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EDGE
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For many people, classic cars are objects of desire and here are a few other reasons why so many people own them, or are fascinated by the thought of owning one. A common choice is the desire to own a particular car that evokes many happy memories of years gone by. This may be your first car, your dad’s car that drove you to school every day, the fun holidays car, or maybe mum’s small run-around that you learnt to drive in. Many of us have considered owning one of these cars and probably searched the internet for hours on end looking for ‘the’ car. Motorsport and cars that performed well on the track and dirt are also hugely in demand with an international audience of petrolhead fans who followed their favourite cars competing when they were growing up. But for most, such cars were beyond affordable way back then, whereas 30 years on many can afford what was once their dream car. However, for many people it is only investment and the hope of financial gain that drives a classic car purchase. Such cars would usually be of high value, very rare and pristine examples of cars from yesteryear. They would be the cars that historically provided the highest returns. But there is another area of the classic car investment world that is attracting huge attention and it appeals to a younger generation of car fans and investors, and these are known as modern classics. The last three years have seen a surge in values of all classic cars, none more so than those from the 80’s, 90’s and early 2000’s. For instance, many fast Fords, which had little value 20 years ago, are now selling for upwards of £50,000 and have risen in value by a huge 30% in the last couple of years alone. This translates to a significant profit in a very short period of time and the best news of all is that any profit is not taxable, so you get to keep 100% of the increase if you sold it. We accept that there are no guarantees with any potential investments, but in recent surveys classic cars have outperformed property, art and gold, with only stocks doing slightly better. No surprise then that Fairmont Sports & Classics believe that this car investment trend is set to continue as manufacturers wave goodbye to the wonderful combustion engine while society and legislation forces us to a world that all true car lovers despise - electric. :)
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The Edge Editor’s Column 25 MONTHS
GREEK ISLAND Have any of you visited the Greek isle of Amorgos? We’re curious about it, but it sounds as though it might be a bit of a pig to get to. So, our next choice is Paxos and if we go there, we’re wondering where’s the best place to stay between Loggos, Lakka and Antipaxos (which sounds like a naff turkey stuffing). It won’t be until the last week of September, but I’m determined to at least dip our toes in the water, as it’s been over two years since we’ve ventured outside of Blighty.
BLACKBIRD One of our first jobs every single morning, while the kettle is boiling, is to chuck some bird food out for a particular female blackbird, which as its name doesn’t suggest is, in fact, brown (only male blackbirds are black). So far as we can tell, it’s the same bird every morning and she must think we’re suckers, as all she’s got to do is look through our bi-folds and we’re immediately scurrying around for the keys to feed her. Then there’s our two birdbaths which we’re continually having to top up as they truly seem to love ’em. S’truth, it’s almost a full-time job.
CAROL JARVIS Does anyone remember Carol Jarvis who once upon a time lived in Van Diemans Lane? I remember Carol as Ray Flouty’s sidekick, at a time when he used to own the Saracens Head Hotel in Chelmsford. Ray would drive around in his red Bentley convertible, dictating to Carol what he wanted done, and she would jolly well get it sorted. Carol was a great gal who definitely owes me a coffee, so if anyone knows of her, please explain to her that the past 20 years have been far too long to wait for that brew.
QUEEN’S PLATINUM JUBILEE I might be going to a Street Party (yes, where the council officially close the road) to celebrate the fact that Queenie’s given us all a reet long weekend off, so if I do I’ll have to print some photographs for you to look at in the forthcoming July editions, due out just as I’ll have turned 61 (and what a miserable fecking basket I’m going to be then), so watch this space. Have fun on 2nd/3rd June, but do spare a thought for dear old Liz, because we probably won’t see her like again. THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 077 646 7 97 44 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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Well, after 25 months of Covid reaching these shores, me and Mrs Edge finally succumbed, only thank god we’d both got three jabs under our belts by then. Bit miffed at the way we think we contracted it, because it just goes to show that a lot of people simply aren’t that Covid vigilant anymore these days, which is stupid. In fact, some even have a quite blase attitude towards it. Which is grossly selfish. Just because they might get paid for time off work, we’re both self employed, so Mrs Edge certainly didn’t, while I was forced to miss out on a couple of important appointments as well as some surveying assistance work with Lurch, so neither of us were none too pleased about our situation. We still wear our masks in busy places, use hand sanitiser and try to remain as vigilant as possible, because we accept that we will be living with Covid possibly forever. Yet clearly we’re not all singing from the same hymn sheet.
OLDHAM ATHLETIC I was born near Oldham. It says, ‘Place of Birth : Oldham’ in my Passport. I used to watch them play at Boundary Park and even had a season ticket once, which nicely and fortuitously coincided with the Latics being crowned the (old) Third Division champions back in 1973-74. And then there were the crazy years when little old Oldham were one of 22 clubs who were founder members of the Premier League in the 1992/93 season, along with the likes of Blackburn Rovers, QPR, Sheffield Wednesday, Wimbledon, Coventry City, Ipswich Town, Middlesborough, Nottingham Forest, as well as the big guns. And they managed to stay up too, albeit on goal difference, after miraculously beating Aston Villa 1-0 (away), followed by two home victories against Liverpool (3-2) and Southampton (4-3) in their last three games of the season. Only now look at them. Knocked out of the Football League after finishing 91st out of 92 clubs this season (only Scunthorpe were worse than the Latics) and they will now kick-off next term in the National League. ‘F@ck a duck’, as we say oop north.
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As well as there being 10,000 physical copies of The Edge produced each & every month, were you aware that The Edge has over 12,000 online followers? No readers, your editor wasn’t either, as I’m not very au fait with the whole online movement and that’s the truth. But apparently the figures on 20th April 2022 were as follows:TWATTER 5,130 FACECOCK Shaun Edge 4,645 The Edge 1,800 INSTAGRAM 1,475 So what I’d now like to do is increase the number of subscribers who receive The Edge online each and every month as it costs you sweet bugger all to do so. Simply log on to www.theedgemag.co.uk/subscribe and it’ll reach you every month ABSOLUTELY FREE!
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I never cared that you were gay, or transsexual, until you started shoving it down my throat. I never cared what colour you were, until you started blaming me for all of your personal problems. I never cared about your political leanings, until you started condemning me for mine. I never cared where you were born, until you wanted to erase my history and blame my ancestors for your own personal life failures. I never cared if your beliefs were different to mine, until you told me that my beliefs were wrong. But now, now I do care. My patience and tolerance have been totally blown away. If you want any more sympathy, come stand beside me at the coalface one day, because that’s where I’ll be, paying for your brave new world.
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Further to Edge columnist Phil Claydon getting charged an astronomical £7.05 in a Buckinghamshire bakery for an ‘artisan loaf of sourdough bread’ (see last month’s Edge and how they ‘spotted Phil coming’), The Edge reckons this is what fruit and veg market stall holders probably shout out in places like Marlow, where these days radio supremo Chris Evans apparently lives. The Edge first went to Marlow when it visited The Compleat Angler many moons ago. It is situated in a glorious setting right on the Thames, but Ye Olde Edgy-Boy, trying to impress a lady, coughed and spluttered when he was charged around £15 for a couple of G&Ts, and that was over 25 years ago, so Christ only knows what they’re charging now? It’s horrible when you’ve asked for something, or already had it, without knowing the cost, and assumed it would be X, when in fact it turns out to be Y. I do always admire it when a customer stands their ground though. I once remember a very well spoken gentleman taking the staff to task in the Scott Arms in Kingston (near Corfe Castle, Dorset). Now Mrs Edge already knew to steer well clear of ordering a large glass of wine in there (or any sized glass of wine, come to that), so when this chap piped up, “What? Ten pounds for a large glass of Chardonnay? That’s absolutely scandalous.” And it was. Still is. Profit isn’t a dirty word, it’s expected, or else we wouldn’t be sat there enjoying the view, service and surroundings in the first place. But there’s no need to take the piss.
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Stayed overnight in Cardiff Bay for the second time recently, once again with Lurch, while I was moonlighting as a surveyor’s lacky. It’s not like Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth at all, which has a large retail aspect to it. No, Cardiff Bay is mainly a collection of ‘typical’ (chain) places to eat and drink. Having said that, it certainly appears to be extremely popular. We must have got there around 6.00pm one recent Tuesday, after a proper early start to the day when my alarm clock went off at 5:00am, yet by 7:00pm it was chocca everywhere we went. Have to say, we’re not really major fans of Wetherspoons, but the one at Cardiff Bay, set with panoramic views of around 200 hectares of freshwater lake, is without doubt the best we’ve ever visited. Sure, there’s also the impressive Millennium Centre (as featured in the recent April Edge editions) where you can take in a show. But when you’re just ‘staying over’ and ‘passing through’, it’s simply a matter of a couple of beers, food and some kip, before another early start, and the locals certainly appear to flock there in abundance. Which was really good to see, as since when have Tuesday nights been popular evenings to go out? Reminded us of Chelmsford in its heyday when we used to go out every single Friday night, perhaps some 15-20 years ago.
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The other thing we have found is that grass roots football certainly brings you into the midst of a fascinating array of characters. Although the main aim should be for the kids to have fun and develop a love of the game, there are definitely some players, managers and parents who take it far more seriously. In particular, parents who it seems previously had their own dreams of footballing stardom, but who now kick every ball through their children.
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Dave’s efforts as a stand in goalkeeper for the girls during training have earned him a bit of a legendary reputation amongst the other footballing parents, as well as his official nickname of ‘Diving Dave’. Our two boys have also started to train at weekends with a local football club. Fortunately, they have not yet joined a team, as I am not entirely sure how we will actually manage the logistics of three children across three different teams.
Over the past 6 months or so, ‘The Incredible Dave’ and I have been indoctrinated into the world of kids grass roots football, and to date it has certainly been an experience like no other. Our daughter joined a local team, primarily because a few of her friends played, although she has since developed her own passion for the sport. Dave and I were somewhat naive in letting her go along to that first fateful session, blissfully ignorant that it was a big step into what would become a rather significant commitment. Firstly, unlike many extra curricular activities, football is not a once a week affair. There are training sessions, soccer school and the actual matches to contend with. Plus, when the season ends and you think you might actually get a bit of a break from the football whirlwind, there are then multiple tournaments.
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Secondly, it has become apparent that it takes an entire village to train a kids football team, and it is therefore very much an all inclusive pastime. As a lifelong lover of the hallowed game, Dave has very much enjoyed being the principle ‘football parent’; taking our daughter to training, as well as the games, buying her kit, cheering her on from the sidelines, celebrating her wins and commiserating her losses. As her skills and her enthusiasm have grown, Dave has also enjoyed executing his own homegrown training sessions, both in the garden and over at the local park, reigniting his youth by having a good ‘kickabout’ with her. Indeed, his commitment to the cause has run even deeper, as he has volunteered to cover a few of the training sessions for the team when the manager has been absent. What he probably didn’t quite realise however, was that he would be sacrificing every Sunday lie-in indefinitely, in order to transport her to the games (some of which are so far away the round trip drive takes longer than the game itself), to arrive early enough to help carry out the goalposts, equipment and other paraphernalia, as well as walking the pitch searching for dog poo. Page 8
However, it was at said training session when good old ‘Diving Dave’ made a cameo appearance to stand in goal for two of the boys, where we were reminded why men over 40 should execute extreme caution when returning to the sacred game. Dave made a few cracking saves, but later that day complained of a sore finger. Initially he thought he had just bent it back during the training, but 2 days later he was advised by someone with experience to get it checked at A&E. An X Ray and a consultation later confirmed that he had actually broken his finger at the base, which is, in fact, the worst type of finger break you can have and would require surgery to insert pins to allow it to heal properly if he wanted to be able to bend it again. Nobody could quite believe it when ‘Diving Dave’ turned up to the next training session in a full plaster cast covering his hand and forearm, but as one of the dads who had witnessed Dave’s shenanigans in goal (with great awe) commented, “He was outstanding though. There was no way I was going in goal after him.” So as Dave embarks upon his fifth week of his ongoing finger ordeal, doing daily prescribed exercises and counting down to the pin removal, at least he can take comfort in the fact that he broke his finger executing a ‘world class save’.
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Sadly, this woke generation are trying to add masculine and/or feminine pronouns to the English language. Such as.… FREEZER BAGS: These are male because they are forever trying to hold everything in, but you can often see right through them. PHOTOCOPIERS: Definitely female, because once turned off, it takes a while to warm them up again. However, they are an effective reproductive device if indeed the correct buttons are pushed, but can also wreak havoc if you push the wrong ones instead. TYRES: Male, because they go bald and are often over inflated HOT AIR BALLOONS: Also (definitely) male, because to get them to go anywhere, you have to light a fire under their arses. SPONGES: Female. Soft and squeezable. WEB PAGES: Again, female, because they're constantly being looked at and frequently getting hit upon. TRAINS: No question about it, male. They always use the same old lines for picking up people. EGG TIMERS: Female, because over time, all the weight shifts to the bottom. HAMMERS: Male, of course. In the last 5,000 years they've hardly changed a bit and are occasionally handy to have around (but only occasionally, apparently).
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REMOTE CONTROL: Female. Yep, you probably thought that one would be male, but nah. Because the remote control easily gives a man pleasure and he'd be totally lost without it. What’s more, while he doesn't always know which buttons to push, he generally keeps on trying.
Now The Edge does love a Cornish pastie, particularly when it’s served hot and you eat it fresh from the bag from a genuine, bona fide Cornish Bakery outlet, preferably on the coast, stood (or, even better, sat) in the sunshine whenever you’re at the seaside - only not, The Edge hastens to add, at the likes of Braintree Freeport, where there’s also an outlet, but the vibe’s just not quite the same. However, I made a proper boo-boo on our very first day in Lyme Regis recently (see page 13). I already knew they had a Cornish Bakery outlet there as I’d Googled it prior to our trip, as you do. Only I’d had a couple of cheeky beers after a long drive down there, so I thought I’d be adventurous by ordering a steak & stilton flavoured pastie, but my god, it was disgusting. Wondering whether it was just me, I let the missus and her sister have a bite and they both immediately wrinkled up their faces as though they’d just smelt someone else’s ‘FLF’ (freshly laid faeces). So the question begs, why? Why do steak & stilton flavoured pasties even exist?
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The merry, merry month of May May; I wonder if you love it as much as I do? I’m always lifted by extended daylight, warmer temperatures and May’s fresh vibrant colours. But I always sense that it’s fleeting and passes all too quickly as we transition into summer and the verdant colours fade. So I do my best to binge on spring while it lasts, spending more time outdoors to optimise the delight it yields.
Edge of the World travel correspondent. Embarks on assignments in a futile effort to preserve his sense of youth, always acknowledging that he ‘Won’t pass this way again’.
It must be truly therapeutic because I’ve managed to move-on following The Hammers’ semi-final exit from the Europa League. I’ve even spent a couple of days at the cricket and I’m managing to blissfully put our impending cost of living crisis to the back of my mind. This spring has been further enhanced because I’m getting to share lots of walks with my 6 month old grandson. Pushing his perambulator (apparently the marketeers have now deemed that they’re known as ‘travel systems’) I get to watch a pair of the purest blue eyes, his windows onto a whole new world, and it never ceases to captivate me watching how eagerly those wide excited eyes scan the passing scenes as he absorbs information vital for his development.
a representative social petri dish for the observation of modern cultures - although that didn’t prevent Valletta from being honoured as European Capital of Culture in 2018. And what’s beyond dispute is that each of the successive occupiers have left their legacy, adding to Malta’s rich and diverse history and designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. But what impression did Valletta leave on me? Well, it’s tiny at just 1km by 600m and surrounded by water on three sides. Built by the Knights of St John in the 16th century, it’s packed with golden coloured stone buildings, ornate churches, colourful balconies and is certainly full of charm. Walking its streets is like stepping back in time. The city boasts a great choice of hotels, bars and quality restaurants, many of which are Italian influenced due to the proximity of Sicily. There are also plenty of cafés where you can pick up a coffee and a traditional pastizzi (a local flaky pastry filled with ricotta - or mushy peas). As far as Mediterranean cities go, Valletta is a gem. Unlike other large capital cities in Europe, Valletta’s size means it doesn’t overwhelm, but there’s plenty enough to see. I’d say it’s perfect for a few days exploring. I had a very comfortable stay at the centrally located boutique Gomerino Hotel and was even briefly acquainted with a sun lounger on the roof-top terrace, overlooking the Grand Harbour. Valletta - “A city built by gentlemen for gentlemen”.
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Henry and his grandad might be six decades apart in age, but I like to think I still retain some of that eagerness for my senses to experience that wonderment, that wide-eyed excitement and delight when I travel to new destinations. Travel, planning it, contemplating it and experiencing it continues to be my animating force. I'm still not ready for staycations and even travelling overseas, only to spend (aka waste) time on a sun lounger, which remains anathema to me. Last month’s trip was a four day visit to Malta’s capital, Valletta. I’d never been there before, but was aware of its intriguing history. For such a small country, Malta has had an eventful past. Its position between Europe and North Africa has always made it an important strategic location for the maritime and military forces of successive empires. It’s been fought over for centuries and ruled by everyone from Bronze Age migrants, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Vandals, Ostrogoths, the Byzantine Empire, Arabs, Normans, Aragonese, Knights Hospitaller, the French, then the British, until it secured its independence. Finally, Malta joined the EU in 2004. The successive invaders and rulers typically expelled the previous occupants such that Malta's history seems to be one of serial monoculture. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. What are the merits, or otherwise, and sustainability of serial monocultural societies versus contemporaneous multiculturalism? As interesting as that debate might be, I reckon Malta is too sub-scale (it's only about 300 km²) to act as Page 10
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Let us introduce you to what can only be described as certainly not your usual, traditional hotel (see front cover). Channels are a family run establishment which welcomes guests to their peaceful, expansive site, which was originally a Tudor house with outbuildings called Belsteads Farm. Refurbishment began on a small scale, with 2006 marking the opening of 6 rooms including 2 bridal suites based in the Tudor house. But as the years progressed, each of the outbuildings have been transformed into luxurious contemporary rooms, currently totalling 32, all which provide their guests with a wonderfully relaxing stay. Multiple styles are available, with rooms located in the main house their most traditional, all providing quality and superb amenities. Original features, such as oak beams and large fireplaces in multiple rooms, have been incorporated, providing guests with a truly timeless experience. Each room ensures their guests consider Channels to be a true ‘home from home’, with luxurious king-size beds to sink into, Chromecast on every television, free WiFi and remote-controlled air conditioning. Complimentary tea and coffee is provided, so you never have to worry about not being able to start your morning in your usual fashion. Their 2 bridal suites provide the luxury one expects, as well as generously sized bathrooms containing both grand free-standing baths and showers. A comfortable ground floor lounge provides all guests staying in the main house with a private space to relax in of an evening. Located throughout the rest of the site in multiple buildings are 16 ground floor courtyard en-suite rooms. Dog friendly with patio doors, their 14 executive rooms and 2 suites are more contemporary than those in the main house, yet no less luxurious. Once again, large televisions with Chromecast and air conditioning are a staple in every room. Individual room profiles are featured on Channels website which allow you to pick your favourite, with some rooms having Velux windows and others ginormous bathtubs which previous guests have stated they “could swim in”.
Finally, finished just last month, their second barn conversion, containing 5 rooms, including a Master Bridal Suite, completes the set. Each room has been designed to the same high standard and quality as remainder of the hotel with the new suite being double-height. Within is a vast lounge and kitchen, overlooked by the mezzanine level bedroom, underneath which is the spacious bathroom which has a double vanity, walk-in shower and jacuzzi tub for that extra ‘wow factor’!
SE LL
A LS O
However, that hasn’t held back couples wanting to pamper themselves with a romantic getaway, primarily due to the private courtyard and hot tub. Three en-suite bedrooms, a double-height lounge, fully equipped kitchen and salon complete this amazing space.
L O O P S G L IN ICA M IM EM H SW C W E
Channels Retreat is one of the jewels in the Channels Hotel crown. It is a stunning historic brick built barn conversion which has been designed primarily to provide luxurious and contemporary accommodation for wedding guests on the eve of that very special day.
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Stay tuned for news of their new dining destination completing in July while they look forward to welcoming you to Channels Hotel.
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Yeah, yeah, The Edge gets it. ‘No pain, no gain’ and all that. But both Chelmsford High Street and Tindal Square has almost been a ‘no go area’ of late, so let’s all hope it’ll have been worth it.
theEDGE
For starters. the road outside Shire Hall is being paved over to make it a ‘FPZ’ (fully pedestrianised zone) with the High Street, including a two-way cycle route, public seating and planting. There will no longer be vehicular access between New Street and Market Road. The space outside Shire Hall will apparently be a ‘high quality public square’. Well, we can but hope, as the floor-tiling throughout Chelmsford High Street has always been offensively disgusting and very much ‘looking on the cheap side’ so far as The Edge is concerned (Basildonesque). However, the council want to hear from us residents, road users and businesses on our thoughts on the matter and plans will be shown at two public events at High Chelmer Shopping Centre between 10am 2pm on Saturday 8th June and again between 3pm - 7pm on Friday 14th June. A two-way cycle lane will run between New Street and Market Hall (past Shire Hall) and, get this, ‘surrounding traffic will be diverted to allow vehicles to move seamlessly around the city centre’. (Yep, The Edge will believe that when it sees it.) There will be a unique ‘radial paving design’ outside Shire Hall, together with planting and public seating, which sounds nice in theory, only look what they’ve gone and done to the former Saracens Head? What’s more, delivery vehicles will no longer be able to gain access to Chelmsford High Street via New Street. Instead, vehicles will enter from Parkway via Baddow Road. The council are holding a public consultation on the plans for 6 weeks from Tuesday 4th June to Tuesday 16th July, so this is our opportunity to provide them with our views and comments. We are invited to give our feedback to the council’s proposals before 23:59pm on 16th July. contact@essex.gov.uk www.essex.gov.uk/tindalsquare TBH, The Edge would very much like what’s happening to be an unqualified success, but the fact is, you need people with true vision to pull such a coup off, so we shall have to await with baited breath.
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Oh yes, The Edge jolly well did, although it was all Mrs Edge’s idea, as the poor old bugger’s 86 these days and no longer too good on his pins. Plus there’s other stuff, so the wife wanted to get him “out of his house and away for a few days”, because she’s thoughtful like that. So we picked him up in South Woodham Ferrers at 06:00am sharp on Tuesday 3rd May (the day after Bank Holiday Monday), followed by his ‘squeeze’ (he ‘pulled’ her, aged 80, while showing off his prowess playing bowls) from Bicknacre, strapped them both in and hit the M25 at around 06:45am and the traffic was....dreadful. But you just sigh, take a deep breath and endure it, don’t you? We stopped for a coffee/sandwich break at Winchester services on the M3 before eventually arriving at our rented house for the next 3 nights in Lyme Regis at around midday, where we also met up with the wife’s sister who’d driven up from Cornwall. Getting all of our luggage inside was a chore in itself as we couldn’t park outside the property, so it was a walk up and back down a hill to the car parked at the rear. So, first impressions, Lyme Regis is bloody steep. It reminded me of Salcombe in that respect, so there must be ‘something about Devon’ (it’s actually on the border, but still inside Dorset, just). Which meant simply to get the old folks down to the seafront, where the photograph above was taken, we’d have to drive them down in the car, turf ’em out, then take the car back up and repark it at the house (to avoid senseless car parking fees) and repeat/reverse the process when it was time to get ’em back indoors again, which was always a lungbuster walking back up that damned sodding hill, but it was the only exercise we got. So you could say our 4-day break was a little on the slow side of life, but you know, my wife’s a selfless person, generally putting others ahead of herself, so that’s what we did. But it really got me thinking, you know, about getting/being old, because I’m 60 already and the key’s got to be that you need to look after yourself and your body as best you can throughout life, exercise regularly (you don’t have to go to a gym to do that) and generally keep agile and moving, as no way do I ever want to end up not being able to get about easily.
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ning streak starts all over again at zero. Nooooooooo. People have even started WORDLE Whats App groups to make it a little competitive between friends and/or family (guilty as charged, m’lord).
F.A. CUP FINAL What a superb event that always seemed to be.
POLIT INCO ICALLY RREC T
I remember, as a kid, the coverage used to start at something ridiculous like 9am on BBC1 and would gradually build up to the Saturday (always Saturday) afternoon kick off at 3pm prompt.
WORDLE Are you still playing it? It's funny how quickly we can all get sucked into a new craze.
From 11am/midday the focus would always be ‘the road to the final’ and both teams would be featured for around an hour each with their own
To be fair, this isn't the worst trend to sweep the nation over the past few years and far better for getting the brain working than simply pouting for a picture and posting online to see how many likes you can get. If you haven't played it, the concept is simple and it makes me ask why we didn't come up with it ourselves? You have six lines (six lives) to get a random five letter word each day. When you type in your first guess on the top line, if you get any letters correct they will either turn green if the letter is in the word and in the correct place, or yellow if the letter is in the word but currently in the incorrect place. Or grey if you guess none correctly. You must then try to guess the word by line six as there is no seventh guess.
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It really shouldn't be that addictive, but because it keeps track of how many daily answers you have got right in a row (winning streak) and also what your average correct guessing line is (I've guessed three times by line two and my best average is by line four) it keeps you coming back for more and even makes you feel gutted if you forget to do it one day, meaning your win-
specific journey (matches in the competition already played) in order to reach their big day out, after which it would cut back to the old Wembley stadium and show the team coaches pulling up to eventually having the players walking out onto the Wembley turf, in the sunshine (always sunshine), to soak up the atmosphere building up inside the ground. Ten minutes before kick-off, I would be at fever pitch, no matter who was playing, as both teams walked out of the tunnel together to the roar of the crowd. My Dad and Grandad would always have a pint of ale/beer, so I would have a pint of lemonade shandy to feel part of it. Then the game would begin and the true magic of the F. A. Cup would proceed in front of our very eyes. By the time the full-time whistle had blown (unless there was extratime), I always remember feeling as exhausted as the players on the pitch, on account of the drama we had just witnessed. Then it would be a case of getting outside as quickly as possible with boots and ball in hand to try to recreate some of the key incidents and goals from the game with my pals before getting called back indoors for dinner. Magical moments and what football/childhood should be all about (for a young lad, that is).
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S N V
What a great way to start a Tuesday morning. Arrived at Toast at bang on opening time (8am) before cycling to Great Waltham and back. During that period I bumped into John Price, Steve O’Connor and ‘Bernard the (ex) Butcher’, none of whom I’d seen for absolutely ages. Was excellent.
CHINESE CUISINE
Book now for FATHER’S DAY Sunday 19th June served personally to your table for just £24.00pp! YOUR DADDY?
Some have called it the biggest breakthrough since sliced bread. In a boost for cooks, bakers and cocktail makers, pip-free lemons have hit supermarket shelves for the very first time, readers. In future, lemon lovers will be able to save precious time fretting as they no longer have the bother of picking out the tangy citrus fruit’s pesky pips. But don’t worry, for the pip-free variety aren’t cross-bred or genetically modified in any way, shape or form by Tefal-headed scientists. Oh no. Instead they are the result of a natural mutation and were discovered completely by chance. The variety of lemon was found in Australia and is now being successfully grown in South Africa and Spain - meaning there should be year-round supplies for the UK. Trouble is, here in The Edge household, these days we prefer our G&T’s with either lime or cucumber. Only if it’s the latter, no way should it ever be sliced, as Mrs Edge was once served in a Chelmsford hostelry that shall remain nameless. You’ve got to do it in thin slivers, like you’ll get if using a potato peeler ‘down the shaft’ of the cucumber!
WHY NOT TREAT
Over 15 village gardens will be open to view between noon - 5pm. Tickets £5 by Entry Programme available on the day from a booth situated on Writtle Green. Accompanied children under 16 are free of charge. Sorry, no dogs. This is a ‘local event for local people’ (not really) dating back some 25 years. All proceeds go towards the upkeep of the All Saints Church, which dates back to the 13th century, so it’s very old indeed!
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Choose from a choice of 25 starters including soup, crispy duck, spare ribs, plus a selection of 95 main dishes including prawn, beef, chicken and much, much more!
136 MOULSHAM STREET, CHELMSFORD. TEL: 01245 290099 www.theedgemag.co.uk
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IT’S ALL ABOUT ‘SHARING’ THE LOAD! Nothing’s going to change where the price to publish The Edge is concerned - it’s always going to go up, never down. So that’s what this Edge campaign has been all about - you good readers helping me, Ye Olde Edgy bloke, out. If I could simply ‘make do’ with the advertising revenue The Edge generates, then believe me, I would. But it’s gone way beyond that these days, as in the past we never had Brexit, did we, and what with the paper The Edge is printed on being imported from Europe....c’est la vie. Which is why I am asking you to donate a minimum £1 per edition and do that on a regular monthly basis, or at least each and every time you pick up a copy of the The Edge. Or, if you’re feeling flush, feel free to donate whatever you feel you can afford, or whatever you feel is appropriate, under the circumstances. And honestly, that’s about as much as I can say on the subject. Only please understand that this is an ongoing situation, rather than any ‘flash in the pan’. The problems I now face aren’t going away. Which is why I am trying to explain things to you as fairly and squarely as I possibly can. Have to say, I’ve been proper touched by the donations some of you have already made and your messages of kind support. Not everyone likes The Edge, I’m well aware of that. But those of you that do really seem to like it a lot and that honestly warms the cockles of my heart and makes everything more worthwhile. So here’s to the next edition, and the one after that, and the one after that, if you don’t mind playing your part in helping to keep the good ship HMS EDGE afloat.
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gofund.me/32db649a (or try gofund.me/e9e49866)
search: editortheedgemag@gmail.com Oh, and do it as ‘Friends & Family’ (wink) !
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It was a great way to kill a rainy morning when you were a kid and couldn’t go out on your bicycle, The Edge seems to recall. But other than that, really, what purpose was there to it? Well, tut t’internet has this to say: ‘It was a geometric drawing toy that produced mathematical curves known as hypotrochoids and epitrochoids.’ Whoever knew that, eh? Sounds worse than bloody chilblains. Invented by a Polish mathematician, Bruno Abakanowicz, no less. The Edge simply remembers putting a pen nib through some sort of a plastic circle and rotation it around the inside of a larger plastic circle and after a while, hey presto. Therapeutic, you might call it. Thing is, to this day, Mrs Edge’s sister, who I think is 57, still does what I imagine you’d call ‘colouring in’ with felt tip pens, rather than painting by numbers. It’s just something to do to idly pass the time of day....a bit like reading The Edge!
Something that’s piqued The Edge’s curiosity of late is The Beamish Living Museum, which is the first regional open-air museum near the town of Stanley, County Durham, near where your editor used to live around about the time he was playing with his Spirograph, funnily enough. It apparently tells the story of life in the North East of England during the 1820s, 1900s, 1940s and 1950s and is something no doubt a lot of you southerners are also gagging to see and experience for yourselves. The Edge just thinks it would be fascinating and is hankering to visit Whitby and Staithes in North Yorkshire anyway (oh and Harrogate too), so seeing as County Durham’s just a ‘bit further up tut road’, why the hell not? It’s just committing to ‘take the time out’ to have, perhaps, a week away with a difference, isn’t it? Rather than simply flying off somewhere for a week of guaranteed sunshine and eating and drinking yourself stupid. If I get the chance this year, I know I’ll probably (still) do the latter. But y’know, I can feel it coming on. Old age. Change. Beamish etc.
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I don’t know what it is about getting on an aeroplane, but when the Trolley Dolly comes around and asks you what you’d like to drink, I often have a compulsion for a Bloody Mary. Mind you, you’re far better off making yourself one at home with ‘everything in it’, such as a good old slug of vodka (obviously), tomato juice (equally obviously), then add Worcester Sauce, Tabasco Sauce, a stick of celery, perhaps a couple of olives (if you can be arsed), some black pepper, a dash of lemon or lime juice (or both), ice cubes, serve and tut job’s a good un. It’s a miracle in a glass. Takes a little longer to make than a G&T, but it’s worth it all the same. Trouble is, these days, The Edge finds it hard to find something as simple as tomato juice in supermarkets. What’s all that about?
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Olá readers You find me in sunny Portugal again - what can I say - writing this column with views across the Atlantic. If you cannot be inspired by the view below, then what on earth will inspire you? This is unashamedly my third visit this year and I think I might only have a couple more trips in me because, following an awful lot of soul searching, I am going to sell my lovely Portuguese home www.casabonitavilla.com. It’s been one of the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make. I’ve owned Casa Bonita for 18 years. I bought it in 2006 when the pound was the strongest it has ever been, getting €1.58 to the pound, which meant the purchase price was very favourable indeed. It is a good time to be selling as the market is buoyant over here and the buyer, a French gentleman, is really keen to purchase. He told me he’s been looking for his dream home for the past 2 years and said he simply has to have my property! Naturally that comes at a heavy price when agreeing a figure with a wily old negotiator like myself and indeed his final offer was impossible to refuse, so off I toddle into the Portuguese sunset one last time. Completion of the deal will take place in October, so the family and I will be able to squeeze in a few more visits during the summer months, hopefully.
DEAKS
Truth is, I have been thinking of broadening my horizons for some time, as it’s all too easy to keep returning to the same place when you own a bolt hole in the sun. So it’s high time to dig out the old travel bucket list, is what I am thinking. Talking of writing, as I was, I’ve decided to write a book. People often use the old adage “I’ve got a book in me” and after writing nearly 30 columns for The Edge, I believe I could write a book about my life using many of
the amusing anecdotes that I have shared with you (well, at least I think they’re amusing) as a backdrop to some of the more serious stuff that I have not burdened you with. You either know, or you don’t know. I love nothing more than a decent autobiography, but some of these celebs have nothing interesting to share. Honestly, I have better stories than half of them. I have just finished reading Bob Mortimer’s autobiography, who I like a lot, especially his stuff with Vic Reeves on Shooting Stars and Big Night Out, but boy, does his auto plod along with nothing much to say. It really is surprising how very dull it is for such a funny man. So look out for ‘The Adventures of Deaks’ as it will be a roller coaster ride of comedy and tragedy. Mind you, I’m not sure who will play me in the inevitable film? Probably Tom Cruise or Johnny Depp, or maybe even Brad Pitt. Who knows, but whoever plays me you can be assured it will be their best work ever. I am writing this article the morning after West Ham crashed out of the semi-final of the Europa League to the German side Frankfurt, but I don’t want to talk about it because I am still hurting. However, I do want to share a story with you concerning one of the guys in the bar last night where I was watching the match. He turned up looking as though he had just gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. He was covered with bruises all over his body, especially beneath his arms and, bizarrely, the backs of his legs. It turns out he’d had a few bevies the night before and as he walked up the road to his home, or staggered might be a better description, he fell from the pavement into the bush and ended up in a hole on his back. His legs and arms were up in the air but his body was wedged in the hole and he was looking up at the stars. He was like a turtle on its back and the more he struggled the more he scrapped his arms and legs against the rough ground. Being in sunny Portugal, he was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It was daylight by the time he managed to attract someone’s attention to pull him out. I laughed as he told the story, but that could just as easily have been me, so that’s another reason why I shall sell up over here. Long days drinking in the sun and walking home when it’s dark is not a great combination. Talking of football, as I just was (sometimes this column flows seamlessly, doesn’t it?), the story of the guy that paid £7,142,500 for Diego Maradona’s infamous ‘Hand of God’ shirt also made me laugh. This is the shirt that the cheating little scumbag genius wore when Argentina played England in a World Cup quarter-final in 1986. Maradona, all 5’5” of him, outjumped 6’6” England goalkeeper, Peter Shilton, to punch the ball into the England goal. Except that the shirt this guy bought on an online auction wasn’t the shirt that Diego Maradona wore at all, because the former England midfielder Steve Hodge exchanged shirts with him after the match and he has owned that shirt ever since. In fact, it was probably the closest Steve Hodge got to Maradona that day. The Argentinian magician scored another goal shortly afterwards that many claim to be the greatest goal ever scored in World Cup history, when he skipped past the entire England defence, including Steve Hodge, to clinch the tie. But anyhow, you’ve got to feel sorry for the guy that paid over £7m for a £49 replica Diego Maradona shirt bought from JBB Sports, haven’t you? Nope, nor me! A fool and their money are easily parted, as my dear old mum would have said.
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Talking of fools (there I go again), who’s laughing at Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer and his gobby sidekick Angela Rayner? They have spent the past 6 months calling for the Prime Minister to resign over Partygate, only for them to be guilty of the exact same offence. They enjoyed curry and beers for a dozen people in the Durham Labour HQ. Gobby denied being there for months, yet she has now been forced to admit that in fact she was there all along. So easy to forget Angela, love. You simply couldn’t make this shit up. Also present were Metropolitan Police liaison bodyguards who presumably will also now be investigated. Sir Keir looked like a bulldog licking a thistle on the television when questioned about this. I have no time for any politicians. I have always thought they are all as bad as each other and this clearly proves my point. Billy Connolly once said, “A person’s desire to become a politician should immediately discount them from being one.” As usual, The Big Yin got it spot on. Right, I think that’s your lot. I’ve just booked my flight home. I was planning on driving over the border to Seville, in Spain, for the Europa Cup Final featuring West Ham on 18th May with a pal, but we won’t be doing that now. Football, eh? I bloody hate it. If I didn’t have false hope, I wouldn’t have any hope at all. Damn you, Football Gods. Stay safe everyone and be kind to one another. It will be July next month, so only 2 months until the next football season begins. I can’t wait!
TTFN. Deaks. Email: gmdeakin@gmail.com Instagram: gmdeakin Page 20
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Swimming After the best part of 2 years sitting around doing nothing and eating biscuits, I decided to join the Warren Active gym in Woodham Mortimer. If there is anyone local to the area and looking to join a gym, then I couldn’t recommend this place enough. It is located in a wonderful setting next to the golf course, full of equipment and has really helpful and pleasant staff. But what really got me to part with my cash was the fact it has a swimming pool, because that is a must for lazy, middle-aged people trying to get fit. No matter how much I can’t be bothered to go to the gym, I can always muster up enough motivation to go swimming for 30 minutes, especially if there’s a sauna, steam room and jacuzzi waiting for me afterwards. The only thing that puts me off sometimes is how other people behave when they’re in the water and I don’t mean just the pool at the Warren, but pools the world over. You get those with all the gear; rubber hats, goggles, Speedos, the lot, and regardless of how busy the pool is they still insist on swimming like Duncan Goodhew.
It was in late April and in the taxi from the airport I was starting to get a bit worried at the sight of sun loungers and sprinklers as we approached the resort. The weather was lovely; it was bright and warm and there was a feeling of spring in the air, which is such a wonderful feeling at almost any point in time, except when you are turning up for a weekend of skiing.
The worst kind though are that ‘couple in love’. She’s normally straddled around his waist frolicking about and they are playfully splashing one another while you are busy swimming lengths on full alert looking out for any stray ‘jellyfish’. Because then you have the whole charade of her getting out first and him saying, “I’ll be out in a minute, I’ll just have a quick swim” - knowing full well that he’s waiting to ‘deflate his inflatable.’
I needn’t have worried. Whilst the resort was quiet, it meant that we didn’t have to queue for anything, so we picked up our ski hire in about 10 minutes flat and getting access to the ski lifts was a breeze. When we actually got up the mountain we were pleased to see plenty of snow and empty runs, which always makes you feel better as you can fall over without fear of a little kid zooming past you and laughing that you are going down a blue run mainly on your bum.
I know I am moaning and swimming pools are there to be enjoyed by all, but please spare a thought for your fellow swimmers in there who are simply trying to do some basic exercise to keep the ‘moobs’ off.
St. Anton A few weeks back I went skiing with a group of friends to St. Anton, Austria. In previous years we’ve always had our annual break cancelled due to Covid, or the restrictions in place at the time, so this year we left it a little late in the day in an attempt to avoid facemasks and PCR tests.
Lunchtime was also great because it was t-shirt weather and there were still enough bars open to enjoy a few ‘Pit Stop Pints’ on the way down. However, I am not advocating drinking and skiing, as it’s not very clever and if you consume it is at your own risk and not as a result of anything you have read on these pages. But for me, it’s okay as it gives me a little bit more courage to ski down as much of the mountain as I can without having to get in a gondola.
Billy Hinken clowns, but mine is any kind of cable propelled transportation in the air. I just don’t understand why people are so comfortable in effectively a large sardine tin with windows held up by a bit of dental floss hundreds of metres up in the sky. All in all, other than those gondola death machines, I would highly recommend the last weekend of the season for skiing in St. Anton. The added bonus is a race at the end called ‘the white ecstasy’, which sees experienced skiers (i.e. not me) starting at the top of the mountain and skiing all the way down. The winner does it in a ridiculously quick time and afterwards there is a great party in the ‘Basecamp’ at the foot of the mountain. I would definitely go back.
Some people have irrational fears of
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Then you have those two fifty year old ladies who are completely oblivious to everyone else as they’re swimming ‘doggy paddle’ side by side and having a right old chinwag whilst exerting about the same amount of effort as it would take to
sit and have a conversation in Costa. And you’ve always got that one bloke (normally Malcolm or Colin) that says his doctor told him not to run because of his knees and so on, so he’s in the pool walking up and down; okay, I get that it’s good exercise, but if you are in the pool walking, then why not just act like the rest of us and give swimming a go?
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ONLY JOKING! ELECTRICIAN
Totally freaked out the electrician when I opened the kitchen door totally naked. Don’t know what shocked him the most. The fact I was naked? Or the fact I was in his kitchen?
HONEY A wise man once said: "You know what, honey? I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.”
OPEN UP How come ladies never open up about their yoga farts?
JUDAS & JESUS Judas: “Hey, Jesus. When are we getting together for The Last Supper?” Jesus: “Wednesday. Wait …what do you mean by LAST Supper, Judas?” Judas: “I meant supper. What time’s supper?”
DIFFICULT The missus had just given birth after a difficult time. So I took the doctor to one side and sheepishly asked him when he thought we might be able to have sex again. He told me: "I finish in ten minutes. Meet me in the car-park out back.”
CHURCH JUMBLE SALE Potential Buyer: "Hey, man. Really cool. So how much do you want for the goth penguin pic?” Priest: "That’s a nun, you arsehole.”
70 YEAR OLD I like to keep my mind nimble every day by setting it difficult, posing questions. Like where did I leave the car? Why have I just come upstairs?
DOM PERIGNON Takes a sip of Dom Perignon and muses: ‘Sometimes I feel classy’. Pairs it with a cheesy Wotsit and muses some more: ‘While other days, not so much’.
GREAT IMPROVEMENT Doctor, reading patient’s chart. "Now that’s a great improvement…”
"Oh, hang on…” *slowly turns chart right way up*
BADGE Remember as a kid, when you went to the dentist, or had a jab, they’d give you a badge or a lollipop if you didn’t cry? Well, I had a prostate exam today. Nada.
PERIOD FEATURES Bought a house with period features. Or Brenda, as she prefers to be called.
MR SCHOFIELD Doctor: "OK, unzip please.” *zzziiiiiipppp* Doctor: "Er, yours, Mr. Schofield. Not mine.”
Q&A
would have a full-time nanny for when the show dictates the parents would be working. After some serious consideration, the social workers seem satisfied and finally ask, "What age of child are you hoping to adopt?” They say, "We don’t really care, so long as it’ll fit into a cannon.”
FORCE Mark Hamill: "May the force be with you.” ‘Narc’ Hamill: "Hey dudes, know anywhere I can score some force?”
ESSEX SHOW Last time I went to the Essex Show they had some English Sheepdog trials. It was so cruel and farcical. For instance, not one was legally represented. And it wasn’t even clear what the allegations against them were to begin with.
Q. Why does Piglet smell? A. Because he’s always playing with Pooh.
FINALLY FFS, the wife actually said sorry to me! “Yes,” she said, “to clarify, I meant I’m sorry I ever f cking met you.” * Which is still a sorry in my book.
MADONNA STARTED IT I think Madonna started it by telling everyone she drank her own urine. Then some internet influencer probably said she bathed in it for its ‘ph factor’, or some such bollocks. But when I do it, it’s all: “Oh Jeez, Nick. You smell like an old wino.”
WATERLOO I hailed a cab in London. “Where to, guvnor?” "Waterloo please, mate.” "The station?” "Well, I’m a bit f cking late for the battle.”
*
ARGUING Don’t you just hate it when a couple start arguing in front of you? It’s so embarrassing. They could at least wait until you’ve got dressed and left.
ATTENTION Struggling to get your wife’s attention? Just sit down and look comfortable for five minutes.
ZOO DEATH A zoo reported the death of a male tiger. They were operating on it, found out things were not looking good, so they let it go by not waking it up. Yet when I suggest the same for Grandpa, it would appear that I’m an arsehole.
PARENTS THESE DAYS I don’t envy parents these days at all. It’s no longer just a case of explaining the birds and the bees. You’ve also got to explain the birds and the birds, and the bees and the bees, and the birds that used to be bees, and the bees that used to be birds, and the birds that look like bees, and the bees that look like birds, but still have their stingers...
NO SEX Wife came back from the quacks in floods of tears. "’S’up, babe?” I asked. In between sobs, she blubbed: "He told me we can’t have sex for an entire month.” "Oh babes,” I said. “How come?” She said, "Because he’s going to the Caribbean on a cruise.”
HOW TIMES CHANGE (1991) Mum: "Never, ever, ever get in a car with a stranger.” (2021) Mum: "This Uber app’s soooo handy.”
BUS STOP I walked past a bus stop earlier and some graffiti on the shelter said ‘Debbie is a Slapper’. I thought how mean, thoughtless and inconsiderate that was. No phone number. No email. Nothing.
IN THE GYM Don’t you just hate it when people stare at you in the gym? If they want a slice of pizza, why don’t they just f cking ask?
*
THANK YOU Man: "Just an inch off the top, please.” Surgeon: "I know how to do circumcisions, thank you.”
CIRCUS A couple who work in a circus go to an adoption agency. The social workers immediately have doubts about their suitability as parents. Photographs of their luxury 50ft motor home, complete with an all-new purpose built nursery cut them a little slack. But the social workers express doubts over the education the child will receive. “No problem,” say the couple. “Our circus has its own school where kids are taught all the usual subjects, along with French, Mandarin and computer studies.” Then the social workers worry about the child being raised in a circus atmosphere. The couple allay their fears by saying the child
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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For years now - definitely over ten - your editor has had a photograph of a VW Microbus Concept vehicle stuck on its office wall, and if a picture could speak, or even goad, it’d be saying: “One day”. So it was interesting when Lurch brought up the subject of the VW ID Buzz on one of our most recent surveying trips, as we were eating up the miles on some motorway or other, because I get the impression he rather fancies one. For Mrs Lurch, in particular, to use to take the kids (he has two) to school in, but also for family away days at the weekend and during school holidays. The Edge can definitely see the appeal. It’s a lovely looking thing, don’t you think? Clearly based on the old VW ‘Hippy Bus’ that you still see chugging in the slow lane to the likes of South Wales and Cornwall during the summer. It just screams freedom, happiness and fun. It’s electric too, with a range of 250-300 miles (from fully charged) and capable of accepting charge from both AC and DC power sources (erm, haven’t a clue). There are also short wheelbase and extended wheelbase options available (basically the length of the vehicle and the room inside). What’s handy is the folding seats stow away as near to flat as possible, thus offering some serious load space inside if you ever need to haul anything from A to B, such as the mother-in-law. But let’s get real here. Is the all new VW ID Buzz a campervan or just a glorified people-carrier? Sadly, The Edge thinks, no matter how cool, it is the latter.
From Lurch’s point of view, with your yellow or orange weekend shades on, your missus carefully colour-coordinated by your side and the kids in the back, the VW ID Buzz looks an ideal piece of kit for noncing up the A12 for a day or a weekend spent in Southwold or Aldeburgh. But for the likes of Mrs Edge and I, who one day fancy touring around Great Britain to see all of the places we haven’t yet seen, before going on to conquer Europe, no, I don’t think so. Another consideration is that the Buzz costs between £36k-£48k and you can definitely get vehicles you can sleep in for that kind of wonga. And shower in. And poo in (preferably in reverse order). In fact, I’m now positively of an age when I’m quite looking forward to wandering over to wherever you go on a campsite to deposit your ‘mud cartridge’, merrily whistling and waving at other campers as I go, gently ‘swinging our sludge’ beside me. Of course, I’d love something that looked as cool and as vibrant as a VW ID Buzz, and I do wholeheartedly believe that it’s as important for it to look good on the inside too, as it needs to shout ‘holidays’ or ‘retirement’ at you from the moment you get in it. But for The Edge, after so very long having its heart set upon a VW of some description or other to tour about in, the ‘head’ part of its relationship has always belonged to Mrs Edge, and if she says Fiat Ducato, then that’s the way we’ll (probably) go. However, I guess I will always quietly observe any VW ID Buzz drivers I notice with a little bit of envy.
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For years and years, Mrs Edge and I have dreamed of owning a campervan and, to be honest, we still do. But the older you get, so your priorities change, and one thing we now both 100% agree upon is that the bed needs to be static (i.e. it does not move or adapt, it just
stays there, where it is, and the remainder of the van is designed around it). All of this ‘folding the seats down, moving this there and that over there’ simply isn’t for us (as we’ve hired two separate VW campervans and tried it). Which is why we are currently favouring one of the options in the Fiat Ducato range, but that’s another story.
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movies propulsive soundtrack that drives the action continually forward. With very little in the way of script, the music becomes an essential character in itself, perfectly capturing each and every emotion we go through as the film progresses. It’s composer Alan Silvestre’s best work, despite a prolific history of cinematic soundtracks, including Back to the Future and, more recently, Marvels Avengers.
As someone who has a passion for film and works in cinema, I often get asked what my favourite film of all time is. To be honest, I couldn’t ever pick a definitive number one, but I generally always come back to a favourite ‘top 5’ and within that would definitely sit Predator, the 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle, in which a team of elite commandos come up against a 10’ alien menace which is clearly a man in a rubber suit. This seems to surprise a lot of people, considering all of the usual suspects that usually make it into people’s lists of the best films of all time, but I will stake my claim that Predator is a masterpiece in film making and deserves its place in the pantheon of cinematic greats, and here’s why. It’s great set-up. Like the very best movies, the plot is incredibly simple, meaning we, the audience, can enjoy the spectacle before us without getting bogged down in convoluted story telling. A crack squad of hard-as-nails commandoes are called into a remote South American jungle to rescue some hostages. After being dropped behind enemy lines, it’s clear that things are a bit off, as they discover a previous rescue attempt has gone badly wrong after discovering soldiers strung up and skinned alive. Despite this, the team continue with their mission and, in a stand out action scene, we see how lethal the squad are as they carve their way through a group of well-armed goons with relative ease, leaving a bullet strewn path of destruction and pithy one liners such as “stick around”. However, it isn’t long before the elite team find themselves to be on the wrong end of some wanton death and destruction at the hands of a particularly mean extra-terrestrial hunter who collects human spines for fun. And so we have a brilliant game of cat and mouse as the soldiers are picked off one by one, leaving the inevitable showdown we have all been waiting for. It’s brilliantly directed. Shot on location within the steaming jungles of Mexico, the film drips with so much sweat and condensation you can almost feel the heat coming out of the screen. No doubt a challenging film to make, director John McTiernan makes full use of the jungle setting to crank out maximum tension and create a unique setting for the action and horror to unfold. A good example is a slow tracking shot that pans form the jungle floor high up into the trees, following a steady trickle of blood, with the music building in its dread, to reveal a poor victim hung upside down with his guts spilled out on the green foliage. Impressing Hollywood execs so much, the director went on to make a little action movie called Die Hard. Special mention must also go to the Page 26
The casting and acting are spot on. The real genius of Predator lies within its pitch perfect casting and the performances the director manages to get out of each and every one of them. If anyone doubts that Arnie can act, then witness his guttural cry towards the end, as he calls a challenge to his lizardlike nemesis, wrought with such pain and rage that you are totally convinced he has really experienced all of it. But the big man aside, the rest of the team have such strong individual personalities that you feel their comradery and truly care for them as they face insurmountable odds. It’s a trick that’s hard to pull off in such a short period of time, but this movie does it so well. Everyone will have their own favourite, mine being the slightly off-the-rails Mac who has the best lines and a memorable moment with a razor. It’s one of the areas the so-so sequel went wrong, as it’s hard to care for a bunch of Columbian drug dealers and corrupt government agents being picked off in exactly the same way.
Online shopping. Love it, or hate it, like many people, I have used it far more often over the past two years. In fact, it has become a way of life, and it's obviously here to stay, writes Jackie Williams.
The ending doesn’t pull any punches. In a rare but much appreciated Hollywood moment, there is no happy ending. Almost everyone is killed off, while Arnie’s character Dutch is left to contemplate not only his loses, but has a general look on his face of what the f*ck just happened? And then the film finishes. The end credits, however, take an unusual decision to show all the soldiers who died again, this time smiling at the camera, in a weirdly moving roll call that almost makes you believe we are seeing a real memorial taking place.
First, we have the champions of that youthful and fun game, Hide & Seek. Hermes. I have no idea what their job application form looks like, but somewhere along the line it must ask for the applicant to have the special ability to conceal any size or shape of parcel in the most random, unlikely and most difficult to reach place possible. What’s more, their notes sometimes come accompanied with a riddle. Like telling you that your package is in your black bin....on waste collection day. And obviously you only spot their note after the bins have gone. Or it's with your neighbour....at an address two streets away. I have even had a packet (apparently) placed under the front of my car, but after much searching and grazed knees eventually discovered it concealed behind the geraniums in my window box. All I can say is that while it might be a tad annoying, you can also have some fun, unexpected exercise, and pass a lot of time playing the Hermes hiding place game.
It takes itself seriously. Too many modem films lack the ability to take their subject matter seriously and end up full of in-jokes and completely implausible scenarios. A year before Predator came out, James Cameron wowed audiences with the equally brilliant Aliens; another commandos vs alien threat that delivered on action and horror in equal measure. Despite its sci-fi setting, you could believe it would go down like it did. And Predator’s the same. It takes a high concept and makes it completely believable by not insulting the audience’s intelligence. The only humour comes from the believable banter between the marines while the action, decisions and outcomes of what takes place feels fully justified without resorting to breaking the laws of physics, or anyone simply not using good old common sense. So there you have it. After 35 years, one okay sequel and two really bad ones (not to mention the risible Aliens vs Predator spin-offs), the original remains a cast iron classic that is as re-watchable today as the day it came out. If you haven’t seen it, do yourself a favour, watch it on the biggest and loudest TV you can.
I'm definitely not knocking it. The jobs it has created are many and the convenience is 10/10. But I wonder if you, like me, have also noticed a strange, and sometimes puzzling, phenomenon? I admit it took me a few weeks to work it out. However, it appears that each of the largest companies seem to deliver with their own unique and special style. I began to recognise each of the separate carriers, not by their uniform, their delivery person's face, or by the regularity of their route, but by their selected method of approach.
Then we have that delightful crew with a foot fetish. I am sure you all know who I mean? DPD. Yes, I totally understand that they want proof of delivery. I even get why they want a body part in the photograph. But why oh why do they have to take a picture of your parcel by your feet outside your porch? Why can't it be taken with the parcel in your hands? Why make us bend over and scrabble amongst the dirt and leaves that we have been meaning to sweep up from our doorstep since autumn? And why do our feet have to be in the picture? I don't always go to the door in my best Louboutins, or crystal encrusted mules. I'm more likely to be wearing my worn out, most comfy slippers, or nothing on my feet at all. So the question bears asking, is there someone in DPD’s head office drooling over our chipped nail varnish, bunions, or our hammer toes? Finally, we have the best and most elusive delivery person of them all, but I honestly cannot tell you whether they are a guy or a girl. Maybe they are tall, or short, or only have one leg. Who knows? Because I swear that no one has ever seen one. I am, of course, talking about the mysterious members of the Amazon workforce. The surprising thing is that I have seen them regularly in TV advertisements, but in reality they must have special qualities that render them invisible to the naked eye. They are like the Scarlet Pimpernel, or Harry Potter in his father's cloak. On occasions I have been expecting a parcel from my Prime account and am waiting in avid anticipation, excitement building as I hope to catch them this time. I see the hazy shadow of an approaching figure through the glass of my front door. The bell rings. I leap into instant action (Louboutins, mules, slippers, whatever). Yet there's no one. No figure in the street, no van along the road. Just a swirling cloud of dust and a brown box awaiting me on the floor. The Edge 01245 348256
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Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue!
KiNGPiN
No, I’m not talking about the BBC Radio 4 comedy programme. I’m talking about Boris Johnson and the spilled bucket of offal staining the leather in the commons while masquerading as a government. Just when you think they’ve reached the pinnacle of stupidity, another minister promptly says: “Hold my beer!” and launches themselves into the stratosphere of idiocy. The latest example comes from Rachel Maclean, who appears to have solved the cost of living crisis, soaring energy bills and rampant inflation by telling us all to either work more hours or get a better paid job. I bet you’re all feeling pretty stupid right now, aren’t you? Why didn’t you think of that? Thank Christ these people are in charge and looking out for us all, eh? Personally, I think Mrs Maclean should be applauded. It can’t be easy being stupid, monumentally out of touch and offensive all in one sentence. I don’t know about you, but if I was struggling to feed the kids and choosing between eating and turning the heating on, what I’d really want is financial advice from someone earning more than double the average salary, someone with a 5 bedroom detached house in Redditch, with a second home in London where the rent is paid for by my taxes. Yep, that would really help me feel better. And I was only being half-sarcastic when I said she should be applauded, because I love it when these jackals let their masks slip (which is basically every time that mewling pencil Rees-Mogg opens his pie-hole) and we see what lots of them really think about us Average Joe’s. But none of us should be surprised by it. After all, a significant percentage of our current government were privately educated, so from the word ‘go’ their life experiences have been vastly different from the rest of us. In the UK around 7% of children go to private school, but 48% of Conservative MP’s were privately educated. Only 2% of people in the UK are millionaires, but millionaires made up two thirds of David Cameron’s government. I don’t think it’s correct to say these people don’t represent us. They can’t represent us. With such a glaring disparity between the electorate and the government it’s easy to see why these people haven’t got a bloody clue about what life is like for most of us. And it’s not just the Conservatives either, as Labour and Lib-Dem MP’s also have more privately educated and richer members in their ranks compared to the national average, but the difference is vastly more pronounced where the Tories are concerned.
So Where Does This Lead? Okay, so this next bit is pure supposition and opinion on my part, but I do believe it’s opinion informed by years of keeping up with the shenanigans of Whitehall and backed up by learning quite a bit about the dynamics of power and the pros and cons of centralised systems of control. When power is centralised, it becomes corrupt. That’s not opinion, that’s observable and provable fact. It always has done and it always will. Then you have a cohort of people who live a more privileged lifestyle, are better educated (at least on paper), who are free from many of the worries and restrictions the majority of
The Kingmeister reports
people labour under. A cohort of people whose lives are by any measurable metric better than the average person’s. People who in many cases have been brought up to believe they are better than merely average. We take those people and then vote for them to control an inherently corrupt system, and then we wonder why things are in such a mess. If you have a group of people who have enjoyed fiscal and social privilege since birth, who have been raised and educated to believe they’re a cut above the rest of us, then I can’t see any other outcome than most of those people believing they know better, that they are better than us, and if someone is better than us then why should the same tedious rules apply to them? That’s how you end up with lockdown parties in Number 10 while the less privileged aren’t even allowed to see a dying parent. That’s how you end up with that hateful witch Theresa May condescendingly telling nurses there’s no magic money tree for a pay rise and then in the next breath finding a billion quid to bribe the DUP to keep the Tories in power, because the little people don’t deserve any money, but the Tory party does. People like that are the last people on earth that should be given any power and control. I’m not saying they’re inherently bad, as I’m quite certain most of us would turn out the same way, but the end result is still the same. The point I’m trying to make is that with the way things are there’s only one possible outcome, and that’s ‘rules for thee, but not for me’ and without a truly fundamental shift away from the disgusting class structure that’s still alive and kicking, from the idea that wealth equates to importance and that centralised power is the only option, then it will always be the same.
Keep Your Eyes Peeled If you’ve had your eyes open over the last couple of years you’ll be aware of the worrying trend towards authoritarianism, not just in
the UK but in most of the Western democratic nations, and if you’re not concerned then you should be. Free speech is under threat once again with increasing censorship under the guise of ‘protecting’ us from misinformation, or more openly from people being cancelled or de-platformed by those idiots that have gone so far left they’ve circled round to be fascist. I’m not saying that misinformation doesn’t exist and isn’t a concern. However, the term has become so ubiquitous that it has become far too easy to label anything a certain group doesn’t like as misinformation and then suppress it. We’re seeing this in both social and traditional media, and if you keep an eye on it you’ll find many things labeled as misinformation actually turn out to be true in the end, just inconvenient or embarrassing for certain parties. Nobody, whether a private or government body, should be saying to us: “We have decided you don’t need to know this.” That’s for us to decide. Then again, there’s so much private money in the public sphere these days that corporate and government are interchangeable. Like I said a while back, if you treat people like idiots for long enough, then that’s what you’ll get. We need to both demand the respect of being given the information and making our own judgements, and more importantly, proving we can be trusted to do so. News outlets and journalists shouldn’t be clients of the government, yet here in the UK we can see some of the most excruciatingly embarrassing examples of client journalism, whereas instead they should be holding it to account and twisting the nipple rings of power every chance they get. We’re seeing bills being introduced that could effectively make protest illegal while Reich Marshall Patel permanently lifts restrictions on stop and search powers and ships asylum seekers off to Rwanda. Very little of what we’re seeing is good, and it’s all happening amidst the aftershocks of a pandemic and the noise of war in Europe, which the cynic in me thinks is a serendipitous dead cat for the powers that be. When our nations are run by a class of people that believe they’re better than us, and especially when there are just enough of us deluded enough to enforce that belief, then the only thing that can and will happen is they’ll act like they’re better than us; that they matter more than we do. And if someone thinks they matter more than someone else, then it’s easy to justify pretty much anything. Things like this are always done slowly and as innocuously as possible, so nobody is suddenly going to don jackboots and a red armband, but keep your eyes and ears open over the next few months and years. Watch for things that we’re told we don’t need to know and ask why. Watch for people that are being silenced and ask why and by whom, and definitely look out for anything being done ‘for your own good’, because it probably isn’t. Start looking at everything through the lens of ‘Cui Bono’ and ask yourself who really benefits from what you’re being told and what is being done, because the likelihood is it won’t be us.
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Max Headroom’s
BIZARRE NEWS TEESIDE TRANS SEX OFFENDER
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A transsexual sex offender lifted up her skirt and exposed herself three times in one day, a court was recently told. Chloe (formerly Bert, aged 42) was caught rubbing herself on a public wheelie bin before using a sex toy on herself in an alley in Middlesbrough, Teesside (oh, thank the Lord this sort of malarkey doesn’t happen in Chelmsford, readers. Or does it?). Apparently, a couple then shouted at her (“MORE! MORE! ENCORE!) before she scurried off. On the same day, she also exposed herself on the street where she lives and thrust her hips provocatively at a passing lorry full of men fulfilling their duty of emptying bins. A witness said: “She was acting as though she wanted to be noticed.” Once she was inside her house, she exposed her bum against her front window just as a car drove past containing three children. Chloe was already on the sex offenders’ register before she came out as trans. She has 17 convictions for 22 offences, including sexually assaulting an underage person in 2011. She pleaded guilty when she appeared in court. Before her most recent misdemeanours, she had to appear in court some 12 months prior for opening a TikTok account without informing the police. This was something she needed to do according to the 10-year notification requirement imposed on her after her sexual assault case. It was at this point the authorities discovered she had changed her name by deed poll and was handed a suspended sentence for breaching the order. Chloe, who used to be a soldier, like James Blunt, pleaded guilty to her three most recent crimes in February of this year. Teesside Crown Court was supposed to sentence her forthwith, but the judge said he wanted to first investigate if ‘structures can be put in place to protect the public from such unseemly behaviour’ if he decided to suspend her jail sentence. However, Chloe has since been warned that a custodial sentence is ‘inevitable’. “The only thing I need to find out is whether a sentence could be suspended, given the challenges you were facing and the time,” the judge told her. He was referring to the ‘difficult time’ Chloe had been having with her gender identification, explained her defence lawyer. The lawyer added: “Chloe is trying to make changes in her life, but certainly at the start of this process she felt somewhat isolated and erratic in her behaviour.” The judge acknowledged that ‘work has been done’ where Chloe is concerned and went on to say that her ‘overtly sexualised’ behaviour in front of families and children was both ‘repugnant and offensive’. Speaking directly to her, the judge said: “You are entitled to appropriate respect, courtesy and assistance in facing the challenges ahead of you, but that respect goes both ways. Other people living their lives are obviously entitled to their own courtesy and respect too.” Chloe was convicted of committing a public nuisance by indecent exposure after exhibiting her tackle to members of the public (while performing a sex act upon herself) and outraging public decency. She has been granted conditional bail until she is sentenced.
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MOTCO
Man on the Clapham Omnibus
I’M SORRY, BUT IT’S THE WRONG COLOUR! It was the recent purchase of a new BBQ and the telling of purchase story to my son that has led us to this point. I spotted an advert that popped up on Facebook Sales as I was idling at home one afternoon (sorry, but shouldn’t that be ‘working’ at home? Signed, EE). It read: ‘Brand new BBQ, still in box, cost £300, will accept £200’. A quick check online confirmed the value. I messaged the seller. “There has been a lot of interest,” he replied. “That’s as maybe,” I mentioned, “but I could get to you tonight, with cash, and here are my contact details.” “OK, done,” the seller informed me. So I tell him I have to go over to Braintree and will be with him in Dunmow by 8pm. I arrive to see two large boxes on the driveway and, as the man said, all intact and pretty much as delivered. I ask what the problem was? He looks rather sheepish and ever so slightly embarrassed. “Well,” he says, “we started to take it out of the box and my wife saw it was black and cried out, “Oh no, it’s the wrong colour and it won’t match the colour scheme in our garden. We need the stainless-steel version.” I offered him an understanding look of manly kinship. “I feel your pain, my friend. I have been there,” were my words of comfort. He looked at me and he knew that I did indeed understand. So I told him the story of how, many years ago, we lived in an Edwardian house in Chelmsford. There was modern paneling around the lower walls in the kitchen diner and, after much careful consideration, Mrs M had chosen the paint that is, of course, manspeak for five hours spent in the paint mixing section of B&Q. Our decorator finished the walls, looking happy and satisfied, as did I. “Sorry,” came a voice, “but it’s the wrong colour. I don’t know what it is, but it’s wrong.” And with that, Mrs M promptly left the room. Meanwhile, back in Dunmow, the seller nodded and he really did know that I did indeed sympathise with his plight. So we silently loaded the boxes into my car, the cash was duly handed over and I drove back to Chelmo satisfied with my bargain. Next day, I am recounting the story to my son. He listens and casually mentions, “I think there’s an article in that, Dad.” So here we are. You see, colour is a key thing in all of our lives. My youngest daughter was a ‘Purple Princess’ when she was young, whereas nowadays she is a grown up ‘Purple Princess’, on account of purple still being the one. Hanging in my study is a framed t-shirt I purchased for her from a shop called Purplelicious in New York a long time ago. It has words about being dedicated to the colour purple on the front. She was indeed a most indignant toddler when I nicked it out of the ironing basket and framed it for posterity. What’s more, she is totally averse to red. For example: recent need for a car, dad finds it,
rings dealer, has chat with dealer, speaks to daughter and finds out she hates red. Call dealer, cancel appointment, explain there is no negotiation with the ‘Purple Princess’. Any other colour pretty much, but certainly not red. Colour is one of the natural pleasures of the world. Both the animal and human worlds use colour to great effect. It could almost be viewed as a gift as well as an essential part of everyday life. We use colour to improve our lives each and every day. Colour helps us identify objects, to express emotions, and we use it as a signalling device to establish both practical and pleasurable things. Animals make grandiose colourful displays when wanting to attract a mate or partner and the same could be said if you look around any nightclub at 11pm on a Saturday night. We wear bright clothes and colour our faces. Lipstick is the obvious one. As part of my Open University degree, we spent a lot of time in one psychology unit looking at the obvious connections between Nigella Lawson's ultra-red lips and a couple of her other body parts. Well, you get the idea. Colour presents us with easy choices too. When I open a bag of red chilli Doritos, I am going to expect them to have a red hue, giving me the signal for a hot red chilli. This is how colour catalyses the mind to make unconscious judgments. Back in my youth - maybe Deaks and the Silver Surfer may be in the same bracket - ladies underwear deemed to be dangerous and racy was black, perhaps with a trimming of red for extra suggestion. The merest glimpse would not be good news for boys of a certain age. Why? Because back when we truly lived in black and white, underwear was white (men’s included, and they weren’t tighty whitees either). White signalled virtue - think brides and you see the power of colour. Even the humble traffic light has that full on power of dictatorship. We all know that to get a green light is to get the go ahead - go go go. We know that a red light is stop and red flags are no good either. But poor old amber doesn’t seem to have the same strength and is probably hacked off about it for good measure. Whereas a blue light in your rear-view mirror is bottom-clenching time, but a red light over a door is time to clench something else. There are armies of ‘colour consultants’ who decide what colours are going to be in vogue a couple of years before we apparently decide for ourselves. Just as you finally finish accessorising your kitchen and house in the alleged ‘latest colours’, it happens. The Sunday magazines and ladies’ glossies suddenly start being flooded with ads for this season’s ‘must have’ colour, whether it be bathroom accessories or codpieces. Drat, drat, drat. Back down to Matalan and T K Max to start all over again. There is a famous poem about wearing purple and growing old disgracefully. I think it is very sound advice and we should always embrace the flamboyant and to hell with it. Such as taking your trusty, reliable tweed jacket and adding a brightly coloured velvet collar. Disgraceful, but awesome!
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Red is the leader of the pack in real terms. Of all the colours in the visible spectrum it is said to have the strongest hold on the human mind. It was the first colour to be used in artistic representation - I am talking cave man graffito! By grinding ochre, a clay coloured red by iron oxide, our Stone Age ancestors were able to add a deep brownish-red to the paintings in their cave dwellings. Of course, we all know that soon after our cave man finished his work, a voice from the darkness said: “It’s good, but you know it’s the wrong colour.” Yours purpleliciously aye,
P.S. My use of ‘yours aye’ came from a dear friend and ex-Royal Marine who came from the service to banking and forged a successful career. It is used in both navy and army circles to end some types of communications. Sadly, he passed away the week of writing this piece at far too young an age. Each time I use that sign-off I will remember over three decades of friendship and fun. Sail on, Fabian. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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all told we would be getting a present to take home if we behaved. A clown came and did some juggling and then we were all presented with our present; a souvenir Jubilee teaspoon to take home and keep as a memory of the momentous occasion. Whoever thought it a good idea to give children a ‘teaspoon’ obviously never had children of their own as we all started to cry. We wanted Barbie Dolls and Action Men, not a bloomin’ teaspoon. Kids just hit over kids across the head with them.
TOTALLY TRACIE Thank you to the many Edge readers who contacted me last month to say how much they enjoyed reminiscing with me. I am glad you liked it so much. So, as the month of June is such a momentous occasion for us all in the UK with our Queen celebrating her Platinum Jubilee (no monarch in British history has ever achieved such a feat), let’s look forward to 4 days of celebrating, which will be a terrific boost for us all in these hard financial times. I love our history. I have always studied our monarchy since I was small and I always say to people their lives were much more exciting that any reality TV show we have today - just read about all their scandals and their plotting! I remember the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977 and the excitement it inspired in us children. Street parties were organised with military precision in the East End. Every road where I lived had a committee set up where the forthcoming celebrations were discussed and pondered over; should they have more fish paste sandwiches, which biscuits to lay out and how much bunting needed to be hung. My Nan took charge of our road and she would go round each week collecting the money and writing it in a book - 10p per person attending was collected with children under 5 exempt. The money was to pay for the food and drink and a Jubilee present for every child in the street. I remember all the houses being done up with Union Jacks, bunting and balloons. The competition was high with each neighbour trying to outdo the other. The shops were also dressed from head to toe in Union Jacks and bunting. Our local newsagents won the prize for the ‘Best Dressed Shop in the East End’. The elderly couple had meticulously hand painted a Union Jack on the front of their shop and painted all their windows red, white and blue. We all had to pose with a packet of sweets for the newspapers. One of the reporters asked me what I would do if I was the Queen? I replied: “Grab all the diamonds.” Yes, not a lot’s changed! The Friday before Jubilee Day we had a big party at school in the playground. All the tables were taken outside and decorated and we were led out to sandwiches, jelly, biscuits and orange juice. We were Page 30
My mum was presented with a tea towel with the Queen’s face on it at work, along with her wage packet. Yep, back in the day, people were given little brown envelopes with their wages inside each week and a list of deductions written on the outside. The next day (Saturday) we were all excited. Everyone was up and about early, tables and chairs were carried out from houses with my Nan walking up and down with a clipboard directing matters. Men were hastily sent up ladders to tie bunting from lampposts. Mr. Albert Storie, who served in the First World War, came out dressed in full regalia with his medals and rifle complete with bayonet and stood to attention at his gate ‘For Queen and Country’ (no one batted an eyelid). The roads were all blocked off as this was not a day for any cars; this was a day to party. Barrels of beer were brought out and set up. We briefly dashed in to see the Queen in her golden carriage on our black and white TV set and at 3pm prompt the Street Party started. We all put on our party dresses - which in my case was my bridesmaids dress of 4 years previous that no longer zipped up - and charged off down the street with the dog in tow. The party began and I can still remember it today - as much jelly and ice-cream as we could eat and as much cake, biscuits, crisps, lemonade and orange as we could stuff into our faces. I remember eating homemade jam tarts ’til I felt sick. Us kids would run up and down the street to call out to our friends in the next road along asking ‘what they had to eat’. Fat Danny Lee in the next street bragged they had Maltesers and Chipsticks at their party, which ended with us all in a brawl until the adults separated us.
In the end it finished as we all might have expected it to, but what a final day to the season it truly was. To go to the wire is all you can ask for as a football fan and for a while, it really did look as though Citah were attempting to throw it all away, while Liverpool uncharacteristically didn’t seem able to capitalise. There’s insufficient space left in the mag this month to do the 202122 Premiership campaign justice, so The Edge will return to it in the forthcoming July issues. But what a 2022-23 season we’ve got to look forward to, because if Spurs can hang on to manager Antonio Conte, who is so clearly a true elite manager at the top of his game, then we’ll have four of the very best managers in the world competing against each other and The Edge does expect it to be a much tighter four way race with Chelsea and Spurs pushing City and Liverpool all the way. Surely the stand out result of the entire season was Spurs 3-2 victory at The Etihad on 19th February. Tottenham were absolutely superb and not a shadow of the directionless outfit that Nuno Esperito had quickly turned them into after his appointment. For them to clinch a place in the Champions League next season must have been like them winning a league within a league in the Premiership, consigning the term ‘Spursy’ to history. As for the likes of Arsenal and West Ham? Well, at the end of the day, the table never lies, but The Edge thinks both clubs have genuine cause for optimism.
All in all though, a good time was had by all. My Nan presented each child with a ‘Jubilee Coin in a Plastic Pouch’ plus a doll for the girls and a football for the boys. I think, looking back, my Nan paid for all the gifts out of her own pension as there was no way she threw a party like that on the pennies she’d collected from our street each week. Oh and the Hokey Cokey raged on long after we kids had been put to bed. My neighbours where I live now are the best bunch and helped me move in. They’re wonderful and we have a ‘get together’ planned for the Jubilee weekend. I will definitely open a few bottles of champagne and toast our Queen, because never will we get this chance again in our history. Please don’t forget to donate to The Edge so we can still be here to celebrate the Edge’s Silver Jubilee in a few years time too!
tracie123@aol.com
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The Edge 303 new_The Edge 172.qxd 23/05/2022 23:33 Page 31
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