I only met you for the very first time at a Frances Green shindig last night, REMEMBER???
Oh, so you’ve had your dirty little way with me - and it is LITTLE, by the way - so now you think you can simply dismiss me, do you? Well I want MORE than that.
But Jasmin, whatever do you mean? I just fancied a bit of rough and you certainly seemed happy to oblige. But last night was last night and now it’s this morning and.... haven’t you got a trench to go and dig?
I LIKE IT HERE. I’M STAYING
PUT!
The Edge 01245 348256
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Lawn sausages n. Dog eggs.
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It's the st art of another year for us all. There is a miserable greyness that descends upon even the most optimistic soul at this time of year , and it drags on right through the winter until the days st art to warm up a bit. Granted, even then the weather will still be grey, but at least it will be mild and grey instead of cold, wet and grey . However, there is one breed of creature for which the early days of January bring a small amount of cheer . The Edge columnist. This fine publication is ideal material for whiling away a few minutes on the train, having your hair dried, or even during the daily constitutional. You can pick it up and put it down. Dip in and dip out. That's what it's for. What it p atently isn't is a mustread-cover-to-cover, every-word-isimportant piece of literature. Except, of course, in the horrible period known as Christmas. You know, those days that begin on December 24th in a boozy haze and then drag interminably into early January. It's a period when pretty soon you've reached saturation point. You can eat no more, have drunk enough to float a battleship, and the TV stations are reduced to re-runs of Christmas shows from 20 years ago and fourth rate films. You've broken the ironic toy you were given for Christmas, can't face the shop s, and if you see another relative before April, you'll kill them. In a word, you're bored. Bored enough to go for a walk. Bored enough to watch horse racing. Bored enough…. to read the Edge from cover-to-cover. So, you see, for the Edge columnist, it's the one time of year you can actually expect that someone other than your immediate family will be reading all those words that have been slaved over so lovingly. Anyway, that's by way of a very long build up to a little piece of seasonal non-cheer that fit s the mood perfectly. It seems that in Walton on the Naze there is a group of people that have formed an association at which like-minded individuals can
converse on equal terms with others of similar ilk. It's called the BahHumbug club, and as you'll have guessed from the name, the members are not entirely enamoured of Christmas. In fact, they are so against the whole damn shooting match, that it's not even enough to opt out and band together for a week to avoid turkeys and streamers with great ostentation. No, they have t aken it one stage further. Not only will these admirable men (and you just know for sure they are all males) ignore the C-word themselves, but they won't be happy unless they ruin it for everyone else as well. So, just to bugger-up any good cheer that may possibly have made it past Boxing Day, in a truly brilliant piece of chutzp ah, they make a great show of eating reindeer . No cuddly Rudolphs for them, no siree. Mr Red Nose is getting a bit warmer than he counted on, as big chunks of his hind quarters are served with some fava beans and a nice little chianti. Having learned of these men, it's hard not to feel an admiration for their ability to defy the social expectations. They've gone where many would like to go, if only they had the nerve. Such positive and forward looking action is entirely splendid. Which makes it a big surprise that this wonderful association has been instigated in Walton on the Naze. A bit of witch burning probably wouldn't have been a big shock. Neither would have been a revelation that instead of Christmas the inhabitants of that slightly backward and windswept place had been occupied in some p agan rites involving goat s and not much clothing. The p ast, rather than the future, is what you'd expect in WOTN. So, at this p articular time of year when it’ s fashionable to hand out awards, let's hear it for the good men of W alton's Bah-Humbug club for leading humanity to the next level. They've brightened the start of the year by daring to be dif ferent. However, there's one problem, and unfortunately it undoes a lot of the goodwill they've built up in us fellow misery-guts. They do it all for charity. Clearly I’m not happy with your comments in this p articular article, W ardo. What do you mean ‘dip in and dip out’? I bloody well expect everyone to stop what they’re doing when a brand new edition of The Edge comes out and immediately read it ‘cover to cover’. High expectations? I think not. Like you say , we ‘lovingly’ slave over it, so the least Joe Public can do is show their damned appreciation! E.E.
steveward2000@hotmail.com
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toss pot 1. n. A jar for keeping toss in. 2. n. A person held in incredibly low esteem.
Women complain about the premenstrual syndrome... but surely that’s the only time of the month when they can simply be themselves?
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HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM TIGER & FAMILY
The Edge accepts that this is yesterday’s news....but even so. I guess it’ s so very hilarious because Tiger was seen (wrongly , as it turns out) as being somewhat akin to Holier Than Thou . “But honestly , luvies (as Kim Woodburn might say), he’s a man.....whatever did you expect?� Not only is he a man, but he’ s the best in the world at what he does - the world - as opposed to ‘down our street’. He’ s young, he’ s handsome, he’ s loaded.... so really, what the ****did anyone EXPECT?! Christ, the bloke’ s probably only got to pop into his local newsagent s to buy a ’paper and a p acket of W oodbines and he’ll probably get propositioned three times - and one of those will be by the burly 6’6� former lumberjack owner . So come on, people. Be reasonable. Give the guy a break.
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trilogy n. Also known as Brown Star Wars. A turd of such epic proportions it has to be released in three installments.
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my hand in A Canteen and said, "Get us a brew in, luv, and have one for yourself." I was smitten from that moment onwards.
Can’t see the Woods for the Trees As we welcome in 2010, fat and skint, just thank your lucky st ars you're not Tiger W oods. Not only has he been given a p asting with one of his clubs by his missus, he is about to lose a billion quid. What is it with Swedes and clubbing things to death? You only have to think of those cute baby seals to realise that Tiger never stood a chance.
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His sponsors are reportedly dropping him faster than he dropped his pants. Nike even went so far as to say, “Tiger, when we said just do it, we didn't mean with every broad in town.” Gillette got the right hump when Tiger released a st atement saying that t angling with his missus was the closest shave he'd ever had. Tag Heur have so far been indifferent, saying Tiger’s watch withstood 5,000gs shock and is still ticking. Whilst Chevron waded in and hit back with, “5,000gs and the air bags didn't even go of f." Dubai Holdings, eager to of fload their debts, tried to drop him, but it was at this point that Tiger’s management hit back - "Oh Purleaseeee, Tiger's the last of your problems right now.” I honestly think he should change his name to Cheetah and have done with it.
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However, I can't hold back any longer. For my sins, I must confess that I too have shared a bed with Tiger Woods. What’s more, I've tried selling my story to BBC News and The Sunday Sport, only they told me to, “Get to the back of the queue, love.” Huff. So, I was about to give up and go out shopping when The Ed. of the Edge got wind of my t ale and called up to offer me £1.49 for a warts and all kiss’n’tell. W ell, he sure knows how to strike a bargain does our Ed. It must be his canny northern upbringing that made him the self made man that he is today , ruling The Edge empire with a rod of iron, p acing the floor daily like Gordon Gecko from W all S treet, spouting quotes such as, "Lunch is for wimps". Tight sod - it always is when it’s his turn to pay, mind. I still dine out on the story of the time, way back in 2005, when the Ed. pushed a twenty pound note in
I've actually been waiting for Tiger to call me up and of fer me £10 million to keep quiet, but sadly no, so here goes. Yes, Tigs and I had a tete-atete in the steamy summer of 2009. For a while, he occupied my every waking moment. I used to lie in bed with him - until it was time for us to return home to our p artners - and enjoy finding out more and more about his life, his interest s, what his favourite foods are. I was under his spell. I just couldn't get enough of him. I confess, I was insatiable and used to love falling asleep in his arms whenever the subject of golf arose. I kept on sneaking behind Him Indoors' back to spend almost every waking moment with Tiger and confess I have even eaten from his table, whilst lovingly fondling his balls. What’s more, I can of fer proof that he has a mole on his left buttock Only now I wonder how on earth he ever found the time, let alone the strength, to actually play golf. I always assumed that when Tigs talked about scoring a birdie he was making a golfing reference, only belatedly my eyes have been opened. The swine. How could he lead me up the fairway like that? Looking back on our sordid little affair, it's his wife I feel sorry for . Tiger has been lying to her all along. "The reason we live in a small house surrounded by nosy neighbours and fire hydrant s, darling, is because I don't earn enough to buy us a mansion." It sure seems like being a billionaire doesn't buy you much property these days. Poor old Elin, waiting for the day she can have a mansion like all of her friends, yet all the time Tiger’s been burning up the cash and running up huge ’phone bills and buying vast quantities of Ambient pills to enhance his sexual performance. Poor chap. Has no one told him Ambient is a sleeping pill, guaranteed to send you of f in 60 seconds flat? Sod his transgressions. If I’d have been Elin, I’d have run over him in a golf buggy for all the years he'd made me queue up at IKEA pretending, as a Swede, that I actually liked that stuf f, whilst all my celebrity friends bought ‘up market’ Dansk to kit out their houses. I got to know Tiger W oods earlier this year when I bought his book in Washington DC, whereupon I would lie in bed in Tiger’s arms whilst he read to me about his life and distinguishing birth marks. By complete coincidence, I discovered he owns a stake in a well known burger bar in Washington, so I promptly made Him Indoors take me there for lunch, where they also happened to sell used Tiger W oods balls for charity . Yes folks, his golf balls - what on earth did you think I meant? Tut, what kind of a girl do you t ake me for? Happy New Year.
Tracie123@aol.com
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venetian blind n. An awkward situation in which a gentleman finds there are no curtains on which to wipe his cock.
FIFTY...NOT OUT
ARTICLE TWO
The Continental
There was a time when Europe was a continent. It was classified as such in atlases and encyclop aedias and the constituent p arts were reasonably well known to any British school kid in a geography class. There were France, Germany , S pain, It aly, Switzerland, and some small countries in the North W est between France and Scandinavia. Then there were a few joke st ates like Monaco, Andorra and San Marino. They were jokes only insofar as they are ridiculously small and not really what you'd classify as a country at all. And that was Europe. Nice and compact, easily defined, foreign, and definitely a physical presence. Those boys and girls in class would also have known there was another place - called Eastern Europe beyond the furthest reaches of Germany, but it was all hidden behind what people used to refer to as an iron curt ain, and nobody knew very much about it. Even the teacher would p ass over Eastern Europe in genial dismissal. Then, as women who looked like Geof f Capes, complete with beard, started to win things in the Olympics, the Eastern Bloc, as it came to be known, took on a slightly higher profile, albeit with a rather sinister aura. But it still wasn't Europe. As an aside, as we're t alking about geography lessons, it used to be that such classes would dwell at great length on how the inhabit ants of countries made a living. 'Subsistence farming' was a popular one. What this meant, of course, was that the place under discussion was dirt poor , and its citizens had to spend their whole lives growing something called alfalfa. What they did with this alfalfa was never explained, but it must have been good, because that's what pretty much everyone grew. Perhaps they still do. Back to our main theme though. Sometime back in the 70s, the inhabitants of these islands voted to become a p art of Europe. This was sold at the time as an economic necessity. Whether that's been borne out in fact is moot, and not the point here. The interesting thing is that psychologically it marked the point at which the British were supposed to start seeing themselves as
Europeans along with the French, Spanish etc. That is, we joined 'The Continent'. All these years later , there's still not much evidence that we do see things that way , especially amongst the buf fers in the Conservative party. The opening of the Channel Tunnel in 1994 made it even more dif ficult to deny we were p art of continent al Europe because we didn't even have to cross water to get there. Again though, despite the attempts of many people, the vast majority of us still considered Europe with some suspicion. And that's because the word 'Europe' has t aken on a completely different meaning in the p ast couple of decades. It's no longer a geographical thing at all. No, 'Europe' now means Brussels, Bureaucrat s and Barmy rules about banana curvature rates. And, of course, p aying French farmers to grow stuf f nobody wants. Maybe alfalfa? Europe, with the non-geographical meaning, is a subject that a great many people get very worked up about, be they pro or agin, but here's a thought. There are an equally large number that actually don't care. Of course, those of us in that category know we should care. W e really, truly do underst and that Europe is a serious issue and we ought to have a view. But somehow or other , it's just too dull. If you hear a pro European bang on about it, it's easy to see their arguments and agree that, on the whole, yes, it probably is a good thing. On the other hand, an anti marketer let s flow with an imp assioned diatribe against it and it's equally easy to see their point of view as well. Which kinda reinforces the point. Great swathes of the country simply can't be arsed to work out on which side of the fence they sit. There are so many things that you can get worked up about if you really want to that most people just don't have the energy to cover them all. So we pick and choose the issues that we're going to get red-faced with rage about and somehow Europe doesn't make it very far up the list for most of us. Europe is there now , and it's like trying to stop an oil tanker - there's so much momentum that it's impossible to believe it will ever come to a halt. There are tens of thousands of bastards employed in one way or another getting rich on our money and obviously they have a vested interest in keeping the gravy train running. And such is their power , run it will, whatever the rest of us think.
“HAVE IT!”
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This is what our friendly local Mercedes Benz dealership loaned The Edge for 24 hours.
C200 Kompressor Sport (petrol) with 18” upgraded alloys. Price new: £27, 952 You know that John Smiths TV commercial where those football players are playing keepy-uppy in a circle and the ball get s knocked to Peter Kay who immediately wellies it first time into someone’ s back yard (cue sound effects: dustbin lids clattering). Then, when the camera pans back onto him, by way of explanation, he simply says, “Have it!” Well, that’s exactly what the all (relatively) new C-series Mercedes Benz says to The Edge.....and it’s got absolutely NOTHING to do with the fact that General Sales Manager Lloyd W atson contacted me completely out of the blue with an offer to ‘smoke around’ in one of his motors for a 24 hour period (so long as I didn’t prang it). Quite simply, in your editor ’s humble opinion, the newly designed Mercedes Benz C-series has got to be one of the best looking cars on the road today (it’s literally head and shoulders above any other C-series that have been before it). If you’ve got £24,495 in loose change rattling around in your pocket right at this moment that you’re not sure what to do with, why don’t you go take a test-drive in the very car I borrowed (a 3-month old exdemonstrator with but 5,000 miles on the clock) and you’ll see exactly where The Edge is coming from. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “I’m an Audi man through and through” - my ultimate car unhesit atingly being an S4 Avant, although in ‘the real world’ that would roughly translate to an A4 2.0TDI estate. However, I honestly feel the new C-class est ate looks every bit as good as, if not better than, my beloved A4 Avant....if only I could find a 5 year old one with but 25,000 miles on the clock (which admittedly would be a huge ask, given the fact that the latest design has only been available since June’07). The way its designers have given it - and there’ s really no other way to describe it - such a ‘ **** OFF’ badge in the centre of the grille is nothing short of a masterstroke. Talk about badge envy....a huge three-pointed star in your rear view mirror saying: HAVE SOME OF THIS! The bottom line is, I felt good ‘smoking about’ in a Mercedes Benz. No, make that: it felt really, really good. Some things in life you aspire to. For the likes of yours truly , I think a Bentley’s pushing it. But an ex-Merc demonstrator , like the one that’s up for grabs in this article.....now there’s a lovely thought. Mercedes Benz of Chelmsford White Hart Lane, Springfield, Chelmsford, CM2 5EF 01245 399399
So we shrug our shoulders and say , "Well, what can we do?" and go back to spitting blood about speed cameras, incompetent British workmen, railway comp anies, Manchester United, or whatever else it is that we hate. Which is all very good news for the Euro MPs and of ficials who can continue with their expensive and not very demanding lifestyles whilst we slave away to pay for it. Did the word 'bast already?
ards' get used
To comment on this article head to www .theedgemag.co.uk/Fifty-not-out
This has got to be the best looking estate car on the road bar none? The Edge 01245 348256
The Edge 159:The Edge 159.qxd
17/12/2009
10:38
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