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EDGE

the ISSUE NO: 177

01245 421894

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PUB & Dining Nestled between Writtle and Roxwell

‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’

JULY 2011

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The Edge, Chelmsford, CM2 6XD.

Telephone 01245 348256

Mobile: 077 646 797 44


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Come and have a Wibble with us at our brewery bar at the Chelmsford Summer Beer Festival Tues. 12th - Sat. 16th July

where we’ll be running a ‘Silly Hat’ competition on the evening of Thursday 14th July in aid of charity. So why not stick a ‘fur covered bucket’ on your bonce, pay £1 to enter and try to win the £50 first prize*? *Small print legal cop out bit: Mrs Wibblers’ decision is final. All entrants must be aged over 18. Competition runs on Thursday 14th July between 6:00pm - 9:00pm. We’re not responsible or liable for anything, least of all the left-handed squirrel. (Will this do, Phil? ‘Big Nige’.)

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ctions All fun for d catere 400 from 4 ! people

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2011 Chelmsford Beer Festival bar staff .....in our bloody dreams! helmsford is lucky to have one helluva Summer Beer Festival and this years is the 34th, dontcha know, folks. As usual, and to the derision of all lager drinkers who simply know no better, there’ll be over 350 wonderful real ales - including some from wibbly wobbly Wibblers of Mayland - from all over England, Scotland and Wales, together with around 120 ciders and perries (pear ciders). The Edge also gets the feeling that many of you will be making a B-line for Podge’s Belgian Beer stall, as well as fruit based drinks (aka wine) also being available for ladies without beards to quaff. High quality cuisine is served at all times in the shape of burgers, bangers, curries and chillies, naturally along with vegetarian options. Oh yeah, and there’ll be some live music too. DON’T MISS IT, FOLKS....IT’S SUPERB! Admiral’s Park, Rainsford Road (Tues. 12th - Sat. 16th July).

C

The Edge 077 646 797 44

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The Edge Editor’s Column USELESS Fifty years old and I cannot even fix a puncture on my push-bike. What kind of an admission is that? What’s worse is I even had to take it round to a girl (Silke at Spokes) to fix it for me. Y’see, my tyre was going down every two hours (wish the one around my waist would). I managed to get the innertube out (on my own), pumped it up and dunked it into a sink full of water. But could I see any bubbles? Could I arse. So I put the damn thing back in again, pumped it back up and rode round to see Silks who discovered a minute thorn in the tyre that was just poking through into the innertube. So she picked it out with a set of eyebrow tweezers and fitted me a new tube. Well, I’m a notorious tight-arse, me (thanks for bandying that about,

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Bob Kershaw - much appreciated), so I definitely brought the old innertube back home with me to fix and carry around as a spare. Only what a fuss and palaver that was; it took me three attempts to patch it up. First off I chose a big plaster but just missed the rupture. Can you believe that? I couldn’t. But hey, you’d honestly figure that about right if you knew me (a handyman I most certainly am not). So then I figured I’d put a second patch slightly on top of the first patch, but a centimetre or so beyond it so that it’d be sure to cover the hole this time around. Er, nope. Still air bubbles came out after I’d pumped it up and dunked it back into the sink. And it was at this point....well, I almost lost the plot. Why didn’t I simply throw the damn innertube away? I mean, what are they? A fiver. But it was more than that. It was self-loathing. Two attempts and I couldn’t even fix a bike puncture. Suddenly my mind started whirring back into the past, for I am that soldier who’d start laying a patio without a clue what he was doing. Had I read up on it? No. Did I know what should be laid beneath the slabs. No again. Did I know how to make it flat? Er, not a clue. Did I make a total back street abortion of the job. Oh, most certainly. So I wasn’t going to let a bastard puncture repair defeat me and I nailed it at the third attempt.

BLIND FAITH What’s your opinion of God-fearing types, readers? In short, you expect them to be fine, upstanding pillars of our community, don’t you, because they pray in church every week, never have any naughty thoughts, always do unto others and regularly turn the other cheek, right? I mean, potentially, they reach the incredibly dizzy heights that perhaps the rest of us aren’t quite able to scale. Bollocks. Get out of here. Least not in this particular publication’s experience. Take the fella who wrote in and appeared on last month’s Letters Page with his cassock all of a twist, simply because the dear departed ‘Goose’ had dared to mention, within these very pages, that men of religion dressed in robes look “ridiculous”. Fella said he’d be speaking to his solicitor about the matter, only The Edge hasn’t heard a whisper. Went on to say, “I could also consider phoning many, or all, of your valued advertisers, asking them if they wished to be associated with a publication....” Well, he definitely got in touch with one that The Edge knows about, whilst a ‘disciple’ of his took the trouble of emailing a fair few of them to say....to say what, exactly? That you ‘believers’ get a bit uppity when anyone has a bit of a jest at your expense; would it be fair to

say that that’s about the size of it? Let’s not namby-pamby around here. The two characters in question contacted some of the businesses who choose, of their own free will (although they’d probably rather people didn’t have such, as only God’s will clearly counts), to promote themselves via this publication and seemingly suggested that they shouldn’t. How very Christian of them is that? I wonder if either of them have checked out the word faith in the dictionary recently: strong belief; trust....which may go beyond reason or proof.

CHELMSFORD BEER FESTIVAL Now that is a proper religion, is that.

READY STEADY COCK If you can’t see the funny side of Ainsley Harriott’s shoulders going up and down with mirth as he tells newfound celebrity guest Pippa Middleton to “add a knob of butter to the pan”, then there’s really little point in you reading The Edge.

FACT I actually like nothing better than having a beer in the sunshine, then moaning about it. Maybe the beer’s not right, or it’s this, or it’s that... THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 01245 348256

The Edge 01245 348256


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£10,500 PAYOUT FOR SLIPPING ON A BLOODY GRAPE! Scary Thought This image absolutely petrifies The Edge. It is the very first day of June as I am writing this and at just 7:30am, the sun is already streaming through my office window. But we live in the UK and although we’re supposedly a tad light on the rainfall front right at this present moment, if you had to give the photograph above a one word title, then ‘England’ would surely be it. The very thought of it scares me because the older you get, the more time seems to speed up (trust me on this) and in no time at all, the weather above we will once again no doubt be regarded as ‘the norm’. What’s more, by the time you read this, we’ll have already had the day with the maximum amount of light out of the entire 365 (21st June), so as of now, the evenings are actually getting darker. How scary a thought is that? I mean, seriously, does that not bother you? Are you genuinely the type that takes this sort of depressing information in your stride? I’m not. These days, I look at winter and say to myself, ‘How am I going to get through that bastard?’ I almost think I’m wishing my time away.

Did you catch this story in your daily ’paper, readers? A shopper managed to secure a £10,500 payout from his local branch of Asda, all because he went arse-over-tit after skidding on a grape. That’s not even possible, is it? Some bloke in Peterborough certainly reckons it is and Asda were forced to apologise to him for failing to meet their own exacting ‘high standards’ in the local County Court, as well as giving the fella.....a slap is what they should have been entitled to give him, the cheeky twat. Poor Asda were also forced to shell out a further £18,000 in legal costs. Bleedin’ ’ell, they’re not The Edge’s favourite supermarket, but surely they don’t deserve to have the ‘yellow water’ taken out of them. How on earth does anyone slip on a grape (singular)? A bunch, maybe. Yes, The Edge can see that there’s a slight possibility of that happening... although, I dunno, maybe a broken jar of salad cream on the soles of the shoes would be a far more likely calamity. Eeeee, the mag can just imagine a shopper coming a right ‘Roy Cropper’ with a dollop or two of Heinz beneath their espadrilles. But a single grape??? A right royal result is what the shopper in question has had. Tesco, Sainsburys and Morrisons must be literally ‘soiling their shreddies’ in case the slippery shopper turns up at their place next.

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www.theedgemag.co.uk

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WHAT THIS PICTURE SAYS TO THE EDGE...

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Hitler sported one. So did Stalin and Saddam Hussein. And Charlie Chaplin and Clark Gable. Not to mention TalkSPORT’s Micky Quinn, the ex-Newcastle United, Coventry City and Oldham Athletic (amongst other clubs on his travels) portly centre-forward. And so too, these days, does Andy Walker of Walker Reed Printers in Chelmsford, which The Edge is impressed to learn took him but a long weekend to grow. “Er, yeah,” says Andy, “it was a Bank Holiday weekend, I didn’t particularly have much else on, so I thought, ‘I know, I’ll grow a moustache’. And I did. In four days flat.” Not a lot of Edge readers know that at the recent World Beard & Moustache Championships in Clacton-on-Sea, there were even 6 sub-categories: Natural - styled without aids, such as Ryvita biscuits, DioCalm etc.  Mexican - big, bushy, ugly bugger.  Dali - narrow with long points, named after The Spaniard.  English - pretty much like the efforts both the, er, girl and Mandelson are wearing (see below).  Imperial - whiskers growing from both the upper lip and cheeks, curling upwards.  Freestyle - any moustache that does not conform to any other particular style. And these sub-categories are in excess of classics such as the old Fu Manchu, Handlebar, Pencil or Walrus (incidentally, readers, next time you see Andy Walker, throw him a fish and just see what a superb walrus impersonation he really can do). The longest recorded ‘mo’ in the history of mankind belonged to Bajansinh Juwansinh Gurjar (“What have you got in the jar, boy? It’s not a Gur, is it?”). It measured 12’ 6”, having not been attended to in 22 years. “It’s alright looking all dandy and distinguished,” says Andy of his facial sproutage, “but I don’t half look a mess after I’ve eaten a bowl of jam roly-poly and custard.”

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shaun@theedgemag.co.uk


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The Fat Capitalist Pig Daily Mail Readers

THAT’S SO SCRUMMY robinsonscatering.com

Attention all Daily (Hate) Mail readers, especially fat - yes fat - ladies. No, not ‘curvaceous’ or ‘bubbly’ ladies. Definitely fat ones. Why does The Daily Mail insist on presenting fat umpa lumpas in their Femail section, before going on to describe them as ‘svelte size tens’ when they would clearly break the scales as a size 18? Week after week we are fed this gumph and I am sick of it. Last week, it was elephantine creatures with large breasts, and although ‘only size 12’ and with small backs, they wear size 20 tops ‘because of their breasts’. Sorry, but this is just cruel, unkind self-kiddery of the very worst sort. Lose weight, the lot of you. And while I’m on at The Daily Mail, a few hints as to proper usage of the English language. Meal times: Breakfast, taken in the morning. Lunch or luncheon, taken around the middle of the day. Tea, at 3:00pm (a drink only, no solids). Finally, Supper (informal evening meal) or Dinner (formal). Why is it that certain members of our great nation refer to Dinner when they clearly mean lunch, and Tea when they obviously mean Supper? This is causing mayhem among the Nouveau in Surrey, turning up in the middle of the day when they've been invited for Dinner. Tut-tut.

Stacey Solomon A word in praise of Stacey Solomon. A veritable goddess of simple innocence. I love her. Not a clue about style, diction or irony, but it really doesn't matter as she has such grace. Every home should have one.

from a £25 classified advert

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Shagging Tracks A word on Super Injunctions: Complete reform. These must only be used in the most extreme of personal cases, such as being born in Liverpool, supporting Leeds United, or playing X-Box games when you're over 12 years old and not to cover shagging tracks or corporate illegality.... and certainly not to protect the clean image of those endorsing commercial product.

The Only Way is Essex My dear Essex friends, your The Only Way to Essex has become compulsory, nay, addictive viewing in Surrey. Not, as you may think, because viewers wish to sneer at the sheer brashness of it all, but because it reminds them of their roots and they feel homesick. Don't believe me? Try walking down Cobham High Street on any weekday. Day-glow orange tans, middle-aged women in spray-on tight dresses (my dear, the thread veins) and the usual array of heavily leased Germanic or Italian vehicles. Old money in Surrey are identifiable only by their threadbare clothes, Morris Travellers and distinct lack of a tan (despite thrice annual visits to Necker Island, darling). Fans of Wimbledon notice them every year on TV, perched beneath the score board, wearing exactly the same weather beaten panama that they also wear for pruning.

Parliament

£1,200 Job This is Steve Thomas of Complete Concept, readers (see his advert on page 31) and prior to booking a run of ads on the classified page, Steve was umming and arring about how long a period to book in The Edge for. “Tha’needs to give it at least four months, lad,” I teld ’im. But he wasn’t sure, so he just booked in for two editions, which is no time at all to test any new waters - surely you can appreciate that fact, readers? Only waddayaknow, Steve only goes and lands a £1,200 job from his very first £25 Edge advert, doesn’t he just? So naturally, he was then more than happy to book in for a whole year. (And he had another job off his second advert as well!) See, even the classified section works in The Edge. Why? Because you lot actually read the whole damn mag., that’s why, rather than merely skipping through it. So thanks for that. I also like to think you feel you can trust the advertisers in The Edge, which is comforting whenever you’re forking out any of your hard-earned.

time you get around to reading it. Once again, no doubt he hearts of Middle England ladies will once again be racing at the prospect of a British Men's Champion and you’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh at them for it. There they gather, bedecked in their Union Jack shawls on ‘Losers Hill’, crying out their usual chant of "Come on (insert requisite loser's name)". Sorry ladies, we don't make 'em like we used to. The last lot to show anything like the courage and character required to conquer Wimbledon are buried at Alamein or Monte Casino (and I do not disparage those on active duty in Afghanistan). With the very notable exception of the odd Olympic Gold Medallist (and then usually in non track and field events which don't count, sorry again), British sport is not up to much. So instead, you should stick to good ‘traditional’ alcohol infused sporting activities, like darts and snooker. Now here we really are world beaters!

If anyone should be called ‘Posh’, it should be her, and not that bag of bones married to ‘The Beckham’. The joke is that the miserable skeletal one with the trout-pout (dressed in funeral attire at the recent Royal nuptials, if you remember) is named ‘Posh’ without even a hint of irony. Yet in the lovely Stacey's case, there would of course be more than the merest hint, but no matter, for she presumes to be none other than that which she is: a girl who positively delights in her new found fame and is clearly 100% grateful for it. Nor will she ever ever make her new found position seem like an ordeal or a chore. Pure Essex class is what she is. Short on style, but incredibly big of heart.

World Beaters Wimbledon hasn’t even started at the time I write this, but it’ll probably be finished by the

Please tell me Parliament is not fixed for the remaining 4 years? Surely, after the latest council and referendum results, "Call me Dave" - the pasty faced Etonian - can go it alone without "I'm atheist, or is it agnostic, or am I just in two minds?" Clegg. The Lib Dems have always stood for SFA and their recent shameless U-turn over Tuition Fees (which initially bought them their votes) removes all doubt. So Dave, old boy, please call a General Election now and give Adenoid Boy, sat just across the way (in opposition), another bloody nose.

Squeaky Clean Ryan Giggs, football's Mr Squeaky Clean, wins the ‘John Terry Husband of the Year Award’. No wonder he fought so hard to keep it quiet. He is, in fact, the exact opposite of his finely honed, heavily endorsed, squeaky clean, family man, public persona. What better example is there to provoke review and reform of the law around such injunctions? What a dirty Welsh dog he is. Not content with a pneumatic ‘brass’, he's also ensured that his sister-in-law received the ‘right level of personal attention’ too. The Edge 01245 348256


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EVEN Codgers read the edge! Some ‘potential advertisers’ get on the ’phone because they’re particularly anxious to target the ‘younger age group’ they delusionaly feel The Edge might specialise in. So naturally they’ll be gutted to see how this single copy is being completely wasted (above), being read, as it is, by a retired, grey haired old codger with a poorly arm who’s clearly no good to anyone. The Edge honestly doesn’t know where some of you are coming from. All sorts of people read this mag; of either sex, differing age-groups. Where’s the mystery? You’re here for a bit, before you die, and during that time you’ve often got a bit of time to kill. Where’s the sophistication in that? Ultra pretentious advertising agencies sometimes get in touch and ask, “Who reads your publication?” What a bloody stupid question. Get this into your (thick) heads: I am now 50 and whilst I might hate, loathe and detest the fact, do you honestly think I am aiming this publication at twenty-something year olds?

Loch Fyne World Tour Flavours of India come to Loch Fyne in Chelmsford on Thursday 28th July. Join us for a mouth-watering three course dinner including a glass of wine for only £20 per person and an evening celebrating Indian food, wine and culture. Bookings now being taken. Loch Fyne Restaurant 109-111 Bond Street, Chelmsford. Tel: 01245 293620. chelmsford@lochfyne.net. www.lochfyne.com

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YUMMY MUMMYS This publication is confused by the term Yummy Mummy. What do you think it means, readers? Wikipedia relates the term Yummy Mummy to MILF or a sexually attractive mother (which further begs the question: what’s the difference between attractive and sexually attractive? The slight arching of the back, perhaps a squinting of the eyes, or maybe putting a finger in ones mouth?). Urban Dictionary, on the other hand, states: “A Yummy Mummy is a young, sexually attractive mother. There is an important age distinction between a Yummy Mummy and a MILF. Yummy Mummys are aged 30 and below, whilst MILFs are 30+.” UD then offer us a quite sublime example of precisely what they’re on about and it reads pretty much like this: “Dude, I’ve just done the double (aka Chelski in season 2009-10). First up, I banged that sweet 18 year old Yummy Mummy Carlie who’s forever pushing her baby up and down the High Street in a really short skirt....and then I did her mum too. Worship me, for I am a sex god.” But that’s not how Graham’s on the Green owner Graham Aldis sees it at all. “I’m familiar with the term,” he says, “but we in the restaurant trade use it to describe mums who work extremely hard in the home and who occasionally pop out for lunch.” Hmmmmm? As The Edge says, it’s all very confusing indeed. Should a young mum feel flattered or disparaged should someone describe her as a Yummy Mummy? The Times newspaper seems to side with Mr Aldis. In a recent article, The Edge quotes: “Preened to perfection in the latest designer outfits, Yummy Mummys ape the glossy-mag images of their favourite celebrities as they congregate to sip their latte’s and their cappuccino’s and share the tedious details of their offspring’s latest development.” Another website The Edge consulted describes Yummy Mummys as having “pots of money and a wardrobe to make even Carrie Bradshaw envious.” Then there’s this truly excellent comparison between a normal mum and a YM to end on:Normal Mums (re: morning sickness) “...become intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl and abandon all hope of ever hanging onto their breakfasts...” Yummy Mummy (same subject): “...disguise their bleary eyes beneath oversized Gucci sunglasses and recommend pregnancy to anyone who’ll listen as a fabulous way of detoxing....darling!”

This is what The Edge thought Yummy Mummy’s were.... basically women who’d obviously had kids (hence the title), but who were still ‘hot’, only now it’s not so sure???

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The Edge 01245 348256


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The Edge 077 646 797 44

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SUMMER OFFERS @ O’CONNORS House Wine £7.50 per bottle inc. Pinot Grigio (white & rose) plus Merlot (red) options

Jug of Pimm’s £8.50

Yager Bombs £2.50

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Hall Street, Chelmsford, CM2 0HG. good wholesome pub grub served lunchtimes, monthly special offers on fruit based drinks for the ladies, terrific atmosphere, probably the best pint of draught guinness served anywhere in chelmsford, sport on tv midweek and at the weekend.....come on, what more do you want??? Page 12

he Chelmsford Beer Festival is, fortunately, with us once again (Tuesday 12th - Saturday 16th July) and it’s worth reminding ourselves that it’s a festival about taste (all those lovely ciders and beers available) and not merely an opportunity to get rat-arsed, writes The Edge Editor. That’s one of the things that’s wrong with this country: our mentality. It’s like during the London-Brighton cycle ride the other Sunday, wankers on racing bikes flying past on narrow, packed, country lanes, showing off their prowess, leaving no margin for error. Feck off and do a time-trial down a bloody duel-carriageway, if that’s your bloody attitude. Similarly, the Chelmsford Beer Festival is not out to attract people who merely want to get pest-up without attempting to at least first educate their palates, but it’ll get ’em alright, because it’s like The Edge says: the pervading mentality in this country country of ours is all bloody wrong. If only you knew it, the people of Chelmsford are lucky to have such a well organised beer festival once every (English) summer. Try the one in our capital and you’ll see exactly what The Edge means. It’s bollocks by comparison. Undercover. No atmosphere. Whereas our very own is alive and kicking right from the off. Having said that, it probably cannot hold a candle to the massive Oktobrefest held in Munich, the largest beer festival in the world. But hey, take it from this publication, it makes a half decent stab at it. I’ve never been to the Munich fest, but both Lengthy Boy and Kingpin report that the it is fan-bloody-tastic with a first class, friendly atmosphere and no trouble whatsoever. Which is exactly what you want and expect at event such as this, despite the large quantities of alcohol inevitably consumed. The organisers of Britain’s own festivals are CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) whose many volunteers ought to be applauded and understood, rather than viewed with mistrust by the uneducated masses as ‘suspicious, non-lager drinking, whiskery old gits who like to sip warm beer’. You think a bunch of your average, pestup, Friday night lager drinkers could even lay on the likes of a beer festival? Think again, my friends, think again. The Edge hears that both the Cambridge and Reading Beer Festivals are pretty decent affairs, but as it’s never attended either, in our book, that makes Chelmsford the UK’s best (until it officially knows any different). And after the festival, what do you do then, particularly if you’ve developed ‘a taste’ and you want to carry on quaffing? Well, Barista is but a short walk into town (opposite Chelmsford Bus Station), just along Rainsford Road, and are offering their very own ‘After Festival Party’ event (see page 15), so The Edge humbly suggests that you make swift tracks for there. It’s a truly great 5 days, so make the most of them.

T

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Over 20,000 Pedalers Complete London-Brighton Cycle 19.6.11 Can you imagine cycling 54 miles on a Rayleigh Chopper, readers? I can’t. Which is precisely why I politely declined C&C’s exceptionally kind offer when they told me they had one spare. “No, you’re alright,” I said. “Me and The Length will use our own bikes, if it’s all the same to you.” Although part of me wishes I’d taken them up on it now, in hindsight (although my arse probably thinks otherwise) as there were obviously loads of people on mountain bikes, but I didn’t see one other single Chopper, so massive respect to all of the team for completing the course (well, all bar one, that is. Frazer Wilkie came off and busted his collar bone, the dozy sod. Don’t worry though, readers....the bike was alright.)

The real stars of the show: Chelmsford’s C&C Auto’s ‘PAPERBOYS’ team on their reconditioned Rayleigh Chopper’s in front of the Temperence & Providence statue on Clapham Common at 7:45am, just before the start of the 54 mile ride.

Lengthy-Boy and The Edge Ed. enter the home straight on Brighton seafront to the roars of the crowd, as usual miles ahead of the competition....or was it miles behind? Best recollection: some young twat dressed up as Spiderman thought he was ‘it’ for the day and came roaring past us, only a half-mile down a hill, on a bend, we see him upside down in a hedgerow, his cape covering his face, underpants inside out, bike a total right-off. ‘That’ll teach the cheeky upstart’, we thought. Respect for your elder and superiors is what it’s all about.

Tuesday T d 12th – Saturday S t d 16th July J l Admirals Park, Chelmsford

www.chelmsfordbeerfestival.org.uk The Edge 077 646 797 44

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MARQUEE FOR HIRE! Newly refurbished marquee now available for viewing for 2011-12 bookings. MONDAY-THURSDAY NO CHARGE! Friday-Sunday from just £250 Can be extended to accomodate 200 people. Terms and conditions apply

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Why not sign up now for the Girls Night Out Walk? ‘Girls Night Out’ is a sponsored night walk and an exciting new event for Chelmsford. ‘The Walk’ takes place on Saturday 6th August 2011 and has one aim: to make everyone’s night! Because it’s a walk with a twist - the challenge of a 6km circular walk in central Chelmsford with mucho surprises en route! ‘Bright Lights’, ‘Smells Good’, ‘Glitz’n’Glam’, ‘Shimmer & Shine’ and ‘Celebrate’ are the clues to the surprises, but The J’s is giving nothing more away at the time of going to print. All of the money raised from the walk will go towards The J’s Hospice - an emerging hospice that provides a home care service for young adults with life limiting and life threatening conditions, such as cancer, Duchenne muscular dystrophy, cystic fibrosis, Huntington’s chorea and severe cerebral palsy. The team provides hospice, medical, nursing and respite care for patients, carers and their families, alongside emotional and bereavement support. But this will be a FUN night out and the colour theme is PINK with everyone who signs up receiving a ‘Girls Night Out’ pink t-shirt to wear for the walk. Ladies can sign up online at www.thejshospice.org.uk/girlsnightout or by calling 01245 351514 for a registration pack. The J’s also need volunteers to help on the night, so please do call or email events@thejshospice.org.uk if you are interested in helping to marshall the event.

OUR HOUSE

For the first time in Chelmsford, Tomorrow’s Talent presents Our House at the Civic Theatre, from 20th - 23rd July. The show combines a witty and brilliantly-crafted romantic tale, featuring the songs of Madness, including their classic hits Baggy Trousers, My Girl, and, of course, Our House. This show won the ‘Best New Musical’ category at the 2003 Olivier awards. The production is directed by original West End cast member and Principal of Tomorrow’s Talent theatre school, Gavin Wilkinson. Gavin is originally from Chelmsford and has appeared in an array of West End shows including West Side Story, Mamma Mia, Lord of the Rings and the movie version of Phantom of the Opera. Our House features a talented cast of local students who attend regular classes at Tomorrow’s Talent. The students were recent finalists on BBC1’s ‘Comic Relief Does Glee’. Performing arts classes for students aged 3 - 18 take place at weekends during term time in Little Waltham, with additional specialised workshops held during summer holidays. The classes are taught by West End performers with years of experience in the performing arts industry. For further information about the Tomorrow’s Talent theatre school, or to book a free trial session, check out www.tomorrowstalent.co.uk or call (01245) 200555. Page 14

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After many years of being well known for our gravity fed ales and bitters, all supplied by local breweries such as Wibblers, Mighty Oak and Neathergate, we at Barista held our first ever beer festival over the last Bank Holiday weekend of May, writes Danny Lucas. With over 20 real ales and 15 Belgium and fruit beers on offer, how could it possibly fail. As usual, Barista was positively buzzing, both inside and out to the sounds of a ‘live’ band plus DJ. What an atmosphere! Fortunately the weather held out and with the aroma of bangers on the BBQ even brought Mr Edge himself out of hibernation, spotted supping on a few pints whilst sat atop one of the hay bails out the back! For those of you who haven't yet discovered Barista, well hell, it’s the perfect haven for anyone over-21 who simply can't seem to find what they’re looking for in town. At Barista, we like to make sure we put our customers first, so every time you visit us, you can tuck into some freshly prepared food or positively drown yourselves in our incredible range of drinks, all matched by a top quality service in a friendly, non-pretentious atmosphere. So why not drop in soon and choose a bottle from our extensive wine list, or perhaps a specialty beer would be more to your liking, and simply chill out. You’ll discover that Barista attracts a more mature drinker, which is why we even offer table service. What’s more, you won’t find yourselves fighting to be heard over our ice-cool background music, played at just the right level throughout the week. Then come the weekend, Barista comes alive to the sounds of laughter shared amongst friends, with everyone out to enjoy themselves to the sounds of our glittering selection of soulful, funky, disco music from both the past and the present. We very much hope to see you soon, and hey, why not pop in after you’ve visited the Chelmsford CAMRA Beer Festival? We are always open ’til 1:00am Tuesdays to Thursdays and until 2:00am on Friday and Saturday nights. Find us opposite Chelmsford Bus Station

www.theedgemag.co.uk

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Shop, meet, eat and drink at ...

JULY 2011 UNIQUE Other than July 2011 being important for it being The Edge Editor’s 50th landmark, it is the only occasion in our lifetime that it will contain 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays. Such a thing happens once every 823 years. But it’s not all about the month of July, for this year we will experience 4 unusual dates: 1/1/11, 1.11.11, 11.1.11 and 11.11.11. And that’s not all. Take the last 2 digits of the year you were born and add the age you were, or will be, this year, and you will find that it all adds up to 111 for everyone on the entire planet!

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One of my advertisers said to me on a Tuesday morning: “I didn’t have any alcohol last night. Not a drop. I can’t remember the last time that happened.” I know the feeling. Currently I am trying not to drink for 115 consecutive hours a week, from my last drink on a Sunday evening to my first drink on a Friday evening. Do I sometimes binge drink? Yeah. That’s what ‘a proper drink’ is.... quite a few in one session. But to hear people going on about ‘binge drinking’, you’d think it implied everyone who partakes in ‘a little tipple’ is later propped up against the nearest wall vomiting. Absolutely not so. But to believe the gumph the medical people preach, anything over a couple of pints is considered to be ‘binge drinking’, which is patently rubbish. Hell, The Edge doesn’t even trust anyone who doesn’t let themselves go from time to time.

What, in Chelmsford? Cos if he (or she) does and you’re a bit of a Facecock, You Tube and internet geek, then The Edge wants to hear from you. Y’see, this mag needs a gimp (mask optional as you’ll be working alone in a cupboard) who can log Edge stuff and ideas both swiftly and expertly on-line in order to get whatever it is we have to say out there. Only don’t expect a big, fat salary, cos there isn’t one. Like Edge colonists, you’ve pretty much got to do it for the ‘love’ of it. Things such as setting up an email database consisting of anyone and everyone who’ve ever advertised in the mag so that as and when The Edge has got something to tell them, all I have to do is contact my Gimp and Hey Presto, it’s very much a case of ‘job done’. Hate Facecock, but it has it’s purposes, I suppose, so what should The Edge be doing on there? You tell me.....that’s the sort of person The Edge wants to be hearing from, although preferably someone aged 16-21 so that you don’t mind being bossed about a bit. In the first instance, please email shaun@theedgemag.co.uk

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THE OLDER YOU GET... ....the more important it is to keep your nose out of the sun. Thing is, already....already....some of you (mainly ladies)....correction: ALL of you who see the DEVIL in this photograph will be ladies who will doubtless be tut-tutting to yourselves going: “Oh, how pathetically gratuitous....” No. The Edge says unto you and even puts the palm of its hand but six inches from your faces, for added emphasis, as though halting some particularly heavy traffic, and repeats “no”....there is nothing ‘pathetic’ about these babies whatsoever, for they are pure, unadulterated, monsters from the deep. Money well spent, is what they are. Don’t fit into her bikini top? Pagh. Wrong again, for any right-minded chap will tell you quite categorically that, “Oh yes, they bloody well do.” “Bet she can’t cook?” Funnily enough, we’re (men) apparently that shallow that we never thought to ask. “She’s purely an object of your small minded desires....” That she is. So...? Oh come on, all ye ladies of The Edge (that is to say, ladies who read The Edge), this publication says unto you all from the very pulpit of the Parish of Pleasure, HALLELUJAH and LET US REJOICE in the pure absurdity of the ridiculous fact that size (very clearly) definitely appears to matter. Or perhaps we should avert our eyes, ‘do the decent thing’ and look away? What? LOOK AWAY? In shame? Don’t be daft. OK, so The Edge supposes she could have baked a rather large cake instead, as she’s clearly so very desperate for attention. Or maybe she could have studied and studied and studied and studied and....heaven’s above, become a Bachelor of Soup or Science or what have you, with letters after her name so that everyone would take her seriously and... Nooooooooo. This woman chose to by-pass all other routes in preference for accentuating her breasts in order to get herself noticed for all of the wrong reasons, but god love her for that sad fact anyway. After all, it’s her very own freedom of choice concerning such a matter and it’s down right hilarious that anyone in their right mind would ever choose to question her decision. Certainly The Edge wouldn’t even dream of such. Be honest though, deep down, are some of you ladies just an eensy-weeny bit put out, due to the fact that she’s now got ‘more than her fair share’, whilst some of us (men) are no doubt bare faced liars for telling our partners that we’d “much rather have the real thing”? EDGE VERDICT: A very resounding 10/10

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THE FATHER-IN-LAW There are loads of mother-in-law jokes, aren’t there? But father-in-law jokes always seem a little thin on the ground. Edge father-in-law, like the wife, is pint-sized and sometimes turns up out of the blue. Like, I’ll be beavering away on the mag upstairs, in my orifice, like I do, during an average working day, only at some point I’ll doubtless pop downstairs to make myself a brew and WHOA! There he’ll be stood. In the bloody house! “Only me,” he’ll nonchalantly say (I swear, readers, Harry Enfield definitely based one of his characters on The Edge’s father-in-law, and that is a fact). “Thought I’d let myself in,” he’ll say, “....through the back gate.” “Oh, lovely,” says I. “‘Suppose you’d like a nice cup of tea then, eh?” “Only if it’s not too much trouble.” He’s just come back from five weeks in America, staying at the home of one of his childhood sweethearts, and her husband. But it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if, during his stay, one night he hadn’t popped up in their bed, in between them, at three o’clock in the morning, wearing his flat cap and glasses, and given them the benefit of his catchphrase.

Edge father-in-law....the spitting bloody image! Mrs Edge and I had to set off for Gatwick at 6:45am one recent Monday morning to pick him up. It was grey, raining and miserable, and that was just the weather. And did we bother to check to see whether his flight had been delayed? No, we didn’t. And yes, it had. Because we couldn’t get through to him on his mobile and, due to the fact he hadn’t contacted us, coupled with the not insignificant matter that the traffic was crawling along at a snail’s pace, we decided to make an impromptu stop at a service station to buy an overpriced container of coffee. Bad mistake. There were people mooching around in flip-flops, obviously bound for Dorset, Devon and Cornwall and suchlike, which always puts me in a lousy mood (seeing others having a better time than me, me, me). I would far rather have been heading for the M4 and joining them. The gents wasn’t in a particularly clever state either. We got to Gatwick eventually though, only I refused to pay the £5 parking fee for but half-an-hour’s wait as I felt as though I‘d been arse-raped when we’d dropped the old scrote off. Instead, I hard-shouldered The Edgemobile and sent the wife off to look for him as he’d eventually landed, only his call got immediately disconnected and we couldn’t get back in touch with him. I dunno, old people and mobile ’phones, eh? It’s like a croissant and mushy peas; the two simply don’t go together. “See if you can find the old bugger,” I said, shooing the wife out the motor whilst the wheels were still rolling. “Hey, and be sharp about it. I can’t park here for long, you know.” Eventually, amazingly, I caught sight of them through a crowd of normal sized people; two hobbits with a suitcase, making their way back to the car. The father-in-law was sporting a short-sleeved shirt and all the sunburn was flaking off his arms. Great. I’d only hoovered the car out the day before. “It was like an oven at times,” he said. “I only spent $300 the whole trip.” ‘Well, you tight get,’ I thought, but kept my musings to myself. “I’ve taken over 100 photographs,” he chirped. “I’ll have to pop over one evening and we can go through them all on your tele.” Oh, for the love of Christ. He was clearly jetlagged though, poor sod, for on the way back, the opposite side of the M25 was all but (still) at a standstill at 10:00am, so he says, “Are they trying to get home?” “Eh? At ten o’clock in the bloody morning!” says I. “Is that all it is?” he says. “I’m ready for my tea.” Needless to say, readers, it was a long journey home. Only within an hour of dropping him off, he’s on the ’phone. “Have you got my car keys?” he says. Daft old bugger couldn’t remember where he’d hidden them.

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YOUR letters

&

emails

to theedge! CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Her Boys Dear Edge, Just reading the June Edge on my commute up to London and thought I would drop you a line to say that I concur with your comments about the recent Royal Wedding and the late Princess Di. She was the best thing to happen to this country in a long time and I just hope her boys follow suit. Alan Wrenn.

Mistaken Hi there, I thought that I would let you know out of common courtesy that I too have decided to become an exreader as it were. Your recent anti-Catholic stance is the last nail in my particular final resting vessel. I also agree with others that your content has recently plumbed new depths with regards to taste and decency. I will, however miss re-reading the text messages I received the previous month reprinted on the page named 'only joking'. I will miss the two or three pages of photographs showing a reader on holiday holding up a previous issue with your hilarious comments. Honestly the way you use those f*****g asterisks, it fair cracks me up. I have written to some of your advertisers who make up roughly 24 of your 36 pages expressing my view on the subject. Page 20

11:13

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Yours in disappointment, Mark Kreamer. How absolutely pathetic. You don’t like your ‘beliefs’ called into question, so you seek retribution. So much for ‘turning the other cheek’. You know what happens in prison to people like you, don’t you? Bet you even used to ‘tell’ on your classmates at school too. E.E.

Busted Duck I was sorry to hear that The Grumpy Goose has taken a sabbatical [Definition: of, relating to, or appropriate to, the Sabbath as a day of rest and religious observance] following his drubbing by the religious ‘thought police’. Still, a sabbatical is a great time to get some reading in. He could start with ‘A Brief History of Blasphemy’ by Richard Webster. It’s about the Salman Rushdi ‘Satanic Verses’ controversy; you remember, the one where the Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa against the author for insulting the Prophet. Now, despite certain similarities between the responses to Rushdi’s and Grumpy’s writings, I’m not suggesting poor the old Goose should spend his well-earned sabbatical sitting there quivering in his jocks with the curtains drawn, waiting for an RPG to come through the window, whilst trying to read a good book. After all, it’s been hundreds of years since Christian zealots put thousands of Muslims to the sword, and that insane slaughter wasn’t for the simple crime of ridiculing ‘religion’ it was simply for being in the wrong team. No, Grumpy should survive alright; his only crime was calling the sport crap. Trust me, being in the wrong team is a whole lot different. Personally, I’ve been in the wrong team for years, but still I walk the mean streets of Chelmsford with impunity. Sure, I know the ‘thought police’ are always close by, ready to give me a red-card fixed penalty ticket if I drop a bio-degradable cigarette butt in disbelief, as I watch a halfeaten McDonald’s family-meal come skidding across the pavement, tossed from some boy racer’s car. In my team, we would have ignored the butt and DNA tested the half-eaten chips, checked the CCTV and arrested the little bugger what dumped it. It’s also no fun having to freeze your nuts off standing outside a rundown pub with no customers inside because the other team has banned smoking. Sadly, there’s no likelihood of thousands of people from my team taking to the streets of Chelmsford, shouting “Busted! Busted!” like they shouted for “Rushdi!” in Bradford, for example; they’re either already dead or too short of oxygen. May your god go with you! Anon Er, thanks (I think). Then again, I’m honestly not so sure. E.E.

Atheist Hi, I read The Edge every month and I honestly love it! Just wanted to congratulate you regarding your response to the letter regarding The Grumpy Goose's recent article. I too was shocked, but not by the article itself, but by the blatant attempt at bribery by the Norbetines. They are the ones who ought to be ashamed of themselves. I am atheist, but do not attempt to force my views on them, so why should your mag give in and let them force their views onto us? Anyway, rant over. Keep up the good work. Kat Rayner P.S. Oh how I miss dear old Gimpy. Do bring him back! I honestly ‘loaned the mask out’ and never got it back, Kat! E.E.

issue, we saw the picture of the staff from The Black Bull on vacation and thought that perhaps, as honorary Chelmsfordians, you’d appreciate a similar photo from over here. We lived in Chelmsford from Sept’09 to December’10 and loved every minute of it. We especially loved reading The Edge every month and still enjoy reading it in Canada to this day. It took us a while to take these pictures as the weather can be pretty poor over here in Thunder Bay, Ontario. But anyway, here’s a couple just in case. The first one is of me in front of our city's major land mark: a big rock

Cult Biggest laugh of June's Edge? The hooh-hah over the priests, of course. Jesus Christ, we actually had correspondence from a man who thought Ian Hislop would lend his support to a bunch of deluded imbeciles in their attempts to curtail the freedom of the press. Next he'll be telling us that a fatherless Jew survived his own crucifixion and now lives in the sky with his, er... ...father! Dream on. Not only that, he labels as 'libelous' an article in which no-one can be identified. How, pray tell, did he recognise his priestly friends in the printed description, rather than assuming the columnist had simply seen me and a couple of mates out and and about in fancy dress? Naturally he thinks he and his congregation should be praised because they've trained some children to be altar servers. News to all Christians - only you would find such a thing praiseworthy, because only you have any use for the result of such training, which has no practical purpose outside the realms of your narrow-minded, overgrown cult. David Sherman The Edge has honestly had enough of this whole damn BORING subject. To conclude, any of you who want to ‘believe’ in whatever pie in the sky crackpot theories you choose to believe in, go ahead, fill your boots. Only don’t come preaching to this particular publication if it chooses to publish the fact that we possibly think it’s a load of old codswallop. E.E.

Canadian Readers Hello Shaun, A big thank you to The Edge for continuing to send out your electronic copies. We were also very happy to receive a printed copy in the post from our friends in Chelmsford recently. Flipping through the April

formation called the Sleeping Giant (because it looks like a big giant sleeping in the lake). The second was taken in front of a famous water fall just west of our city called Kakabeka Falls.

Myself and my boyfriend, Chris Gallinger, would just love it if The Edge could publish one of these pictures because we want Chelmsford to know that even Canadians love The Edge just as must as they do. Here’s a couple of links just in case any of your readers would like a bit more information about Thunder Bay or Kakebeka Falls. www.thunderbay.ca/Home.htm www.ontarioparks.com/english/kak a.html Cheers and thanks from Nicole Durocher and Christopher Gallinger ‘Sleeping Giant’ you say, Nicole? Where? I’m sorry to say that space has had to be a bit restricted so far as your photographs are concerned as our dear old ex-reader Mr Kreamer doesn’t agree with them. E.E.

Baked Beans Dear Edge, I wondered whether you’d be interested in publishing a photograph of me opening a tin of Heinz Baked Beans just wearing my pants? Regards, Ian Phillips Chelmsford. Feck it.....send it in, sir. E.E. The Edge 01245 348256


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EDGE FINANCE

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Understanding Women “Hello, Mr Potter? It’s Chelmsford Library here. The book you ordered.....yes, it’s arrived. But tell me, what’s the suspension like on your car?” Hey girls, come on, you’ve got to give blokes a little credit for at least trying, yeah? Wired differently? Of course guys are. But why fight over it? Same with religion. We’re all different. We think differently. So don’t even try to understand each other. Just get on with it. Try to find some common ground, IF at all possible. But accept each other.

Seal a Plastic Bag with an Old Plastic Bottle Top

Q. Does this publication think the Dollar will fall today? A. Not a flaming clue. But remember, the key to financial survival is to be a right proper tight arse.

Here’s a good one, readers. Now why weren’t any of us smart enough to figure something like this out for ourselves? Makes the bag airtight to keep stuff fresh in. And, so long as there are no minute pin-prick holes in the bag (although doubtless you’d soon find out), waterproof as well. Ingenious! ’Course, The Edge likes useless Viz-style ‘Top Tips’ much better, but thought, for once, that this one might actually be useful.

Church @ Car Boot Sale Now these people know how to go about spreading their faith. They sell cups of tea and coffee at Car Boot Sales (why The Edge was in attendance is a whole different story) and I was parched, so decided to buy a cup from the very nice folk. “Forget about your image of traditional church,” they say, “for we’re all about church being relevant in the 21st century and we won’t be pushing it onto anyone who doesn’t want it. But if you do, we’re on hand for a most civilised chat”...over a cup of tea or coffee at a Sunday morning Boot Sale at that. These people are Christians from a collection of Sunday churches and that’s the way to go about spreading the gospel in The Edge’s humble opinion.....pretty low-key, like.

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ONLY JOKING! Mortuary

Three dead bodies turn up at the mortuary, all with very big smiles on their faces. Afterwards, the coroner calls the police to tell them what had happened. The coroner tells the Inspector, “First body: Italian. Male. 60. Died of heart failure whilst humping his mistress. Enormous smile spread over his chops. “Second body: Scotsman. 25. Won a thousand pounds on the lottery. Spent it all on whisky and drank it over the period of a long weekend. Died of alcoholic poisoning. Large smile on his face.” “And what of the third body?” the inspector enquired. “Ah,” says the coroner, “this is the most unusual one. Paddy Murphy: Irishman. 30. Struck by lightning.” “So why’s he smiling?” ask the Inspector. Coroner grimaces uncomfortably and says, “Apparently, he thought he was having his photograph taken.”

Poor Old Lady Saw a poor old lady fall over whilst out shopping in the town centre. Least I presume she was poor....she only had £4.20 in her purse.

Widower Just before the funeral service, the undertaker came up to a very elderly newly widowed lady and asked her, “How old was your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?” “He was 98,” she replied, “just a year older than I am.” “So, you're 97 then, are you?” the undertaker reiterated. “I know what you’re thinking,” she responded. “Hardly seems worth going home, does it?”

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I’m A Celebrity... Yoko Ono has been signed up for the next series of 'I'm a celebrity...get me out of here!' Show bosses think she’ll do really well since she's been living off a dead beatle for the past thirty years.

Soup Kitchen Got the sack from the Salvation Army soup kitchen last night, the ungrateful buggers. All I said was, “Hurry up, for fock’s sake. Some of us have got homes to go to.”

Gobble Christmas is just like any other day for me.... sitting at a table with a big fat bird who doesn't gobble anymore.

picture of me Fadder.” So he bought the mirror, but then on the way home remembered that his wife hadn't liked the old goat, so he hung it in his shed and every morning before leaving to go fishin', he would pop in there and have a peek. Well, his wife began to get suspicious of her husband’s early many trips to the shed, so one day, after her husband had left, she waddled down the garden and discovered the mirror. She looked into it and fumed, “So that's the ugly cow he's runnin' around with, is it?”

Memory My memory's not as sharp as it used to be. Also, my memory's not as sharp as it used to be.

Remarkably Sexist

Dangerous

Women should be like golf caddies; either holding your balls, or getting your tee ready.

A doctor was addressing a large audience in Oxford... "The material we put into our stomachs should have killed most of us sitting here today years ago. Red meat is full of steroids and dye. Soft drinks corrode our stomach lining. Chinese food is loaded with MSG. High transfat diets can be disastrous and none of us realises the long-term harm caused by the germs in our drinking water. But there is one thing that is the most dangerous of all and most of us have, or will eat it at some point. Can anyone here tell me what food it is that causes the most grief and suffering for years after digesting it?" After several seconds of quiet, a 70-year-old man in the back row raises his hand and says, "Wedding Cake."

Chicken, Beef or Lamb? Last night I was sitting on the sofa watching TV when I heard my wife's voice from the kitchen. “What you want for dinner, my love? Chicken, beef or lamb?” “Chicken, please,” I called back. She replied, “I was talking to the fecking cat.”

Prawn Cocktail I was sat in a restaurant when I got hit on the back of the head by a prawn cocktail. I immediately turned around and this angry bloke scowled at me and shouted, “...and that's just for starters!”

Crap in the Carburettor

BMW

A blonde pushes her BMW into a garage. She tells the mechanic that it just died on her. After he works on it for a few minutes, it’s happily idling smoothly once again. She asks, “What's the story?” He replied, “Just crap in the carburettor.” Blonde says, “How often do I have to do that?”

On a golf tour in Ireland, Tiger Woods drives his BMW into a petrol station in a remote part of the Irish countryside. The pump attendant obviously knows nothing about golf and greets him in a typical Irish manner, completely unaware of the identity of the golf pro. "Top o’the mornin' to yer, sir," says the attendant. Tiger nods a quick ‘hello’ and bends to pick up the nozzle. As he does so, two tees fall out of his shirt pocket onto the ground. "What are dose?" asks the attendant. "They're called tees," replies Tiger. "Well, what on earth are they for?" inquires the Irishman. "They're for resting my balls on when I'm driving," says Tiger. "Feckin Jaysus," says the Irishman. "BMW tinks of everything, so they does."

Bible Studies A teenage boy had just passed his driving test and enquired of his father as to when they could discuss his use of the car. His father said he'd make a deal with his son. “You bring your grades up from a C to a B average, study your Bible a little, and get your hair cut. Then we'll talk about the car.” His son thought about it for a moment, decided he'd settle for the offer, so they shook on it. After about six weeks, his father said, “Son, you've brought your grades up nicely and I've observed that you have been studying your Bible. However, I'm a little disappointed that you haven't had your hair cut. The boy said, “You know, Dad, I've been thinking about that, and I've noticed in my studies that Samson had long hair, John the Baptist had long hair, Moses had long hair, and there's even strong evidence to suggest that Jesus himself had long hair too.” His father replied, “And did it escape your notice that all four of them walked everywhere they went?”

Image of me Fadder After living in the remote countryside of Ireland all his life, an old Irishman decided it was time to visit the fair city of Dublin . So in one of his local stores, he picks up a mirror and looks into it. Not having seen one before, he remarked at the image staring back at him, “How 'bout dat? It’s a

Multi-Tasking Bloke woke up one morning and realised he could multi-task: he sneezed then immediately shat on the quilt.

Lay a Wreath Went to the cemetery the other day to lay a wreath. Noticed 4 grave diggers wandering around with a coffin and 4 clean shovels. Half-an-hour later, they’re still wandering around, scratching their heads. I thought, “These guys have lost the plot.”

Used I feel so used. Last night I put in a brilliant performance in the sack with an older woman I've known for a while, only this morning she's acting like she doesn't even know me. It's definitely the worst part about working in an old people’s home.

All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk


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There’s something not quite right about this picture, only The Edge hasn’t quite worked out what it is yet. However, no doubt some fine upstanding occasional local reader will put the mag right on that particular score, with a choicely worded bit of correspondence.

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ave you ever been really looking forward to something, only it turns out to be shite? In fact, as it transpires, the looking forward to bit was the best part about it. What’s all that about? Things not living up to expectations? Correction: things not living up to your expectations. Little things. Like maybe you were really looking forward to having a steak out, only it wasn’t served medium-rare like you’d asked it to be, only you didn’t want to make a fuss, so.... Bigger things. You spent a lot of money booking that holiday, only the hotel turned out to be pants and it rained all sodding week. Bigger things still. Marriage. You got married for what reasons exactly? And did it pan out like the brochure said it would? Seems to The Edge that we all expect certain things and when they don’t come up to scratch, we get disappointed. Worse, we begin to expect less. We set our sights lower so’s not to disappoint ourselves in the future. That can’t be right, can it? Question: What would you say you tick over at? Generally. Day-to-day. In life? Think of yourself as a car’s rev-counter. You’re at zero when you’re asleep, obviously (when the car’s parked in the garage....unless you don’t even sleep well?). You might go momentarily into the red zone when you’re accelerating, perhaps down at the gym, having sex, or you’re at a particularly good soiree. But generally, in life, what would you say you tick over at? What’s your rpm? To make it simpler, what marks out of ten would you give yourself for the way you generally feel? On an average day.

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H

The White House

LIFE’S SIMPLE PLEASURES It’s a tricky question, isn’t it? I honestly think I know the single happiest moment of my entire life and, sad as it is, I very much doubt it will ever be beaten. 26th June 1990. Yes, that’s right (sorry, ladies): Italia’90. I don’t need to say any more than that because

there’s many a bloke that probably feels exactly the same way as me, as it was a perfect moment. Just perfect. Wasn’t a free-kick, mind. Gazza just fell over cos he was knackered. But to hell with such detail, because the euphoria of that single, beautiful goal. Why can’t it be bottled? I was floating. Literally floating. Even though I was just outside Mansfield at the time. That feeling was completely off the gauge, so I’m not that unrealistic as a person as to be thinking I ought to be attaining such highs on a regular basis. But oh, wouldn’t life be sweet to experience such even once in a flaming year (or at the bare minimum every time a World Cup comes around). Maybe it’s how we deal with disappointment that’s the key? ‘Life is a two way street’ and all that. ‘You have to be in it to win it’. Yeah, yeah, yeah... Trouble is, cliches though they may be, they’re true nonetheless. I’ve started reading novels again. Yes, tell me about it. What sort of a guilty pleasure is that? I’ve almost finished Full Whack, first published in 1995, written by Charlie Higson (that’s right, him off The Fast Show) and I’ve absolutely loved it. Pure escapism. Which is why, I guess, it’s genuinely a guilty pleasure. And there you have it. The answer to the riddle. Don’t need a shrink, me. Just a spare half-sheet of A4, for clearly I am seeking to escape. What, life? That’ll end soon enough. I guess we’ve simply got to try and make the best of it, while we’re here, haven’t we? Cos there’s really no point in trying to screw things up as we need very little help for that to pan out. Ah yes, readers. You never expected to read any Theodor W. Adorno in The Edge, did you?

Front Elevation - South

Rear Elevation - North

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The Edge 01245 348256


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TV GOLD - THE ONE TEST GAME CARD

‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible....’

And this month, readers, it’s the Test Card, which was a long running series back in the sixties which makes the likes of today's EastEnders and Emmerdale seem like watching paint dry. The test card usually had a set of line-up patterns to enable television cameras and receivers to be adjusted to show the picture correctly and it was absolutely felching fascinating. Most modern test cards include a set of calibrated colour bars which will produce a characteristic pattern of ‘dot landings’ - not to be confused with 50-a-day Dot Cotton - on a vectorscope, allowing chroma and tint to be precisely adjusted between generations of videotape or network feeds. Remember those bulky 8-track stereo bricks we used to feed into the dashboards of our Ford Cortina’s, readers? Proper cassettes they were. And proper cars too. Bring ’em back. Both of ’em. Anyway....where were we?

Oh yes. SMPTE bars - and several other test cards - include analog black (a flat waveform at 7.5 IRE, or the NTSC set-up level), full white (100 IRE) and a ‘sub black’ (David Ngog?) or ‘blacker than black’ (at 0 IRE) which represents the lowest low-frequency transmission voltage permissible in NTSC broadcasts (though the negative excursions of the colourburst signal may go below 0 IRE). God, I’m bored. Ah....that word ‘god’ again. So let’s instead talk about a television programme that is equally as dull as the Test Card, and that is Songs of Praise. Songs of (bloody) Praise is usually on on Sunday nights and it is as dull as dog turd infested ditchwater. Basically, it’s a load of people sat in a right big house singing. But not good stuff. Not stuff like This is the Day by The The. Just, you know, hymns and that. And, if they aren’t already brown bread (are they?) Thora Hird or Harry Secombe might pop in and join in for a bit, before going back outside into the real world. Seeing as how your editor likes escaping so much, you’d think I’d give it a try, wouldn’t you? And if you read all of the mag, then you’d surely know what I am on about. Well, I did (but not of my own free will) and I simply found that religion wasn’t for me. Sometimes you simply have to nail your colours to the mast, don’t you? Cliff Richard likes Songs of Praise though, I’ll bet. Which pretty much says it all, really. Ditto Alan Titchmarsh. But Showaddywaddy have never done that gig.

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The Beauty of Childbirth You may remember a few months back how I described a small piece of DIY surgery I performed, using only the power of whiskey, a razor blade and my huge balls, which are basically the testicular version of Prince Adam shouting: “By the power of Greyskull!” every time they appear. Now, however, I’ve found someone who makes my gung-ho medical attitude seem pathetic by comparison.

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ME & MY adamantium skeleton

Deep in the mountains of southern Mexico, Ines Ramirez Perez went into labour. The village she lived in was 50 miles from the nearest clinic and contained a total of 1 ’phone which, being in crippling pain, she had no hope of reaching to make a call. Luckily for Ines, her doting husband was on hand to…oh, wait; he was in a cantina somewhere getting pissed, so he couldn’t do a damn thing.

Catholics, and now every pregnant woman in Chelmsford is going to be up in arms! E.E.

At first, Ines decided to wait for her husband to come home, probably figuring he wouldn’t be long...but after 12 hours of intense agony, the ‘husband of the year’ still hadn’t showed, the rotten scoundrel, although come to that, neither had the baby. Now, I’ve always held to the maxim that you just don’t feck with women as they’re all pretty much one Babycham away from a complete psychotic breakdown at the best of times, and if you add a deluge of pregnancy related hormones into the mix, you’ve basically got a porky Terminator on your hands that’s prone to bouts of inexplicable weeping and self pity.

Mrs Perez decided that matters needed to be taken into her own hands and so, as you do, she downed a few (well earned) slugs of hard liquor, grabbed a kitchen knife and went medieval on her womb by performing a caesarean section on herself. For those of you who can’t grasp the sheer horror of that, it’s worth noting that a C-section is still considered 3 times more dangerous than natural birth under the best of conditions (i.e. anywhere but a hut in the mountains armed with a bottle of tequila and a kitchen knife) and that it involved Mrs Perez slicing through several layers of skin and subcutaneous fat before reaching into her own uterus and pulling the baby out. After then cutting the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors, Inez allowed herself the luxury of passing out. When she awoke a few hours later, she wrapped a jumper around the 17 centimetre gash in her stomach and sent her 6 year old son to get some help (I shall refrain from asking why she didn’t do this before jamming a carving knife into her gut out of both belated good taste and diplomacy). Presumably, young Benito was busy being chased by Chupacabras or something, and, let’s be honest, this makes for a much more awesome tale. Today, both Ines and her now 4 year old son, Orlando, are, somewhat amazingly, alive and well, with Ines presumably now training the SAS and Navy Seals not to be such pussies, in between regularly kicking the shit out of her husband.

“You just don’t love me like you used to.” Jesus Kingpin, The Edge has had the ‘homs’ on it’s back a while ago, more recently the Page 26

In case you’re stupid and don’t know what ‘autonomous’ means, EATR is completely run by its own artificial intelligence and is simply sent out onto the battlefield and left to its own devices. That’s right, this is a thinking robot that is literally fuelled by death. What could possibly go wrong, DARPA?!

We all know they really wanted it to look like this.

The Kingmeister reports

If you immediately think ‘lateral incision’ and you’re not a surgeon....get some help.

day, presumably plotting the downfall of all of us foolish meatsacks.

Rise of the Machines I’m sure most of us have seen innumerable science fiction films involving future wars, alien invasions, killer robots and, er, hookers with 3 tits (in ‘Total Recall’!).

I’ve literally been waiting years for an excuse to use this picture.

What you might not know is that the future is here already and the future is pretty much: “Holy shit, what were they thinking?!” Enter the EATR Robot from DARPA, the Defence Advanced Research Project Agency. Judging by EATR and some of the other batshit insane stuff DARPA have come up with, I’m assuming their staff includes Dr. Frankenstein and Wile. E. Coyote. EATR stands for the relatively innocuous ‘Energetically Autonomous Tactical Robot’, but in a horrifying example of synchronicity also showcases one of its many terrifying talents. The EATR is designed to fuel itself by picking up and burning any handy biomatter that’s lying around on the battlefield; namely dead people.

Yes, it does look like a go-cart, doesn’t it. Of death. See that arm with the claw on the end? That’s what EATR will use to pick up your carcass and throw it in its internal furnace, enabling it to continue on its merry way doing whatever it’s decided to do that

Not content with designing a fourwheeled, intelligent robotic ghoul, DARPA also decided to equip it with the SELF program, which (brace yourselves) allows the EATR to use available materials to replicate itself and build any hardware upgrades it deems necessary. Just let that sink in for a second and tell me the name Skynet didn’t just pop into your head. Depending on how good the AI is, there’s literally nothing to stop EATR deciding a necessary upgrade is a 20 foot chainsaw, or that decorating its chassis with entrails would give it that certain je ne sais quoi while its building more copies of itself. In case this isn’t scary enough, then DARPA are already planning on equipping tanks and bombers with this software. EATR just has an arm with a claw on the end, not a 20mm cannon or possibly thermonuclear devices like tanks and bombers do. I work in IT, so I’m well aware of how often software goes wrong, but people not being able to get onto Facebook kind of pales into insignificance at the thought of robot bombers dropping nukes on us because of a glitch. Still, at least the newly built legions of EATR robots will be on hand to clear up all our corpses.

Calling All Pregnant Ladies Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

P.S. SORRY! E.E. www.theedgemag.co.uk


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fâÇwtç DDà{ fxÑàxÅuxÜ Here’s a date for your diaries all those of you who’re keen cyclists as well as all those of you who simply enjoy a gentle pedal through the lovely local countryside. Choose from either the 50k route, which takes in 8 picturesque Essex Rodings, or the shorter 20k route which passes through the likes of Pleshey, Great Waltham and Mashbury. There’s really no excuse, readers. Whatever your age or cycling ability, it is your solemn duty to get up off your arses and onto your bikes to help Farleigh Hospice generate some more much needed funds in their continuing quest to care for local people with life limiting illnesses. So very many people depend on the care and support Farleigh offer that they need to raise £7,750 per day simply to stay alive themselves. In 2010, 600 people took part in this very same cycling event and between them managed to raise £40,000 via sponsorship. But with the advance notice The Edge is now offering, surely that figure can be beaten this year, can’t it, readers? Only it sure as hell won’t be if you simply sit there and leave it all to others. All would be cyclists must register for the event by contacting the events team on 01245 457408, or online via www.farleighhospice.org/cycleforlife or by emailing events@farleighhospice.org. The registration fee is just £10 per adult and £5 for children under 16 which all goes towards the cost of a t-shirt, personalised sponsorship form and the overall running costs that an event of this nature incurs. The closing date for registration is Wednesday 31st August.

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Not long afterwards: Oh, Mama Mia!

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L L P

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by Steve Ward Teenage Kicks Piers Morgan. Now there’s a name to conjure with. A really classy name, don’t you think? The Piers alone sounds entirely Public School - you don’t get many Piers down at East Ham Comprehensive. And although Morgan is a common old Welsh name, somehow if you add them together it just flows really well - Piers Morgan. Just to confirm all that, did you know his real name is actually Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan? No? Well, you’re convinced it’s posh now, aren’t you?

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He hasn’t really lived up to his classy name in the past, if you remember. He was fired from the editorship of the Daily Mirror for printing faked-up pictures of British troops in Iraq ‘mistreating’ prisoners. But even that major setback didn’t really set his career back much. He was soon on our screens as a judge on Britain’s Got Delusionals and popped up all over the place whenever TV producers wanted an opinionated media friendly voice to liven up a debate. Then he and Jeremy Clarkson had a spat about, well, who can remember? But we all recall it got nasty enough to end in proper fisticuffs. Recently, Larry King, CNN’s veteran interviewer, decided to hang up his oversized braces and left his still warm interviewer’s seat to…yes, Piers Morgan. A truly astonishing feat of promotion for a failed tabloid editor. Anyway, all of that is by way of build up to what we are going to look at this month. One of the first people PM had to interview on CNN was another Englishman made good in America - Simon Cowell. Whether or not you like Mr Cowell, are jealous of his huge fortune, or in awe of his equally monstrous ego, isn’t really of any interest here, but something he said certainly is. He said, and it’s a paraphrase, but you’ll get the gist, that even now he still likes the same things he did as a teenager. Really? Let’s look at that in a bit more detail. SC’s age means he fits well within the demographics of this column - 50 Not Out he most certainly is, which means he grew up in the 60s and early 70s. Those of you who can remember that far back are doing well, because let’s face it, the older you are, the more difficult it becomes to remember what you had for break-

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fast, let alone forty years ago. Which allows the insertion of a great little saying attributed to a person unknown but it sounds a bit Joan Rivers-ish. With the increasing sales of Viagra and more and more women having boob jobs, the inevitable conclusion is that we will have an aged population with perky chests and huge erections that can’t remember what to do with them. Anyway, back to our main theme. He really did say that he likes the same things now as he did as a teenager. So he walked around his school playground with trousers up to his armpits, did he? The answer is a definite ‘no’ because if he did, he’d have been beaten senseless by that horrible sub-set of the human species called teenage boys. So the clothes are different now for a start. Name a solitary teenager that will eat a mushroom? Or strong cheese? Bet he stuffs his face with both of them now. Drink? Can any teenager stomach spirit without it being sweetened with strawberry flavouring? But as you mature, so your taste-buds do too, and suddenly neat whisky is infinitely preferable to Alcopops. Is he really expecting us to believe that the finest wine he no doubt now slurps is what he liked as a teenager? None of it makes any sense. Well, it makes no sense until you get to music. And it’s music, we must suspect, he was really referring to in his head when he made that somewhat sweeping generalisation about liking the same things now as he did forty years ago. Music tastes come in phases in anyone’s life. The stuff you listened to as a kid, be it Pinky & Perky or Postman Pat, you will leave behind as soon as you discover proper music as a ten year old. But boy, once that door to coolness is opened, you never look back. If you’re male, you will go through a heavy metal phase, and probably move on to other things as you get older. But those early records that opened your eyes to the wonderful world of screaming guitars and the power posture will remain in your heart for ever. Thirty years on, and five since you last played it, as soon as one of those barrier breaking songs comes on, all the lyrics will come straight back. Wonderful, isn’t it? Some people might even graduate to classical music - which we’ll take as a cue for another great quote - this time from a known source - Frank Muir. He said: “Classical music is that which you keep hoping will break into a tune.” Brilliant. Anyway, even if you do move onto the mysteries of the orchestra, you will never, ever, completely leave Deep Purple, or Muddy Waters, or the Beatles, or (insert your own favourite) behind. They remain a part of your life forever. And that, ladies and genulmen, is what we must assume the bigtrousered one was referring to. Unless he still likes a grope behind the bike sheds, that is.

steveward2000@hotmail.com


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OH COME ON...

The Edge is only joking because that’s what it does most of the time. BMW won’t react to this. Why would they? They’ll see the funny side. The Edge even takes half-a-dozen copies into them every month to scatter about on their coffee table for their customers to read. Actually, that’s a lie. I mean, that’s the reason I take the copies in, but only BMW staff apparently get to read them; The Edge strongly suspects because they’re just not comfortable leaving copies of The Edge around for their customers to read, just in case something published reflects badly upon them for bringing it to their customers attention. In such cases, BMW clearly wouldn’t

want to seem as though they’re in cahoots with The Edge in any way, shape or form, as is their prerogative. But it’s a great ‘spoof’ ad (the above) all the same, isn’t it just? Truth is, it pretty much wouldn’t work with any other car manufacturers badge stuck in the mud, and that’s a fact. What do you make of that? The joke’s clearly on the type of people who buy BMW’s, because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the type of cars BMW make.Which, when you come to think about it, is truly one hell of an accolade. Yep, as a manufacturer, BMW should actually be proud of such a status being achieved and their stature so extremely widely recognised.

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Official fuel consumption in mpg (litres/100km) (litres/100km) for for the Škoda Škoda Range: Urban U 19.6 (14.4) - 68.9 (4.1), Extr Extra-urban a-urban 36.2 3 (7.8) - 94.2 (3.0), Combined 27.7 (10.2) ( - 83.1 (3.4). C CO2 O2 emissions for for the Škoda Škoda Range 89 - 237g/km.

The Edge 077 646 797 44

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On The TRACIE Up... TOTALLY Snap Crackle & What?

Dying to be Happy

What a woman carries in her handbag has long intrigued many a man. So much so that the marketing chaps at Kellogg’s commissioned a survey to be carried out on the contents of the average woman‘s handbag and apparently stopped and searched over 1,000 women in their diligence. According to the results, what they found somewhat surprised them: sex toys, spare knickers, screwdrivers and keys were the most unlikely items with over 95% of women interviewed having one or more of those items in their handbags at the impromptu time they were stopped on the street. (In my defense, I admit to the keys only!) Fascinating though this information is, I can’t help wondering what the blinking heck any of this has to do with a company that sells breakfast cereals. Unless, of course, they are planning to start giving away sex toys, screwdrivers, spare knickers and keyrings with every packet of Special K sold. Call me old fashioned, but in my day, all you found in a box of cereal was a whistle or a toy submarine; and let me tell all you kids of today, what with your iPods and your Play Stations, boy, us kids were mighty glad to get a toy. However, in the early 1980s, good old Health & Safety put a stop to toys being found in cereal packets after an OAP choked on a toy soldier. Which in turn naturally prompted us all to stop eating cereals for breakfast altogether, in preference to running around town with a coffee and a muffin in our hands.

Whilst on the subject of broken hearts, Ivan Todrov decided on the only course of action to beat his depression and cure his broken heart, after being dumped by his girlfriend, was to ask his friends to bury him overnight in a coffin. Mr Todrov thought being dug up and leaving the grave the next day would offer him a whole new perspective of life. However, it rained pretty heavy that night and sludge filled up his air tubes. Coupled with that, his mobile ’phone failed and he died. Next morning, cops were called to the bizarre scene after his friends trooped round to dig him up and made their gruesome discovery.

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Heart’. Counselling for the broken hearted, whilst being bloody expensive, includes sessions on learning to accept and love the person he or she left you for and embracing the new woman or man in your partner’s life without anger (I don’t think so!!!) whilst another step encourages you to acknowledge your own faults that contributed to the break up (what, moi?). Then there’s the re-birthing process; coming out the other end in time to love again (by putting yourself back through all the agony and expense). Personally speaking, I always found a large box of Kleenex, copious amounts of chocolate and wine, and a book entitled ‘101 Ways To Kill Your Lover’ usually did the trick.

We have all been there; the end of a relationship and the painful ending coupled with a broken heart, where you sit staring into space, listening to sad, morbid love songs, vowing never to love again. That is until your mates come round and tell you that you’re better off without the scoundrel/bitch and drag you out to find yet another. But not anymore. These days, healing the broken hearted has become a huge business, with rehab centres springing up all over the place. Apparently, if you don’t deal with the issues of a ‘broken heart’ straight away - comprising of at least 20 counselling sessions at £80 a pop - you risk carrying the issues on into your next relationship. They call it the ‘10 Step Plan For Your Broken

The Price is Right This column notes that police were called to a ‘domestic’ in Essex after a fed up wife ordered her husband to choose between her and his motorbike, only to find that she was the one that ended up for sale on the internet. Her husband placed the ad offering “a pretty young brunette with unknown mileage” and went on to say that his wife came with accessories including “a loud voice” and the ability to “spend other people’s money“. When the boys in blue arrived, they found the husband cowering in a corner whilst his wife smashed his bike to pieces with a hammer.

Fishy Tale I heard a most bizarre story the other day that I simply had to research to see whether it was true or not; and unbelievably, it is. A retired photographer cycled 10 miles to buy a catfish from a pet shop, but staff refused to let him take it home by bicycle in his saddlebag because they were worried for the safety of the fish. The gentleman in question had been happily collecting fish for over 10 years and had never encountered such a problem before. In fact, he reckoned that it was a far less stressful mode of transport for the fish than travelling by car as all the jolting and stop-starting movements were greatly reduced. Which prompted me to remember the following old quote my nan used to say: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”. I do wonder though whether anyone ever thought to ask the fish?

Tracie123@aol.com


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The Edge Mag July 2011