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EDGE
the ISSUE NO: 160
www.theedgemag.co.uk
‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’
The Edge, Chelmsford, CM2 6XD.
Telephone 01245 348256
FEBRUARY 2010
Mobile: 077 646 797 44
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cakeover n. Taking a plain fat lass and giving her new hair, clothes and teeth on daytime television.
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The Gross Effects Of ALCOHOL
I tend to scribble ideas down onto little scraps of paper whenever they occur to me, just in case they end up making potential interesting Edge articles. So here’s a word of warning to all current and future Edge colonists: DON’T EVEN BOTHER IF YOU’RE UNDER THE INFLUENCE! One of my most recent musings, whilst I’d been sloshing it back by the truckload (why do I continue to do it/what am I running away from?) was that the Mk.1 Ford Capri and The Daleks were the two most influential machines I could remember in my entire 48 year history. Thing of it was, I genuinely thought at the time that I’d had some sort of a ‘Eureka moment’. I honestly thought my very own thought processes were bordering on those of pure genius. What a delusional dork! Only hang on a minute....is that really all that bad a shout? OK, so the Mk.1 Ford Capri was but a pale imitation of Frank Bullet’s (Steve McQueen) pure muscle car, the awesome Ford Mustang of that time. But pray, what on earth were The Daleks based upon? I’d seriously like to think they were dreamt up in someone’s splendid tete and based on...on what? Absolutely forked if I know. They’re such an odd shape to begin with. But The Edge maintains that they are the best ever ‘baddie’. Just the greatest of all time. Unless, of course, any of you readers fancy a shout of your own?
Czech Bride
Many thanks to Ken Donald for taking the trouble to send in this photograph (what he captured in Prague) to The Edge. S’truth, I am almost chilly for this buxom wench, although doubtless she was hardly going to cover them up on her ‘big day’. She’s also probably a prime example of one of those women who hates (a) being looked upon as a sex object, and (b) loathes men talking to her chest and not her face. Yet at the same time she probably continually dresses as though it’s the middle of summer, even in the middle of winter. It’s called being over self-centred.
The new Mercedes-Benz E-Class Estate. Get in and get more out of life. Arrives Thursday 21st January.
Contact us on 01245 399 399 to book your test drive or visit www.mercedes-benzofchelmsford.co.uk
Mercedes-Benz of Chelmsford White Hart Lane, Springfield, Chelmsford CM2 5EF 01245 399 399 www.mercedes-benzofchelmsford.co.uk Official government fuel consumption figures in mpg (litres per 100km) for the E-Class Estate range: urban 15.0(18.8)-38.2(7.4), extra urban 30.4(9.3)-60.1(4.7), combined 22.1(12.8)-49.6(5.7). CO2 emissions: 299-150 g/km. MODEL FEATURED IS A MERCEDES-BENZ E 220 CDI BLUEEFFICIENCY SPORT ESTATE AT £35,035 ON THE ROAD INCLUDING OPTIONAL METALLIC PAINT AT £620 (ON THE ROAD PRICE INCLUDES VAT, DELIVERY, 12 MONTHS’ ROAD FUND LICENCE, NUMBER PLATES, FIRST REGISTRATION FEE AND FUEL). *CO2 EMISSIONS BASED ON A MERCEDES-BENZ E 220 CDI BLUEEFFICIENCY ENGINE. PRICES CORRECT AT TIME OF GOING TO PRESS (01/10).
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/czechbride to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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eat humble cock v. Of a lady who has been involved in a disagreement with a gentleman friend (who was proved right). back to a time of perpetual lemonade and sunshine, or so it seemed through my rose-tinted glasses, although I can’t imagine for one moment it was really like that in February, in bloody Yorkshire. I've seen all your qualifications You got from the Sorbonne And the painting you stole from Picasso Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does...
When you go on your summer vacation You go to Juan-les-Pins With your carefully designed topless swimsuit You get an even suntan on your back and on your legs...
Trust your Uncle Edge, kids, your Mums (most probably) will remember this (guy’s) song. You talk like Marlene Dietrich And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire Your clothes are all made by Balmain And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are...
OK, so that’s probably not the most memorable line of the lyrics, but...
‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely’ broke into the UK pop charts 41 years ago this month. You live in a fancy apartment Off the Boulevard Saint-Michel Where you keep your Rolling Stones records And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do...
And when the snow falls you're found in Saint Moritz With the others of the jet-set And you sip your Napoleon brandy But you never get your lips wet, no you don't...
I heard/saw this fella singing it on some musical ‘reminiscing style’ TV programme recently and it cut through me like a knife. It immediately took me
It wasn’t a particular favourite of mine way back then, but I dunno, there’s just something about it. I remember the back streets of Naples Two children begging in rags Both touched with a burning ambition To shake off their lowly-born tags, so they try...
So look into my face Marie-Claire And remember just who you are Then go and forget me forever But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside, yes you do...
But where do you go to my lovely When you're alone in your bed Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you I want to look inside your head, yes I do...
But time moves on. Time passes by. People change. We all change.
...as well as reaching ‘top slot’ in thirteen other countries (although it fared poorly in the USA).
But where do you go to my lovely When you're alone in your bed Tell me the thoughts that surround you I want to look inside your head, yes I do...
Where do you go to my lovely When you're alone in your bed Tell me the thoughts that surround you I want to look inside your head, yes I do...
When I checked Peter Sarstedt out on Wikipedia, I wanted him to look exactly the same. Exactly.
...four weeks at number one...
I remember it like it was pigging yesterday, but my (or should that be look?) how we change.
They say that when you get married It'll be to a millionaire But they don't realise where you came from And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn It was just so unlike any other sound around.
Sixteen weeks in the UK charts.
The Edge Editor’s Column
with Bowie’s epic ‘Space Oddity’).
Your name, it is heard in high places You know the Aga Khan He sent you a racehorse for Christmas And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha
I know where you go to my lovely When you're alone in your bed I know the thoughts that surround you 'Cause I can look inside your head.
It was awarded the 1969 Ivor Novello Award (along
THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 01245 348256 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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hose monster n. An ugly woman who cannot get enough hosepipes.
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DEPRESSION
Batchelors Savory Rice I’ve been getting heavily into the Batchelors Savory Rice (flavours numerous; Thai Sweet Chilli Flavour today, folks) recently, readers, in a bit to cut out the bread. When you get to my age, you don’t want any extra dough accumulating around your ever expanding gut if you can help it, so I’ve been swapping my favoured chicken and mayonaise sandwiches of a lunchtime for a sachet of Batchelors Savory Rice and dropping the chicken in there instead. I’m not sure if it’s made any difference to my waist measurement after but four days, but I can but percivere because it really is no hardship. Try it with me, readers. Simply purchase your sachets from your local supermarket, rip the top off with your bare hands, pour into a microwave-suitable bowl of some description, add three-quarters of a pint of boiling water, bung it in the microwave for 15 minutes, then serve after adding the chicken. Easy-peasy. It’s proper blokes cooking, I tell thee, and makes for a delicious lunchtime snack. See, the reason why most diets fail is due to the fact that you can’t bloody well stand what you’re eating. OK, so there’s more shit in a Batchelors savory Rice sachet than in plain brown boiled rice....so the diet takes a little longer. So what!
Many people seem to get more depressed at the start of a brand new year than at any other time, and I reckon I’d be joining ’em if I hadn’t a nicely timed two week break to Thailand all sorted and ‘in the bag’. Went there last Christmas and New Year and the price was (obviously) hiked, simply because of the time of year, so this time around we thought we’d suffer a Chrimbo/New Year at home and take advantage of the far more favourable late January/early February rates. I clearly don’t understand depression, so I’d never make light of it, but I do most definitely feel that you have to have something to look forward to in life, and with Blighty grinding to a snowy standstill as I write, it’s most definitely my Thailand trip that forms the light at the end of my own particular T.O.L. (tunnel of light). However, holidays are generally few and far between in the grand old scheme of things, so if you’re feeling down, how about getting eight people together (they tell me 8 is a good number) on a Saturday night, all around the fireside, for a game of Cluedo? (Or Monopoly and food, drinks, whatever?) Then plan something for the following weekend that’s just ‘a little bit different’ and so on and so on. Just keep dangling a carrot that’s not so far out of reach in front of you and before you know it, hey, it’ll be Spring. What’s more, organising your life that way, you won’t have to contend with the post holiday blues!
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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/savoryrice to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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Pouring Pot Noodle adj. Producing a thoroughly unappetising, runny poo that is bordering on Cup-a-Soup.
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WHAT THIS PICTURE SAYS TO THE EDGE...
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Meet Lee (yep, that’s really his name, folks). Looks familiar? Well, you may have spotted Lee in Back Inn Time where he’s a part-time waiter. A huge Lee Evans fan all his life, Lee (above) has been inundated with people telling him that he really does have the looks, charm and charisma to pass himself off as the much loved Essex comedian. Chelmsford’s Lee often deploys the persona of the real Lee Evans and leaves Back Inn Time diners intrigued and wanting more. Unable to go anywhere without being told he looks like Lee Evans, Lee narrowly missed out on meeting his idol when the comedian once dined in the restaurant. Likable Lee (Evans) had naturally wanted to meet his uncanny double, but unfortunately our Lee was unable to get there in time. However, Lee (Evans) did leave a signed autograph for Lee (our Lee) saying: 'Hello Lee, from the real Lee'...which was nice. Lee went to the O2 Arena last year to see the
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Lee Evans 'Big' Tour and whilst there was approached by numerous fans asking for photo’s and autographs, thinking him to be the real McCoy! And so, in recognition of Lee Evans sheer brilliance, alongside all the comments Lee routinely receives on a daily basis, this has prompted him to become a bona fide Lee Evans look-alike, whom the appropriate people can now book for new store openings etc. Just how cool would it be to have 'Lee Evans' at your event? That's exactly what happened recently when a lucky couple invited Lee along to their wedding. Lee is now available to hire for bookings and appearances at your chosen event, whether that be a wedding, a private party, or a corporate function. A Lee Evans look-a-like would certainly prove to be a great 'ice breaker' at any gathering and is guaranteed to have your guests buzzing in no time. Lee has dedicated his time and effort to perfecting the ‘Lee Evans look’ including both the mannerisms and wardrobe of his alter-ego. So why not make your next event an utterly memorable experience for all of your guests by inviting Lee along too - because there’s simply nothing to compare with the thrill of brushing shoulders with the superstar! Lee is currently running a facebook fan page for you all to join. He wants to have the most Lee Evans look-a-like fans on the social networking site, so please help him by signing up. Just search for Lee Doran (yes, that’s his real name) as a Lee Evans look-a-like and Bob will most definitely be your Uncle.
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Or if you’ve already seen enough and would like to invite Lee to appear at your next event, please contact him direct on 01245 252575 or email him at hello@leeevanslookalike.co.uk
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/leedoran to comment.
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EN_20_030_7111_1l
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social sticks n. Crutches that are only used when the bearer is off to sign on.
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February is the one month of the year when, if my moods were actually mammaries, I'd be classed as flat as a pancake. The minute I've washed my hands of January, my sights are firmly set on March and no amount of crepes, roses or romantic rhymes can console me. But whether you love it or loathe it, you can't escape February, just as you can't escape a row of fat, spotty arses squashed against a coach window. So what's an impatient woman to do to kill the time? An early Spring Clean is what she does, and the only way to start is from the bottom up! In my case, that meant tackling the ‘cup and crotch’ chaos of my underwear drawer; that dark dungeon of material sinners and forgotten heroes. Things didn't start off too well. First up was the mother of all battles with a gargantuan forty-denier tarantula that was once twelve pairs of tights. This nasty nylon guardian of my undies-world didn't appreciate having its legs pulled, but the sad stockings came easily. They were just happy to see daylight again, given that marriage and too many pictures of young airbrushed models have sentenced them to years living in the dark. Their only hope now is that they might get the odd outing to a Fancy Dress Party, in a candlelit cave. Meanwhile, my warren of trainer socks had bred like rabbits and cluttered up the space like morose singletons, but no matter how hard I tried to play Cupid, I couldn't create the perfect pair. And I'm not even going to get into my knickers - there are some things a woman should leave to her man, or the milkman. In a nutshell, I'm obviously a hybrid of both Nun and Nymph. The finale was really the bras - talk about a trip down mammary lane. In many ways it was more fun than looking through old photos; the good, the bad and the ugly memories were there in every cup and every fiddly clasp. Except the sports bras; they were as untouched as a virgin. But what really threw me was one enormous boulder-holder which resembled a remnant from some ancient Highland Games collection. You wouldn't find this momma in BHS, that’s for sure. This was specialist scaffolding; a frilly Frankenstein that was built to last. Looking at it, I knew I was staring at my future if I didn't ditch the Walkers crisps and the wine. Still, I tried it on and stuck a couple of Cox's in the cups, as you do! A quick call con-
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/birdseyeview to comment.
firmed it belonged to a dear friend who'd stayed over a few years ago and, oddly enough, she didn't want it back. She was now wearing tiny padded bras after shedding several stones and a husband, and her cup size was back at the beginning of the alphabet as opposed to somewhere in the middle. She's currently an ecstatic A and not some grieving G widow. The fact that men now talk to her face and not to her fun-bags delights her and frustrates them. Her outlook in life is a bit like her approach to her cup size; firmly in the half-full and not the half-empty category. So which are you, ladies? I find that women usually fall into various camps in the underwear department. The optimists will bundle a pair of B-boobs into an underwired C-cup and add a couple of chicken fillets whilst waiting for a silicone-bag special offer to crop up. The pessimists, on the other hand, will tuck a comfy C into a Double D bra because they're convinced they sit somewhere between Jodie Marsh and Jordan. Even when they can see that there's room for a JCB as well as their jugs, they'll live in denial and inevitably write to Trading Standards. They thrive on the belief that the whole world is out to undermine them. The third category is the bugger-it brigade; you can easily spot them because they have an extra pair of mini-boobs bulging by each armpit crease and a couple of half-boobs slap bang in the middle of their chest. Their bra-straps are generally twisted and they fiddle a lot because the cup wire's broken and it's threatening to impale them and anyone who gets within arm's length. When the bra comes off, its outline will still be etched on their skin like a placement guide for the following morning. These women don't give a damn what size they are. They would happily burn every one of their bras if they could, because life is too damn hectic and they could do with the extra time wasted by holstering their hummers into place every morning. Even if women won't admit it to your face, they will always have a love/hate relationship with their boobs and their bras. They are her best friend and her worst enemy. They might watch documentaries of tribal womenfolk and thank the Creator for Victoria's Secret, Agent Provocateur and Bravissimo, but they secretly long to hang as loose and floppy as a nudist playing table tennis; if you doubt me, catch a woman's expression when she removes her bra after a long day. Oh the sheer bliss on her face. Or is that just me? Whatever category you fall into, promise me you'll pay as much attention to your boobs as you do to what you prop them up with. Love 'em always, check them religiously and never, ever take them for granted. Now sit up straight and pull your shoulders back!
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sticky wicket n. A well used crease with all the bounce f *** ed out of it.
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Essex Cars & Limos Weddings - Parties - Airports - Executive Travel Cars & Limousines for all occasions
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I know I shouldn’t, BUT... ...I honestly can’t resist it! How’s this for ‘posh camping’, folks? During The Edge Crew’s forthcoming fortnight in Thailand (which also includes three days in Cambodia) we’ll be staying for three nights at the Hintok River Camp at Hellfire Pass, right on the River Kwai - please check out www.hintokrivercamp.com ... go on, I want you to be envious! Yep, we’ll obviously be ‘doing the bridge’ and, and....I just cannot wait! I’ve got three days to go before I finish this (February) edition, then, by the time the majority of you are ogling it, I’ll already have done Kwai and Cambodia and will be sunning my big fat buddha belly on a beach in deepest darkest Phuket. Back to work on Monday 8th February (grumble groan). Yep, I’ll be as depressed as ‘Hellfire Pass’ by then, I shouldn’t wonder. But now - right now - the anticipation (isn’t that often the best bit of all?) is literally driving me loopy. I’m even looking forward to having a couple of jabs this very afternoon!
D&A HAIRDRESSING of Great Waltham welcome Hannah & Kirsty to our friendly team We are delighted that Hannah has joined us from a salon in Stock whilst Kirsty joins us from a salon in Great Dunmow. Hannah and Kirsty are accomplished stylists who offer D&A at Great Waltham a wealth of experience. Main Road Great Waltham Telephone: 01245 360080 The Edge 01245 348256
Mobile: 07789 185096 Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/youluckybastard to comment.
199 Springfield Road Chelmsford Telephone: 01245 257925
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early morning dip n. To make love to a woman whilst she is still asleep. (BEWARE: may carry a 15-year sentence)
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“Jeez! I only asked.� Yeah, probably asked if she’d put a couple of pounds on. I mean, call The Edge cynical if you like, but this is married life (above), right? Only once a year, you’re supposed to get all lovey-dovey on bloody St. Valentine’s Day. Once a year??? You’re having a larf, ain’tcha? How unreasonable is that? This (above) is what happens if your leg suddenly has one of those rare nervous twitches in the middle of the night and causes your foot to boot the good lady wife (snoring next to you) right up her arse. “Grrrrrrrrrrr!� she growls. “You’ve just interrupted my beauty sleep, you useless sack of shit.� Or perhaps you accidentally deleted an omnibus recording of Corobloodynation Street. “Grrrrrrrrrrr! It’s football, football, football in this house and the one bit of pleasure I get, you have to go and ruin it for me.� Tut....St. Valentine’s Day indeed.
IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS
Ah, see, make the effort and just look how happy you make ‘the little lady’, and none of this, “Well (sniff), I thought about it, ’course I did. Only then I forgot.� No, no, no, no, no. You seriously mustn’t forget. Not under any circumstances. Nor will, “It’s a load of over commercialised bollocks!� wash either. You just need to surprise her....but IN A GOOD WAY (and not with the oil you’ve just spilt down your brand new shirt, or your muddy footmarks stencilled all over the living room carpet). Come on, blokes....we can surely RISE TO THE OCCASION!
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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/valentinesday to comment.
The Edge 077 646 797 44
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beer pressure n. Benevolent psychological influence applied by ones drinking companions.
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Suppliers to: BARDA, BARN BRASSERIE (Great Tey), THE BLUE BRIDGE (Writtle), BLUE STRAWBERRY (Hatfield Peverel), BISTROTHEQUE (London), FLASH (Royal Academy of Arts, Burlington Gardens), GRAHAMS ON THE GREEN (Writtle), IVORY ROOMS (Billericay), THE LION (Boreham), MASONS RESTAURANTS etc. “Knight Meats play an integral part in the success of the restaurant and banqueting facilities within our hotel chain.” David Hart (Group Executive Head Chef, Elizabeth Hotels)
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No, I'm not going to court even more controversy than usual by discussing that bloke who tried to blow up that ’plane with explosives packed into his underwear. My subject this month is one that will be familiar to all my fellow pub-going people-watchers; namely the complete and utter rubbish people pass off (knowingly or otherwise) as fact when conversing with their friends over a few drinks. And, for the record, all of the following were heard by me in the pubs of Chelmsford in the month of December. I'm even starting to wonder if anyone ever says anything that's true anymore. “If enough people spoil their ballots in an election, it will be declared void and will have to be re-run.” False. Spoilt ballots are counted for statistical purposes only. They have no bearing on the outcome of the election. If all the voters in a constituency spoilt their ballots, the contest would be declared a tie and decided by the drawing of lots. “Since the last national census, 'Jedi Knight' has been an officially recognised religion.” Dubious. There is no firm definition as to what constitutes 'official recognition' of a religion in the UK, but it sure as hell isn't brought about by some geeks with dubious taste in films making a false declaration on their census forms. “Jack 'The Hat' McVitie was shot in The Blind Beggar pub on Whitechapel Road.” A common misunderstanding. He disappeared. Reggie Kray was later convicted of stabbing him to death in an East-End flat. The man shot in The Blind Beggar was George Cornell. “If you mix Fosters and Strongbow, it re-ferments and doubles its strength in seconds.” Scientifically impossible on three counts: (1) Where's the yeast in these two pasteurised products? (2) Where's the sugar from which the alcohol would be generated? (3) Fermentation is a slow process. Generating 50 degrees of alcohol at room temperature takes several days. In a cold drink, it would take longer. “Margaret Thatcher slashed public spending.” With the exception of 1983, public spending increased during every year of her administration. “Tony Blair took us into the Iraq War because he didn't have the guts to stand up to George W. Bush.” (This is what we call political impartiality!) Tony Blair was advocating the removal of Saddam Hussein by military force while Bill Clinton was president. Footage of him saying so is freely available. “A market trader in the North East was prosecuted for selling loose fruit and veg in imperial units.” Never happened! It isn't even an offence. The man in question was actually prosecuted for using scales which had not been passed for accuracy by Trading Standards officials. “Elvis Presley died of a drug overdose.” Congenital heart defect exacerbated by a chronically unhealthy lifestyle. Toxicology tests showed no more than safe levels of any drug in his bloodstream. “Guinness is full of iron.” Even a low concentration of iron salts in brewing liquor creates a nasty metallic taste. Guinness contains no more than the low average found in any beer. “Yeardley Smith is the voice of Bart Simpson and Angelica from Rugrats.” Uh-uh! That would be Nancy Cartwright. Ms. Smith does appear in the credits of The Simpsons, though. “Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody was the first single to have a promotional video.” The Beatles and the Beach Boys had both experimented in this field years earlier. Footage from The Monkees' TV series was also distributed for the same purpose in the mid-sixties. “Penguins live at the South Pole.” I actually heard this stated as fact in a pub quiz. Of course they don't live at the South Pole. What would they find to eat? “That new Twilight film looks really good.” Oh, stop it!
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/shermanator to comment.
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Page 13
mizu
come to bed pies n. Pastry-based foodstuffs presented to a fat lass in exchange for a bit of a bunk-up.
THE ART OF MODERN ORIENTAL DINING Far be it for The Edge to recommend anything outside of Chelmsford (indeed, the question begs, is there life outside of Chelmsford? Whoa! Don’t all SHOUT at once...), but next time you’re feeling a little peckish around about the point where the A12 meets the M25, pop into Mizu and I assure you, you will be more than pleasantly be surprised, reports The Edge Editor. What does Chelmsford have to compare? The Zen Noodle Bar at the foot of Duke Street. For The Edge’s money, Mizu tops it. The Mizu concept originates in the Far East, so they give you proper Far Eastern waiters and waitresses....not just Linda and Gary from Brentwood. So, y’know, close your eyes and with a little imagination, you could almost be there (kind of)....aside for the view of the petrol station outside.
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show your love! valentines day sunday 14th february 3 courses with coffee £30.00pp
And talk about service without delay! I’d barely taken my underpants off to hang them over the radiator to dry (I was that excited) before my steaming Number Sixty (Mizu Special Rice: stir fried roast pork, chicken, prawn and seasonal vegetables in oyster sauce, served with boiled rice) was placed in front of me, all for just £7.50. The good lady wife, ever the big spender, opted for Number Fifty Three (Mizu Combo Rice: a combination of roast pork, crackling pork and roast duck with Chinese greens, served with boiled rice and a sweet soya and hoi sin sauce, garnished with spring onion) at a whopping £7.95 (plus a cup of delicious green tea that tasted nothing like the ’orrible stuff you buy in the supermarket....go to a specialist Chinese shop and ask for some CHANGHAO (red rectangle with white lettering) and you’ll know exactly what The Edge is talking about)....but as she was footing the bill, hey, I guess she was entitled. Mizu food is absolutely delicious and oh so clean and fresh tasting. Being on a bit of a New Year’s health regime, we simply drank water with our meal, but their wines are equally attractively priced from just £6.50 to £12.00 for a bottle of white, £6.50 to £13.50 for a bottle of red, and, if you really fancy pushing the boat out, try their Sancerre Rose at £16.50 or the Paul Clouet champers for just £19.95. (Hang on....those are the TAKE-AWAY prices, sorry!)
the
Woodpecker grahams on the green
grahams @ the woodpecker
01245 422432
01277 261592
12-14 the green, writtle, chelmsford cm1 3du www.grahamsonthegreen.com
225 hanging hill lane, hutton, brentwood cm13 2qg www.grahamsatthewoodpecker.com
To be absolutely clear where Mizu is (there’s also one in Ipswich), as you hit the M25 roundabout via the A12, take the very first exit, as though you’re going up to Brentwood, then take the first left, as though you require some fuel, and it’s there, straight in front of you....only do drive carefully up that elevated ramp to their car-park, or it’ll have your front bumper off! Once inside, the first thing you’ll notice is probably the long bench seating because it’s all very communal at Mizu, which I personally happen to think is great - unless you get ‘a suit’ on his mobile ’phone not too far away from you. However, he soon shut up once his soup arrived, and boy-oh-boy, I’m definitely choosing from the ‘soup noodles’ range (80 - 89 on your menus, folks) next time because it looked absolutely awesome. It’s served in your own mini-wok and sod any measly bowl. For instance, Number Eighty is Seafood Soup Noodles (soup and udon noodles topped with prawn, squid, scallop, Japanese fishcake, enoki (whatever that is when it’s at home?), crabstick, menma (eh?) and Chinese greens), all for just £8.95. I have just got to have me some of that! Then there were these other couple of guys who came in who’d seemingly just played badminton, by the looks of their rackets, and their spare ribs (£4.50) and Satay Chicken Skewers (£4.50) starters looked positively to die for. A word of warning though: if you order dishes numerous, just tuck in as soon as they start to arrive as Mizu isn’t strictly like a train running to schedule; your food will arrive in the order in which it is cooked and not necessarily in the order you, y’know, ordered it.....but don’t let a little thing like that spoil your Mizu experience.
mizunoodlebar.com
67 Brook Street, Brentwood. Tel: 01277 233 888 Open from 12-noon 7 days a week Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/mizu to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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arsehole farm n. Golf course.
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forlornly from trees in the grounds of ‘Edge Towers’. Then we snuck inside, donned some camouflage gear, and settling down for a bit of a stakeout from the warmth of our viewing podium (i.e. living-room). Tell you what, it honestly wasn’t long before a lovely tit (of some description) swooped down and gently started nibbling our nuts, which we thought was a right result. “Nice to see you taking an interest in these sort of tits for a change,” said the good lady wife, chiding my other childish passtime carried out in supermarkets, at Bluewater etc. Then an ickle Robin Redbreast showed up as well and we were chuffed to pieces. The brightly coloured doughy bits were placed in a receptacle at the other end of the garden for the starlings “to keep them away from the tits and the sparrows,” said Mrs Edge. “But why feed ’em at all?” said I, seeing as they’re too big to hang off the feeding receptacle we’d put the nuts in for all the ickle birdies. I never did get an answer to that one. It’s great though, watching them dine. It also made us feel proper proud of ourselves. Apparently you’ve got to keep it up though, as seemingly the birdies come to rely on any new found source of food always being there, the presumptuous little buggers. A couple of doves also showed up, but we don’t much care for doves as one once nested in our wysteria and laid its eggs without asking. We also don’t care for that poxy cooing sound they make and we think they’re probably one of the most stupid birds around (we don’t know that for sure, you understand, as we haven’t been twitching long enough; we’re only surmising at our fledgling stage in the proceedings). Hey, why not put a steak out and try and encourage a Golden Eagle, readers?
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“Two tits nibbling me nuts...”
There’s a fair bit of talk about snow in this particular issue, but honestly, readers, the wife and I arose late one Saturday morning in January, whilst everything was covered in a blanket of white powder, and we got proper distressed, we did. We’re hardly twitchers, like Bill Oddie, but we couldn’t help but notice that the ickle birdies had nothing to eat. Oh, poooooor ickle birdies. So we shot down to Marriages and bought a big f *** off bag of nuts (for a whole fiver - see readers, no expense spared for our feathery ickle friends) and some doughy type bright coloured bits and set about filling up the three vacant receptacles we already had swinging
11th CHELMSFORD WINTER BEER FESTIVAL February 4th - 6th 2010 The Triangle Club, Essex County Council, Duke Street
120+ real ales including winter brews; also cider + Belgian beers. Souvenir glass. Hot & cold food available all sessions.
g St
Bellmead
5 mins from Chelmsford Railway Station.Walk down Duke St towards the Town Centre, the entrance to the Council office car park is about halfway down the street on the right, once in the car park the club is on the left down the steps.
www.chelmsfordcamra.org.uk The Edge 01245 348256
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/twitchers to comment.
Artwork by
Refundable glass deposit £3
ay
High t
Saturday free entry before 7pm £2 thereafter
t
Road arket
M
Park w
o Ln
lo Water
Duk eS
al S
Friday free entry before 7pm £5 thereafter
Victoria Rd
Tind
Thursday free entry before 7pm £3 thereafter
Chelmsford Station
Spr in
Admission Card-carrying CAMRA and Triangle Club members free entry Non-members:
St
Rd
12 noon - 11pm 12 noon - 11pm 12 noon - 11pm
way
St
duc t
4th February 5th February 6th February
Duke
Park Rd
Thursday Friday Saturday
Rail
Rd
Via
Opening times
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22/01/2010
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Page 15
man of the cloth n. Our farter, who has besoiled his raiments.
CORRECTIVE THERAPY FOR O.A.P.’s
Hmmmmm, this is a bit of a tricky one to tackle, but, The Edge being The Edge, it has simply got to give it a go. I, your editor, know a person of the female persuasion who, amongst her many attributes (apparently she cooks a mean belly of pork) has an impressive bust, despite the fact that she’s in her late forties. Now then, the thing of it is, she’s going to be made redundant at some point during 2010, and rather than look for another miserable desk job, she’s genuinely interested in offering her services as.... But look, gentlemen, we need to get a couple of things straight here, right from the off. (1) She has never done this type of thing before, and (2) touching is strictly prohibited (nor will ‘her wares’ be fully on display). So let’s start over. The lady in question might well be willing to offer gentlemen of 65-years-plus the benefit of her C.T.T. (corrective therapy techniques), whilst scantily dressed in a titifilarious fashion, you understand (oh, come now, you know the sort of thing; basque, boots, and more than likely a provocative whip....certainly something of that ilk, perhaps shrouded by a raincoat, if that is your particular preference). In fact, let’s create an acceptable scenario. Supposing you are a male O.A.P. with time on your hands who’s wife has sadly deceased, and your house, shall we say, isn’t as spic and span as it once used to be. In short, you’ve let things slide since your lovely Gladys/Beatrice/ Eleanor was alive. That said, the lady in question might be willing to pop round to your place for half-an-hour or an hour one day each week to help you ‘straighten things out’, as it were (i.e. she wouldn’t mind gently chastising you and lightly whipping This is exactly the type of decent chap your bare buttocks whilst you that this particular article/service attend to the ironing, or polish is aimed at. your brass/silverware etc). And whilst The Edge’s contact is in no way out to exploit anyone, least of all herself, certainly an agreed remuneration would have to change hands prior to any such services being provided/received. So listen, guys, though this whole article might sound crazy, The Edge is actually deadly serious, although anyone interested must first receive a visit from yours truly in order that you may be suitably vetted (like I say, the lady in question is a friend of mine, and I am not at liberty to have her calling on any old Tom, Dick or Harry who might have already gotten the wrong end of the stick via this right riveting article). The service/s offered are all about a certain form of secret companionship in a gentleman’s latter years (because we certainly don’t intend you to tell your sons and daughters and grandchildren about it), with a little bit of good old Benny Hill style slap’n’tickle thrown in for good measure. Does this sound like you? The lady in question is seeking but a handful of reputable, regular clients in order to return the twinkle to your eyes. Anyone under 65 will not be considered!
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Tel: 01245 250222 www.thehomepartnership.co.uk Blokes like this are welcome to contact The Edge on the Corrective Therapy Hotline of 01245 348256
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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/correctivetherapy to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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22/01/2010
08:26
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wet penny in your pocket n. A circular piss-stain on a gentleman’s trouser frontage as he vacates the lavatory.
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The Edge 01245 348256
This month, I've started dancing lessons. It's not a new year's resolution, but more by luck that I'm going. My good friend Lou won a series of dance lessons for two people before Christmas. For some reason, her boyfriend wanted no part in it, so she offered the spare place to me. Being a big fan of the Strictly Come Dancing TV series, I jumped at the opportunity. I was excited to see that each week we'd be learning a new style of dance and had images of dancing the Tango in no time at all.
dinner before she'd come out.
After some initial toe-treading, knee-bashing and plenty of apologies, my over enthusiastic partner and I managed to circuit the room in a very basic foxtrot manner. We were thrilled. Now all we needed to do was try and look up instead of examining our feet all the time - and I'd also have to try and get Steve to stop counting out loud too as you don't see them doing that on the telly!
When I did eventually pluck up the courage to The first week we raise my head and were told that we see how everyone would learn the else was progressbasics of the Foxtrot ing, I noticed a few and the Samba. Cheryl Barry romantic couples Fully expecting that fully enjoying being up close and we'd be dancing together, Lou and personal with their loved ones. I were surprised to be partnered up with other men in the class. Or Ahhh....how sweet. Perhaps these should I say boys. I was partnered men were there simply to please with a teenage shuffler who didn't their wives/girlfriends? Perhaps really say too much and tried his they wanted to share an activity best to lead me around the floor. together? Or maybe they were there under pressure from their So much for my dreams of being other halves? I thought of The whisked about by a Brendan Cole Husband, at home, and how I lookalike, I thought. Meanwhile, obviously hadn't mastered that Lou was faring much better with trick yet. I'd been asking and the only vaguely good looking nagging him to do dancing lessons young man present who happened with me for ages. He was ecstatic to be one of the teachers. At least when Lou won the tickets as it he knew what he was doing. The finally got me off his back. teachers were all very good and, despite trying and failing miserably Later still, in the car on the way to dance the Foxtrot with The home, Lou and I dissected the Shuffler, I had a really good time. events of the evening and, more importantly, our partners. We were Week two: went over what we'd intrigued by the fact that both of learnt in week one and then disour dancing partners were seemcovered that we would be learning ingly young, single men who had the Waltz. I silently prayed that I'd chosen to go to dance classes on get a new dance partner. The their own. Were they really into teachers announced that the boys dancing, as Steve had proclaimed would pick who they'd like to all night long, or were they really dance with. Cringe! How embarthere to try and pick up girls? rassing. I suddenly felt as though I'd been transformed back to a Perhaps they were lonely and school disco where you wait for looking to meet new people? the boys to ask you to dance. No Then again, perhaps we were need for me to worry though, as I judging them far too much against was pounced upon almost immediour own real life partners who ately by a new boy, Steve. Older would sooner be down the pub than The Shuffler, he had the than doing the Cha-Cha. opposite problem of boundless enthusiasm complete with verbal There's still six more weeks to go diarrhoea which I put down to and I'm ever so keen to attempt nerves. Lou, I noticed, had been some more new moves and paired up with my ex, The Shuffler. perhaps dance with some other new partners. I might not get Ha! "Remember to get up really Brendan Cole, or even a fancy close to your partner for the foxsequinned dress, but I'd be happy trot," said the teacher. Ooh-er! I to make it smoothly across the hadn't been this close up to a dance floor without counting out random man in quite some time. loud, looking at my feet, or even I could even smell his breath and falling over! wondered how Lou was getting on, having eaten garlic bread for her
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/twoleftfeet to comment.
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lavitation n. Yogic exercise performed when a lady hovers over a public toilet seat whilst spending a penny.
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Estilo
ESTILO...”the distinctively stylish way of bringing people together.” Estilo Events launches in April 2010 with the sole purpose of bringing a diverse group of professionals from different lifestyles and backgrounds together in a conducive and impeccable ambiance. Never has networking and entertaining been presented with flair the likes of which is sure to become the Estilo trademark. ESTILO...”where style meets fun and fun meets opportunity.” Edge readers are invited to join Estilo for an evening of dancing to the rhythm of real entertainment at their ‘Black Tie Launch’ at Furze Hill on Friday 2nd April. Please note: this is strictly an 'entry by ticket only' affair. Please visit the Estilo website www.estiloevents.co.uk or email Estilo direct at events@estiloevents.co.uk. Or, if you prefer, contact Estilo on 0794 117 2454 for more information and ticket prices.
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/estilo to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
The Edge 160:The Edge 160.qxd
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22/01/2010
08:27
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vital organs euph. Breasts.
Let’s be hearing your ‘looking for lurve’ stories...
Whilst working for British Airways as longhaul cabin crew, I became very intrigued as to the number of my fellow crew members who were searching for love on various online dating sites, writes Melanie Whitten.
I knew it was difficult to find and maintain relationships in my particular line of work, so I too was drawn to join an online dating club in search of my ideal man. I must confess, it was extremely exciting in the beginning to wink, hotlist and chat to the various men (online) that I had chosen, and to those who had chosen me, by our profiles and photographs.
(Actually, I have to admit that the profiles without photographs did not have the same impact or power of attention as those that did. Call me shallow if you like, but there simply has to be an initial chemistry and there is nothing more of a turn on than the power of attraction!) However, the hours spent trawling through the hundreds of ‘prospective single studs’ (some not so available as they had intimated in their profiles) soon became boring and actually almost tedious. My search would generally result with just a handful of hopefuls, one of which I hoped just might be ‘the one’. The game was then on. Emails would be exchanged via the match-making website, after which we would exchange personal email details and swap telephone numbers, not wanting to waste anymore valuable laptop keyboard time. Who would be first to text (who would crack first)? Well, one needs to know one’s been given the correct details, doesn’t one? Finally, there was really no avoiding it any longer, a first date would be set. Deal or no deal? Hmmm, chances were they were never quite the age stated, nor the height stated. I am 6'2 in my glam heals and require a tall (as my profile clearly stated) man, whilst those 5' 4” gentlemen who had stretched not only the truth, but their imaginations, would only be able (given half a chance) to nestle their noses into my cleavage, rather than look me directly in my eyes. And as for looks, well, let’s just say many were ‘very creative’ with the photographs they supplied. For instance, very often their photo’s were by no means recent, after which far too many
pies had obviously been consumed, making them a rather large shadow of their former selves. For all that, it was fun, yet extremely frustrating. Compelling, yet tedious. But I confess, I was totally excited by the unknown and it all became very, very addictive. Those who have done some online dating trawling for themselves and been successful and found love generally have enormous grins on their faces, whilst those who haven't simply keep on looking. And those who haven't yet tried it? Why not have a go? What have you got to lose? Only believe me when I say that I have been there, done it and now wear the (successful) tshirt, although not without many amusing and exciting experiences along the way. You can read more about me - and, hopefully (for this is where you Edge readers come in) your own online dating experiences in my up and coming book, which really does need your input. Or, if you would like some advice on which companies I think would suit your needs best, safety tips, profile writing, or you are simply in a position where you don't know what to do next, drop me a line. I can be your very own Online Dating Doctor! m.whitten@btinternet.com Melanie is currently writing two books. An Insight into Online Dating and Cabin Crew Stories. If you are experienced and have stories to tell in one or both of these areas and would like to appear in one or both books, she’d definitely love to hear from you. So please contact Melanie A.S.A.P., readers.
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258899 to book
or pop in for a FREE Consultation
*Available with selected Stylists Tue-Fri until 28th Feb 2010 *Any additional services at regular prices *Not available with any other offers and at managers discretion *Chocolates while stocks last
The Edge 01245 348256
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road apples n. Horse shit.
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Oh so much better than watching the telly!
When I rang The Edge to see if they would like to run an article about what we are doing in Moulsham Street, I thought they’d send a nice young reporter round to chat to me and then they could do the hard work, writes Jules Gibson-Cranch. But not a bit of it. The lovely Shaun simply told me he was jetting off on holiday and “if I wanted ought” I’d have to write it myself. Charming! Ever heard of Ripley’s ‘Believe it or Not’? Well, that's the sort of reaction I got from people when they learned I was doing meditation. “What, you?” they’d scoff. “You can’t keep quiet for long enough!” Well, I showed ’em. Not only have I learned to keep my big mouth shut for reasonable periods of time (come on, I am a woman after all), but I’ve also seen the results of being relaxed on a regular basis for myself, which include the benefits to my health and wellbeing. Of course, you may say that you’d far rather relax watching the telly (as did I, once). But now that I’ve tried it and experienced the benefits for myself, trust me, there’s no going back! The meditation sessions we do are easy to learn, stimulating, and give a real sense of deep relaxation. We are so passionate about what we do that we are launching a campaign with Farleigh Hospice, whereby people can come and simply try meditation for just £5, which we donate to the hospice. We are at 158 Moulsham Street and we are called The Bodhi Tree, where we offer lunchtime sessions, drop-in slots and after-work stress-busters. So why not give it a try? You never know, you might even like it! The centre is open Monday - Friday 12noon - 6.00pm. Log onto www.bodhitree-centre.com or call us on 01245 830 888. Or simply drop in for a chat!
A new concept for your individual medical needs
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High Chelmer Shopping Centre 14 New London Road
Call : 01245
258899 to book
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emergency strop n. An unexpected fit of menstrual temper.
The sustainable antidote to ‘fast-fashion’ TrulyMadlyVintage.com is a new on-line shopping experience bringing unique, high quality, affordable vintage fashions to the web for both men and women. The site offers a fully tailored range of garments and homewares to closely match current fashion trends and thus allow shoppers to source original vintage garments and enjoy the higher quality of craftsmanship not seen in today's ‘fast-fashion’ conscious world. Truly Madly Vintage was established in 2009 by Philippa Barnes to provide a source of unique, quality, affordable vintage fashions dating from the 1940s to 1980s. Philippa has a passion for discovering high quality wearable vintage items that she is happy to sell on at prices that more than favourably compete with High Street copy-cat ‘retro’ offerings. “Vintage fashion grows in popularity every year, with celebrities such as Kate Moss, Sienna Miller, Alexa Chung, Chloe Sevigny and many more all wearing vintage to create an original look,” says Philippa. “Major High Street outlets and designers also regularly reference vintage pieces when creating their new collections each season. So, whether buyers want to aim for a head-to-toe vintage fashionista look, or simply want to find a unique piece to make them stand out from the crowd, the best thing to do is log onto TrulyMadlyVintage.com.” The website is extremely easy to use and features clear pictures and detailed sizing information so that buyers can select their items, confident in the knowledge that a fully refundable returns service is offered for garments which can be replaced if requested. This is an incredibly rare feature so far as the vintage clothing business is concerned, yet is central to the ethos of all Philippa stands for - the sourcing of fabulous garments that buyers are truly happy with, as well as giving everyone the confidence to give vintage a go! As well as the website, there is also a monthly pop-up vintage market, hosted by Truly Madly Vintage, on the last Saturday of every month, at the Shire Hall at the top end of Chelmsford High Street. The next event is on Saturday 27th January 2010 from 10.00am to 3.00pm. Truly Madly Vintage handpick all of the items they sell and take care to present stock which is unique, genuine vintage, laundered, in great condition and at an affordable price, allowing everyone to create their very own unique and timeless ‘look’ that’s different to everyone else’s. New stock is forever being sourced, so buyers will find something different each time they visit http://www.trulymadlyvintage.com Contact: Philippa Barnes - Philippa@TrulyMadlyVintage.com Telephone: 07843 439 537
have you any idea what it’s like sleeping with you?
The Edge 077 646 797 44
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/vintage to comment.
why don’t you ask your sister?
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Ready, Steady, Wank. n. A game of skill based on the popular, similarly named cookery show. As promised, readers, here’s ‘Our Ang’ with an update to the right riveting North/South divide debate she started in the January Edge, as viewed through her own inimitable ‘Mackem eyes’... If you're a Southern Jessie and you're intrigued by the rich culture of the North, well then, you might be considering a visit? A trip up North certainly comes highly recommended, but do be aware of a few points of etiquette in order to make your stay 100% hassle-free.
What to Take
When packing, try not to be panicked into taking the kind of clothes that are usually bought for an Arctic expedition. You'll doubtless have a better experience of the region if you don't trumpet your southern identity, so you should leave your sarong, cravat, manbag and guyliner at home. On the other hand, don't go so far with your attempts to ‘blend in’ that you wear a flat cap, braces and smear your face with coal.
Local Customs
As soon as you get off the train in the North, you might feel initially uncomfortable that people you don't know begin making smalltalk with you. Do not be alarmed. It doesn't necessarily mean that they're trying to rob you. They might just be nice. So, if someone does start up a bit of a conversation, try and avoid topics about how rich you are and how much cheaper everything appears to be in the North. Because if you bray on about such topics for too long, you might find the legendary friendliness of Northerners suddenly somewhat lacking. And if, heaven forbid, you ever climb aboard a bus, or some other mode of public transport, remember that there's really no need to automatically bury your face into the armpit of a fellow passenger. In fact, there will probably be enough room for you to have a seat all to yourself.
Local Cuisine
Like the rest of the UK, Northerners have acquired a taste for far more upmarket foods these days and are just as likely to buy sun-blushed tomatoes and organic humous from M&S as take their chances with any ’Morning Ang. Say, you’re looking gorgeous in green today.
The Angst of Ang
known as the bog, the shitter or the shithouse. After you've relieved yourself, do please observe the local etiquette of never washing your hands, and for God's sake don't even think about asking where the bidet is.
unmarked tins from Lidl. And it's not just local specialities that make the cuisine in the North of England different. While chips are available throughout the UK, proper chips are only available in the North, and that's because they're made by chopping up potatoes rather than pouring a large bag of polystyrene shav-
Around Town
When you inevitably get ‘oot on the toon’, by the time you've got to the end of
Tips For Southerners Heading Up North ings into a deep fat fryer (OK, so Northerners do strange things to chips, such as pour gravy over them and stick them between a couple of slices of bread to create the fabled chip butty, but that’s simply because it tastes good and bugger the calories).
Recreation
At some point on your visit, you'll probably want to enjoy the traditional northern pastime of getting pissed and, being a soft southern shite, it’ll probably prove to be a bit of an eye-opener. You’ll be able to tell immediately if you're choice of hostelry is somewhere that welcomes non-locals, because if the jukebox stops as soon as you walk in, or if a group of fat blokes in the corner stop playing darts, or the barstaff spit on the floor when they clock you, you’ll know you’re in the wrong place. However, you should be able to find a pub that you feel comfortable in and, heaven forbid, you might even find one that serves those strange fizzy lagers you all love so much in the South. However, please make an effort to respect local culture and refrain from ordering halves. Furthermore, for pities sake, do not, under any circumstances, ask for a lager top
Amenities
If you happen to visit the house of a local person, after a few sips of tea, you'll probably be in need of the toilet, which in the North of England is Were yous lookin’ at wor tits, y’soft Southern shite? Eh?
your second pint, you'll probably be talking loudly (being Southern and all) and already be in the mood to move on to a nightclub. In which case, if you're male, do your utmost to resist the temptation to rush onto the dance floor the moment your favourite song comes on, especially if it’s 'It's Raining Men' by The Weather Girls, you great big soft Southern shite.
Emergency Services
Soon you'll be reaching the end of your third pint and, by now, you'll probably be slurring your words and feeling quite aggressive. If you fancy a fight, you should find it pretty easy. Just stand in the queue at the kebab shop and talk loudly about money and you’ll soon get your face filled in. But if that doesn't work, try approaching a right hard Northern bloke in a T-shirt in the middle of winter with a traditional fight-starting line such as, “Are you looking at me or chewing a brick?” Then, when you reach the local A&E department, you can doubtless conclude your night out with the traditional Northern pastime of trying to pull the nurse. Despite the fact that she's probably been on duty for the past 24 hours and you've got blood and sick caked all down the front of your shirt in equal measures, your sexual Southern magnetism is likely to be so effective that she'll overlook all that and succumb to your undoubted cheeky-chappy charms.
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Whatever happens, you'll then be able to return home with the ultimate souvenir of your trip up to the North - a set of fresh stitches and two new front teeth (which I hope you’ll agree is far better than a tea towel from Lake Windermere).
Northern Glossary
A now for a few words to help you on your way: Aye - Yes Bairn - Child Battered - Drunk (notice how hard Northern slang for intoxication is, as compared to effeminate Southern terms such as 'sloshed' and 'trolleyed') Bevies - Drinks (as in: “Yates’ are doin’ two bevies for the price o’one if you get there afore six like, man.” Bobby Dazzler - an object that would be precious to someone who watches Bargain Hunt, such as a porcelain figurine of a wet otter Brick Shithouse - Well Built Lass/Chap Canny/Champion - Good Chuffed - Pleased Cob On - Annoyed Dinner - Lunch Divent - Geordie for don't Eee by gum - only ever used by Southerners to tease Northerners Gobshite - One who talks shite Haddaway - Geordie for go away Howay - Geordie for come on Jammy - Lucky (as in: “Why, you jammy bastard, our Malcolm.”) Kecks - Trousers Lend - Borrow Mam - Mum Mardy - Strop on Me - My Narky - Moody Oot - Out Pig in knickers - Unattractive bird Scran - Food Summut - Something Tea - refers to an evening meal as well as a right refreshing hot drink Us - Our (as in: “The Grease Megamix is comin’ on. Let's dance roond us handbags, eh?”) Yoose - the correct Northern plural of you Why not join me next month for the final part of this right riveting series entitled ‘The Northern Monkey Survival Guide to Visiting London’....and that’ll be an end to it!
I’ll have you know I am nothing of the sort. I was merely... Typical bloody Southerner. Ah! So you’re one of them Yer all mooth and nee troosers! there Nancy Boys, are yees?
But your badge says...
ANG
PLEAS TWEA E K
More from ‘Our Ang’ next month, folks! Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/northernlass to comment.
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feed it a bun phr. Term used to emphasise the enormousness of a superior male trunk.
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&
e-m@ils
uk.virginmoneygiving.com/team/thebushmen
Any of you Edge readers who’d like to join us and form a team of your own should log onto:www.oxfam.org.uk/get_involved Kind Regards, Chris King. Well done you lads and The Edge is sure it’ll be a doddle, judging by your fine physiques. E.E.
Singapore Reader
Dear Edge, Having been a seasoned commuter enduring the traumatic cattle cart service from Chelmsford to London every day for many a year, I have to admit that The Edge could always bring a smile to my mug once a month in the morning. I always looked forward to turning a page, only to be confronted by a childishly
H’Heyyy, now that is really this months ‘Star Email’ (sorry boxer boys) cos I am chuffed to bits with that. The power of technology, eh? Massive thanks too to The Edge’s web boys - ‘The Vagabond’ and ‘The Big Unit’ - for sorting out this latest massive Electronic Edge Mag emailing campaign. Nice to see it’s working! E.E.
Sex Shop
Dear Shaun, Your magazine is ‘the tits’! It’s brought people and couples into my shop - all lovely folk too - who’ve never even set foot in here before. Businesswise, my last advert generated five times the outlay. Not bad, son. I’m impressed! Terry King Adult Discount Store Moulsham Street.
This month’s STAR EMAIL!
to theedge! ***
shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Bushmen
The Edge 01245 348256
Thing is, it’s the August 2009 edition that’s sticking out of her back pocket, so how does that work? Regards, Prof. Plum Cluedo Actually readers, a bloke rang in with this little observation, so I’ve given him a pseudonym as I didn’t catch his name. But I’ll tell thee what....he’s damn right too. Amazing how some folk have so very much time on their hands, isn’t it? E.E.
Dickie Duckett
CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD.
Hi Shaun, Thought I’d write in on behalf of The Bushmen Trailwalker team. We have entered ourselves into the Oxfam Trailwalker 2010 Challenge in July, which involves walking 100km in under 30 hours, all in aid for Oxfam and the Gurkha Welfare Trust. To tell you the truth, we are actually bricking ourselves as we don't really know what faces us in a few months time (blisters and cramp might be the least of it). We have all been reading The Edge since we moved to Chelmsford many months ago and know you have some great readers, so we were wondering if it would be possible to slip us ‘bushmen’ into a forthcoming issue as we need all the support we can get? I’ve enclosed an image of us all training hard (see below) and also a link to our donation page...
Sharp Eyed Reader
Dear Edge, Last months ‘Star Email’ (the one where the girl’s showing a bit of bum crack) kicked off: “I was introduced to your fabulous mag by friends when they were visiting us in Perth, Australia, in July 2009.”
Due to popular demand, Fighting Fit Gym, Chelmsford’s new and only adult boxing gym, has had to move to larger premises as a result of appearing in the pages of the November 2009 Edge. However, the problem we are having at the moment is getting our boys to actually train. As you can see, they’re prone to spending all of their time reading The Edge! Cheers, Andy (07949426169) & Richard (07702006657) P.S. All would-be-local-boxers can contact us on either number! Great photograph and glad to be of service, lads! E.E. inappropriate image that would make the stony faced ‘monger of misery’ sat next to me take a sharp intake of breath and shake her head disapprovingly. But enough about the missus... Imagine my surprise and micromoment of joy when my favourite childish glossy mag loudly announced itself as it flashed up in my In-box recently. Mr Edge, your magazine has found me, without warning, in sunny Singapore, where I now have the good fortune to live and work. So now I can look forward to your mag titillating my in-box from 6,700 miles away and keeping my Essex pub humour bank topped up good and proper! Cheers, Riggo (D. Rigden).
New Female Columnists
Dear Edge, I couldn’t help but notice you had a couple of new female columnists in the January editions, but that Ang woman is well out of order. Why doesn’t she bugger off back up north if she hates it down south so much? John Willsden Sandon. She doesn’t hate it ‘down south’, you ignorant bell-end. She’s just pointing out a few subtle differences, is all. Take that chip off your shoulder and reread her column/s and doubtless you’ll see them in a whole new light (or perhaps not, as the case may be). E.E.
Hello Edge Man, So you think Mick Duck (page 5, January Edge) has had it bad? He should try living with my name for the past 60 years. I was taunted at school, as you would expect, with a surname like mine, and considered myself lucky if I only got called Donald. I have been called Dick to this day by all my old school and work chums, but never by family or more recent friends and acquaintances. You may also be interested to know that my namesake, Squadron Leader Richard Duckett, was once ‘top gun’ in the Red Arrows. Then again, you may not. Yours sincerely, Richard (Dick) Duckett. Nice one, Dickie. E.E.
Northern Cyprus
Hi Shaun, I’ve been away promoting The Edge in foreign climes again, blah... Regards, Maurice.
Edge Mum
Dear Son, You’re wonderful!
Mum xxx
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/letterspage to comment.
Oh Christ...!
E.E.
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Irish bhaji n. Black, spicy, onion-smelling Thora which eventually emerges after supping 10 pints of Guinness.
CHELMSFORD BIDS TO HOST FIFA WORLD CUP 2018 Chelmsford Borough Council has placed a bid to host the 2018 World Cup, it was revealed earlier this week. If the bid materialises, the tournament matches will be held at Chelmsford City F.C., Admirals Park, Paradise Road "and basically anywhere with four coats as goalposts and some grass", whilst the final itself will be played in Melbourne Arena with FIFA headquarters temporarily being based in Stean's Shoe Shop on the parade. Furthermore, rumours are rife that occupants of Melbourne flats will be evicted to house the expected thirty-two national teams.
Danbury Common
However, as with the forthcoming South African tournament later this year, team managers, including Fabio Capello, are considering alternative locales to train their teams. One FIFA secretary had this to say: "Rustenburg is one of the most competitive areas this year, due to its high altitude. For the same reason, I would imagine that most teams will be scrapping it out for a suitable place on Danbury Common come 2018, so the locals might want to prepare for a considerable influx of grunting skinheads and third rate supermodels. "Basically, it'll look like a bit greener Dagenham," added the FIFA secretary. The decision to place a bid has met with a lot of scepticism from the citizens of Chelmsford who argue that we can't even fill all the potholes in the town, let alone convert the county town into a FIFA hosting venue.
Mammoth
A spokesman for the council issued this statement: "Chelmsford is growing and by 2018 we believe the town will be in a very fit state to host one of the biggest sporting events the world has ever seen. I mean, look at Kings Tower and our new bus station. They were whipped up in a jiffy, weren’t they? "It can't be much more difficult than that mammoth project, eh? We'll use the same lot to modify the stadium - except maybe a different architect because it would be nice if the doorways are tall enough to allow the players in. "People forget the amazing speed at which we get a lot of things done in Chelmsford. That extremely useful, non-congesting pelican crossing on Parkway - the one that makes walking to Moulsham Street take thrice as long as using the subway, yeah that one - that was practically built overnight, that was. “Then there's the pedestrianisation of the High Street, and the river
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front out the back of Riverside, and the gasworks opposite the Meadows. Ah, well, forget that last one. These things don't just pop out of the ground, you know." The spokesman added, "Look, just bear with us on this one, will you? If our bid is successful, we may have just enough money to rip down that lovely coloured building opposite the Riverside Inn. Yes, that one. OK, so you might not be able to park there for free anymore, but at least you won't be sick in your lap every time you catch sight of it. "Have a little faith, eh? Chelmsford has got a Frankie & Benny's now, so what’s a World Cup tournament?"
Opening Ceremony
Meanwhile, arrangements have already been made to book the entertainment for the opening ceremony, which will feature numerous local stars including the ‘Mad Cat Lady’ (she who walks around the town with a cat on her shoulder), the High Street bridge busker, plus that bloke who works in Superdrug - yes, you know the one. This article was written by Mark Towers who runs the satirical news blog PressPoke. The site was set up in November of last year and is a ruddy good read if Edge readers are after a titter during their lunch break at work. Jonathan Ross, Deal or No Deal, Andrew Marr and, of course, Gordon Brown, have all fallen foul of Mark and his co-writer's words. Beware though, they are not always politically correct, but that's the way to be, isn't it? Mark is a youthful 21 years old (lucky sod) and is also a local lad who lives in Writtle. You can follow his and the other PressPoke writers' articles at presspoke.blogspot.com. Be sure to add it to your favourites and subscribe to the RSS feed, if you're a technology minded wizkid and have one. You can also follow all PressPoke related updates on Twitter - @pokingthepress and you can contact Mark himself at email: presspoke@live.com
Mark Towers Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/presspoke to comment.
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ONLY JOKING! Days Gone By
Grandad was sat in front of the fire reminiscing about the good old days. "When I were a lad, me mother would send me down to t'corner shop wi' a shilling and I'd come back wi' five pounds o' potatoes, two loaves o'bread, three pints o' milk, a pound o' cheese, a packet o' tea an' 'alf a dozen eggs. “But yer can't do that nowadays. Too many bloody security cameras."
Confession
I hate crushing pills up and putting them in my Nan's dinner. I feel so sneaky. On the other hand, if I ever got her pregnant, I’d never forgive myself.
Free Pint
Shamus and Murphy fancied a pint or two, but didn't have much money between them. So Murphy piped up, “Hang on, I have an idea.” He went next door to the butcher's shop and came out with one large sausage. Shamus said, “Are you crazy? Now we don't have any money at all.” Murphy replied, “Don't fret, man. Just follow me.” So he walked straight into the nearest pub where he immediately ordered two pints of Guinness and two glasses of Jamieson’s Whisky. Shamus hissed, “Now you've lost the plot completely. Do you know how much trouble we’ll be in? We haven't got any money to pay for these!” Murphy replied, “Don't worry, I have a plan. Now drink up.” So they downed their drinks. Then Murphy said, “OK, I'll stick the sausage through my zipper and you get down on your hands and knees and put it in your mouth. OK?” When the barman spotted them he went berserk and immediately threw them out of his pub. So our two Irish friends continued this tried and trusted practice pub after pub, getting more and more bladdered as the day wore on - all for free. At the umpteenth pub, Shamus said, “Murphy, me old mate, I don't think I can do this any more. I'm drunk and me knees are killing me.” Murphy said, “How do you think I feel? I can't even remember which pub I lost the sausage in.”
Take Two Blondes
Two blondes walk into a building. Tut, you'd think at least one of them would have noticed it, wouldn’t you?
Cold Hearted
When George first noticed that his ding-a-ling was growing larger and staying up longer, he was delighted. As was his wife. But after several weeks, it had grown to nearly eighteen inches and he became quite concerned. He began having problems dressing and even walking, it was that large. So he and his wife went to see a prominent urologist. After an initial examination, the doctor explained to the couple that, though rare, George's condi-
08:42
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last turkey in the shop n. Ad-hoc genital vaudeville. tion could be fixed through corrective surgery. “How long will George be on crutches for?” his wife asked anxiously. “Crutches?” responded the surprised doctor. “Why ever would your husband need crutches?” “Well,” said George’s wife somewhat coldly, “you are going to lengthen his legs, aren’t you?”
Vigilant Blonde
A blonde was driving along the road when she saw the lorry in front of her start shedding it's load. So she began flashing her lights and beeping her horn until eventually the lorry pulled over. The blonde immediately climbed out of her car and rushed to the driver's cab and shouted, "Mister, you’ve been shedding your load for the past half-mile.” The lorry driver replied, "This is a gritting truck."
The Chop
Some bloke said to me, “I'm going to chop off the bottom of one of my trouser legs and leave it in the library.” I thought, 'That's a turn-up for the books.'
Little Johnny
Mummy takes little Johnny to the zoo and, as they pass the elephant enclosure, an elephant’s cock is trailing almost to the ground. "What’s that?" asks little Johnny. "Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” replies his embarrassed mother, swiftly leading him on by the hand. A week later, little Johnny's dad also takes him to the zoo and exactly the same thing happens. "What's that?" says little Johnny. "That, son, is an elephant's penis," says his father. "Oh," said little Johnny, “Mummy said it was nothing?” His father sniffed and replied, "Well, your mother's been spoilt, son."
Startled Nun
A man falls out of a pub absolutely sozzled. Almost immediately, he sees a nun, so he staggers over to her, slaps her about the face, and says, "Not so tough tonight, are we, Batman?"
Shopping Trolleys
A policeman is walking his beat when he comes to a house where the front garden is full of shopping trolleys. Curious, he rings the door bell and a blonde answers. The copper asks, “Can you explain all these trolleys, madam?” The blonde immediately agreed that it was silly to have so many, but countered, "At only £1 each, it’s ever so hard to resist them."
Anorak
I saw a bloke in the street the other day and the back of his anorak was leaping up and down and people were chucking money in it. I asked, “Is this how you earn a living?” He said, “Yes. This is my lively hood.”
Real Ale v Lager
Harry goes to see his doctor with an embarrassing problem. He thinks his privates are too small to satisfy his wife. His doctor sympathises, but short of surgery, tells Harry that there's not a lot he can do. Only then he remembers an interesting bit of folklore he heard in the past. "Do you drink beer?" the doctor asks Harry. "Sometimes," replied Harry. "Well," says the doctor, "in future, always drink real ale. I've heard that thin gassy beers shrink the private parts, whereas rich, full-bodied beers make them expand.”
Harry agrees to give it a go and two weeks later, he passes the doctor in the street. "Say, how's that little problem of yours?" his doctor asks him. "Oh, it’s all sorted now," beams Harry “So you’ve been drinking real ale then?" asks his doctor. "No," replies Harry. "I can’t abide the stuff, so I put the wife on lager instead."
It’s A Jungle Out There
I saw this bloke chatting up a cheetah. I thought, 'He's trying to pull a fast one there.'
Bartering
A hooker goes into a hardware store, picks up a wall hook and takes it to the counter. The guy behind the counter asks, "Would you like a couple of screws for that hook, madam?" The hooker replies, "No way. But I'll definitely give you a blow job for that toaster?"
Two Ladies Talking in Heaven
1st woman: “Hi. My name’s Sherry.” 2nd woman: “Hi. I'm Sylvia. How'd you die?” 1st woman: “I froze to death.” 2nd woman: “How terrible.” 1st woman: “Oh, it wasn't so bad. After I quit shaking from the cold, I began to get warm and sleepy and finally died a peaceful death. What about you?” 2nd woman: “I died of a massive heart attack. I suspected my husband was cheating on me, so I came home early from work to try and catch him in the act. But instead, I found him all by himself in the den watching TV.” 1st woman: “So what happened?” 2nd woman: “Well, I was so sure there was another woman there somewhere that I started rushing around all over the house looking for her. I even ran up into the attic to search, then down into the basement, before going through every single closet and checking under all the beds. I kept this up until I had looked everywhere and finally became so exhausted that I just keeled over and died of a massive heart attack.” 1st woman: “Too bad you didn't look in the freezer, that way we'd both be alive.”
Departure Lounge
A guy is sitting at a bar in a busy airport when he notices a beautiful woman walk in. To his amazement, she sits at the table right next to him. Because she's wearing a uniform, he assumes she's an off-duty flight attendant and decides to have a go at picking her up by identifying the airline she flies for, thereby (hopefully) impressing her into bed. So he leans across and says the Delta Airlines motto: “We love to fly and it shows?” The woman looks back at him blankly. So he sits back and thinks up another line, before leaning forward and delivering the Air France motto: “Winning the hearts of the world?” But once again, the woman just stares at him with a slightly puzzled look on her face. Undeterred, the guy tries yet again, this time quoting the Malaysian Airlines motto: “Going beyond expectations?” Only this time the woman looks at him sternly and says: “What the f *** do you want, man?” “Ah!” says the guy triumphantly. “Ryan Air. I knew I’d guess it in the end.”
And Finally...
Q. What do elephants get for dinner? A. An hour, just like everyone else.
All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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morning thunder n. The first, usually very powerful, fart of the day.
Absolute Stunner
Ingrowing Toenail
Dear Dr. Ian, I am a stunningly fit, confident, 27 year old intelligent, independent woman who works out 5 times (at least) a week in order to maintain my stupendous 38-24-36 physique. When I walk by, builders invariably whistle at me and lorry drivers shout ‘really dirty things’ out of their cab windows. However, that’s when they view me from the rear. Unfortunately, from the front, I have developed a full Brian Blessed style moustache and beard that I tend to get porridge and raisins in. Is there anything you can do for me as it is seriously hampering my chances with the opposite sex, or do you recommend I turn into a dyke? Alesha Dixon Boreham. Dr. Ian replies: My advice to you, Alesha, would be to take two Alka Seltzer tablets with water at precisely 8:00am every morning. This will guarantee you a crystal clear complexion for 23 hours daily from the moment you consume the compound. However, if you ‘pull a bloke’ and he stays overnight, there is inevitably that dodgy period between 7:00am-8:00am when your face will once again return to it’s full ‘bears arse’ sproutage and you will therefore be called upon to use all of your female cunning in order to disguise this from your beau. Failing that, dye it all ginger and relocate to Roach Island, just off the coast of Rhyl in North Wales, where all of the female inhabitants have Pat Roach-style beards (the former wrestler who played the part of Bomber in ‘Auf Weidesein, Pet’) and you will doubtless blend in seemlessly.
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WxtÜ WÜA \tÇ
Dear Dr. Ian, I have an ingrowing toenail, which is a bit embarrassing, because it’s actually up my anal cavity/canal. Talk about painful? Oooooh, you honestly haven’t a clue, especially as it’s a 10 mile round trip to work on my Pennyfarthing five days a week, as I never got round to learning how to drive a car. Plus there’s the emmisions that I disagree with. Unfortunately, my chiropodist refuses to treat me, so you are my last hope. Norman Foreman Hatfield Peverel. Dr. Ian replies: What really concerns me is how you’ve got an ingrowing toenail up there in the first place? I can only imagine that someone was giving you ‘a bit of toe’ who had an ingrowing toenail themselves and that somehow you contracted such around your ringpiece. I know a bloke in Berlin who used to work for the SS and is well handy with a pair of pliers who I’d be happy to recommend you to?
Nostril Piles
Dear Dr. Ian, I suffer from niles - it’s like piles, only I have a couple of bunches of small pink grapes growing out of my nostrils that I’ve been putting ointment on for the past 10 years, all to no avail. Please can you help? Gerald Flute Wickham Bishops. Dr. Ian replies: Actually Gerald, if you want to get on the right side of me, don’t kick-off by telling the readers what the technical term for ‘nostril piles’ is. That’s my job. You got that, sunshine?
Imposter
Dear Dr. Ian, Whatever’s happened to the real Dr. Ian? He who used to look uncannily like that small bloke with the large plum who I believe writes the Kingmeister column on page 30 this month? Yes, him? Beverly Billows Billericay. Hmmmmm, we at The Edge were wondering that ourselves. He was contacted about this column - numerous times, as it happens but the little shit FAILED TO RESPOND!
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/doctorian to comment.
www.theedgemag.co.uk
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09:06
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Tim Henman n. A penis which promises great things but always fails to deliver.
Workplace Dangers
Unfortunately, this really is the last in the ‘Workplace Dangers’ series....unless, of course, you readers can forward The Edge any more???
shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
This year...DON’T wait ’til Spring! As we find ourselves in the middle of the dark winter months, there is usually the feeling that it would probably be best to wait until the spring before putting your property on the market. After all, spring is traditionally associated with a time of change and this has always had a bearing on the property market. However, we would urge some caution on this. Firstly, serious buyers do not give up over the winter months and can even become frustrated by lack of choice as many properties are withdrawn from the market in the mistaken belief that nobody will be looking at this particular time of year. You can take advantage of this temporary imbalance of supply and demand by being one of the properties that is actually new on the market. Whilst viewing activity may be slightly less frenetic, you can be assured that every viewing will count, as you will only be dealing with serious buyers.
Jo Williams - Director
Many sellers will inevitably wait until the spring before putting their property on the market which could flood the market and potentially thwart prices. However, last year's backlog of frustrated buyers are already looking today. So if you are contemplating a sale this year, we suggest you take advantage of the situation, be strategic and position your property for an early sale at a time when demand is likely to outstrip supply - which is right now!
The Estate Agent that works ...for YOU!
www.thinkhome.co.uk 88 Duke Street Chelmsford CM1 1JP Tel: 01245 250222
The Edge 01245 348256
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/dodgyelectricians to comment.
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Chinese helicoptor pilot sim. A bloke sitting up, operating his chopper.
TV GOLD - THE CHAMPIONS
‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible....’
And this month, readers, just like it says on the tin at the top of this page, it’s The Champions (of Law, Order and Justice, as it happens). Do you remember them, ’ey? Your R.O.G. (right old git) of an editor does, or else I wouldn’t be writing about them, would I? The Champions were secret agents who each had these special powers, mysteriously gained after a near fatal ’plane crash in the Hym...in the Him...in the mountains. Rescued by a Tibetan monk, Craig Stirling (Stuart Damon), Richard Barrett (William Gaunt) and the deliciously stunning Sharron Macready (Alexandra Bastedo...or plain old ‘Bastard’ to her mates) then became ‘well endowed’...with special powers. These included super strength, telepathy, ESP and the ability to go around any golf course and shoot an
amazing eighteen holes in 18 ‘strokes’. Naturally they then went to work for Nemesis in Geneva (as you do) and got sent on loads of weekly missions so that young boys and girls could watch them on their TV screens once a week after returning home from school. To be honest, I watched an episode during the Christmas/New Year break and it was shite...only I didn’t think that when I was a wee bairn (see ‘Angst of Ang’ coloumn on page 21 if y’divent know what one of them is). Oh yeah, and their boss at Nemesis was called Tremayne - I remember now - played by Dandy Nichols (yes, that’s right, Alf Garnett’s wife) who wore a hairpiece and a false beard. As a lad, I remember wanting to be Craig Stirling, and just plain old wanting Shazzer Macready. Thing is though, she was only 20 and totally inexperienced when she was first cast in the role, after which she pretty much disappeared into obscurity, bizarrely showing up some 30 years later in an episode of Ab-Fab (weird, or what?). Unfortunately, The Champions wasn’t as big a hit in the UK as it deserved to be, mainly due to the fact that it wasn’t shown all over the country at the same time. It debuted in September 1968, but Thames Television in London held it back for release until November 1969 when it could be viewed in colour, the twats, thus the series was more popular in the regions than ever it was in the capital. However, around the world it fared much better and was broadcast in 60 countries, soon becoming one of ITC’s biggest hits everywhere...apart from America. And so, without the support of an American TV network, any thoughts of a second series - just like Alan Partridge - were sadly cast aside. But it is still TV GOLD!
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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/champions to comment.
www.shaun@theedgemag.co.uk
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David Peckham n. A young man who aspires to look like.....but lives a very different lifestyle.
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Looks like you’ve pulled a young un there, missus. IF this is, in fact, YOU, and you spot yourself in the mag and contact The Edge Hotline before 11:00am last Thursday, you could be the lucky WINNER of an all expenses paid trip to Timbuktu on The Edge. Yes, that’s right, missus, two whole weeks of sheer pampered luxury in the fabled ‘city of legends’ in northern Mali on the edge (no pun intended) of the Sahara desert. Just think about it....all you’d have to do when you’d finished your business in the toilet would be to clap your hands and shout: “WIPERS!” Yep, it doesn’t get much better than that. Alternatively, you may have won but a singular Weetabix biscuit. But then isn’t that the sheer and utter beauty of The Edge in that you simply never know what you’re gonna get? So folks, when The Edge cameraman spots you in a local hostelry and asks YOU to say ‘CHEESE’ ....just think what you might (not) WIN!
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That’s the way to go with your ‘Camel Toe’!
Who do you blame for a photograph such as this? Miss Canada for displaying such? Nah. She’s merely doing her job. The photographer for taking such. Nah. He’s merely doing his job. The Edge for publishing such? Nah. The Edge is merely doing its job too. A Camel Toe is just one of those womanly things. What’s more, The Edge feels certain that ALL (yep, every last one, cos you’re ALL to bloody blame) of its female readers will back The Edge up in admitting that a Camel Toe is simply ‘one of the things women do’ in order to try and distract absentminded menfolk. It’s an A.S.T. (attention seeking thing).
Jack & Jill Joke Some woman rang The Edge to complain about this joke appearing in last months mag:Jack and Jill went up the hill, so Jack could lick Jill's fanny. Jack got a shock and a mouthful of cock, 'cos Jill was a pre-op tranny. As ever, she sited children when really, it’s plainly fricking obvious that that’s but a smokescreen (I doubt kids would even get it, but if they did, they’d laugh, like kids have a tendency to laugh at jokes when they’re ‘of a certain age’). So why didn’t she just admit it? It was she who was offended. BE BLOODY WELL HONEST, WOMAN!
EDGE DVD REVIEW
DOORS - DOORS - DOORS ‘Cheerful Bob’ - ‘Alive & Fitting!”
Family Business Est. 1979 Internal/External, Hardwood/Softwood, Stairs & Spindles a speciality. Visit our door stall on Saturday’s at Chelmsford Market 01245 361201 0777 893 8920
www.theedgemag.co.uk
Basically, I am as thick as a door, reports The Edge Editor; and this is one of those films that I really liked, but could I (accurately) follow it? Could I arse. Russell Crowe’s in it though, and he could be washing his socks in a sink and I’d still be fixated....ever since L.A.Confidential, in fact. In State of Play, Russ plays ‘old school’ newpaper reporter Cal McAffrey who gets embroiled covering a piece on an old school chum, the now US Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck). Collins has been having an affair with a beautiful young assistant in his office (hey, it happens) which only comes to light after she dies in an accident. Someone far cleverer than I says about this flick: “This is not an action movie - its thrills are more of a cerebral variety (hence your editor struggled) - but an opening scene that captures a ruthlessly efficient double murder is a heart-stopping (hardly) entrance into Washington’s underworld. Most rewarding of all is the battle of wits between a journalist compromised by a friendship and a politician who might be prepared to use that friendship for his own purposes.” All movies hired from BLOCKBUSTER. VERDICT: Hire it....you’ll like it!
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/cameltoe to comment.
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Dickinson holiday n. A bottle of fake tan which makes the wearer look like a right daft satsuma.
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THE HAIR BUSINESS L’Oreal Salon
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TEL: OI245 358253
“Snow is brilliant!”
Oh, The Edge accepts it plays havoc on the roads and grinds Blighty (every year without fail) to a halt. But if all you’ve got to do is play in the stuff, well then, as one of Paul Whitehouse’s characters used to say on The Fast Show, “It’s brilliant!” What about the unmistakable sound, that wonderful scrunch, of your very first footsteps on newly laid snow? Priceless, is what. And it looks so beautiful. A proper icing sugar coating on all roads, fields, trees & buildings. The Edge popped up to Danbury Hill (is that really the highest point in Essex, can anyone confirm?) and managed to snap these three photo’s (above) where it was superb seeing people’s faces, including dads grinning with glee every bit as much as their offspring. What’s more, The Griffin even laid on some hot pea and ham soup (see below, left, the poor, cold lad).
Then there’s Tin-Tin Azure, Jamie Haxby and Will Dutch (see below, right) who report:“Read The Edge all the time. Love it. Good effort! This is a snow badger buddha that we built on the lawn in front of Writtle College. It took the three of us four-and-a-half-hours to build, from 11:00pm (when it seemed like a good idea) ’til 3:30am and we reckon we used about 3 tonnes of snow. Would love for our picture to make it into The Edge - it would really make our day and be something to take our minds off our endless uni work.” A snow badger buddha? It’s like The Edge says: “It’s brilliant!”
N.B. Photo’s available at £25 each!
“’Ere, mate... do you work out?” Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/steroidsorwhat to comment.
The Edge 01245 348256
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knobtical illusion n. An excuse given by a man for the pitiful size of his manhood.
This month I have mainly been thinking about getting older. A lot of people I know have a big problem with getting older, obsessing about wrinkles and grey hairs and the like, and many people seem to do everything in their power to stave off the inevitable, much to the delight of the snake oil salesmen in the beauty clinics. Whereas I'm the complete opposite. The older I get, the more I like it, possibly due to being cursed with a chubby little baby-face. By the time this article goes to print, I'll be approximately two weeks away from my 35th birthday, which is a milestone in as much as I'll go up an age bracket when filling in forms and such like. And, for whatever reason, I admit it sounds an awful lot older than 34 for some reason. Some people I know are already complaining about the fact that they've found at least 3 grey hairs, which, naturally they immediately plucked out, probably accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But every grey hair I find is cause for celebration, and not just on my head or in my beard, but on my magnificently fury chest. To me, being older just seems more ...more manly is the only way I can describe it, and I'm genuinely looking forward to my 40's and 50's, particularly if I get that great salt and pepper mixture of grey and brown hair that I think looks superb. I've been reading up on the ageing process a bit lately and apparently there's not a whole lot (medically at least) to look forward to, unless you're really into having weaker joints and bones, a shitty immune system and freezing to death at home in the winter, coupled with dementia. As an aside, I don't buy into the whole winter sob story of the elderly huddling round a candle for warmth because they can't afford the heating. If they're so poor, why are there legions of pensioners buying expensive food in M&S and getting in my bloody way when I go to buy a lunchtime sarnie? Strangely, I think more people worry about the purely cosmetic issues of ageing, rather than the fact that you'll just get ill a lot more, then die. The first rule of thumb, for men and women, is ‘if it can sag, it will sag’, not to mention the fact that old men's ears keep on growing and growing and growing. I think the ladies have a harder time here, as their tits soon start looking like a Spaniel's ears if they don’t have them done (breast augmentation, I think they call it), whilst all men have to worry about is their scrotum sack dangling
www.theedgemag.co.uk
08:43
THIS MONTH I HAVE MAINLY BEEN... or something.
around their knees by the time they're 70. To be fair, with my testicular imbalance (my left clacker is, and I quote: "Like a f ing hen's egg!"), I'll probably end up suffering more than most .
***
I've actually got it in my head that I'll look something like Roald Dhal's ‘Big Friendly Giant’ when I get proper old, but with a much larger ball-bag.
writes Kingpin
One of my favourite actors, the great Stephen Lang, is another good example. Just take a look at him in h i s younger d a y s , resemb l i n g some sort of paedophilic ginger ferret.
“I didn't touch her, yer honour, honest!”
Ears? “You should see the size of my bollocks, luv, and you wouldn’t be bothering about my ears!” I think I've worked out why women worry more about ageing than men, and that’s because men age so much better than women. That may be a contentious statement, but I firmly believe it to be true. And, after you see the irrefutable evidence below, I'm damned sure you'll agree with me. Women get haggard as they get older, while men simply get more rugged. Men can luxuriate in growing a fine beard and/or moustache, while women have to constantly battle their encroaching facial hair to stop themselves looking like a frightening parody of my aforementioned scrotum.
Only now look at him in his latest role in ‘Avatar’ and tell me he hasn't improved hugely with age?
Sir Connery is surely about 500 years old by now, yet young women still want to shag him. Now I’m thinking hard, but I honestly can’t think of any women in their 80's that I'd want to bone. Christ, I'd probably knob Connery after a few pints myself, though I'd definitely be gentle with him, in case I broke his hip
What’s more, I'm sure that I'll still be writing for this august publication when I'm in my dotage (picking up the odd Pulitzer along the way, I shouldn't wonder), so be sure to check back in again in 40 years time so’s you can see for yourselves just how far down my plums are actually hanging. Ahhh, Kingpin, me old mate. There goes ‘the voice of youth’. You’re 35 and you’re suddenly thinking you’re ‘clocking on a bit’. But let me tell you, lad, 35 is nowt. My squash opponent, John Jenkinson, told me in the locker room the other day that he thought I was ‘in my early thirties’, bless his cotton socks and ickle booties. If
*** ing wish!
Having said that, no I don’t, I take that back. I honestly don’t wish I was any younger.....but I do most certainly wish I could fit into the clothes I used to wear when I was younger (and I’ve kept the lot of ’em as I continue to live in hope).
“No, I wouldn't fuck with me either!” OK, so now take a look at one of the greatest screen icons of our age, the wonderful Liz Taylor. In her black and white days, she must have been riding the bus to Pork Central Station every single day of the week.
I honestly, genuinely, never thought age would happen to me. Mad as that sounds, I just didn’t. OK, so mentally I’ve managed to curb getting older in preference for producing a “childishly inappropriate mag” (see David Rigden’s email on this month’s ‘Letters Page’). But the rest of me....Kingpin, I positively ache, lad. These days I have (sports) injuries that simply, seemingly, refuse to f ing heal, which is definitely a ‘bone of contention’.
***
Women have to buy trusses and holdins and Tena-Lady pants because they keep doing a wee-wee in their massive knickers, while men simply choose themselves a nice cardigan to sit by the fireside in. While some women do seem to age quite well, we all know this isn't without a shit load of effort, expense and definite surgical procedures, which half the time leave them looking like a trout in a Dali painting. Men, on the other hand, have Sean Connery to aspire to.
So this month I think I've conclusively proven that old age is something to actually look forward to, rather than anything to fear. Unless you're a lady, of course.
Well, you would, wouldn't you? Whereas nowadays, you wouldn't be surprised to see her living with a thousand cats and conjuring curses to kill local children. Yet these are just a couple of prime examples. However, we all know that for every Joanna Lumley, there are a thousand Kathy Burkes. Having said that, most of us men hit 45 and immediately become George Clooney.
Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/thekingmeister to comment.
I was always going to be a Bald Eagle, so that’s never bothered me (it’s the blokes ‘baldness takes by surprise’ that you’ve got to feel sorry for). But I honestly never counted on....I guess just getting injured and such injuries taking an absolute age to heal, whereas when I was younger.... When you’re younger, you simply bounce and rebound - whereas with age, you go down like a proverbial sack of shit). I still find it difficult to believe that one day I won’t be here. Having said that, if I can continue to have a relatively good innings and walk gentlemanly from the crease having scored 78 runs....well then, I guess, that would be something. But I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe I’ll want to live ’til I’m 85? Or 90? You just don’t know. E.E.
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lady in waiting n. An actress in a meat movie threesome who, temporarily, has nothing to do.
Wooton Bassett
How dare these dirty foreigners march through the streets of Wootton Bassett in memory of their filthy countrymen, women and children, killed by our brave soldiers in the pursuit of the defence of our freedom? Our brave soldiers are sent by our government to protect our freedom. Our freedom to invade and occupy any country we choose; and death to the indigenous population who oppose us. Our crusade is right; God's on our side. We are upholding the finest Victorian principles - see the other man's country, invade the other man's country; and if he objects, shoot him. What’s more, we are very good at it; we've been doing it since 1076 after all, when brave English soldiers were first sent to the Middle East (Jerusalem) to liberate it from Johnny Foreigner (The Crusades). Jesus and the holy land belongs to England, obviously. Jesus was probably born in Wootton Bassett, where only the deaths of Englishmen are marked with solemn, dignified processions. If you're not English, your life is worth less than nothing and must not, under any circumstances, be noted. As every true English Christian inhabitant of Wootton Bassett will tell you, to mark the death of a filthy foreigner is an affront to the citizens of that fine English town. The real fear here is that these protesters remind us of an ‘inconvenient truth’; in war, our soldiers kill people. The people our soldiers kill are as human as the rest of us. They have families who mourn them, as we mourn our dead. These anti war protesters must be stopped; they want to stop the war, the heartless bastards. They want peace. They want to stop the killing. The people of Wooton Bassett say no to them. Heaven forbid this war is stopped. Long live war; we love it. We love to watch the endless procession of young lives lost in this marvellous pursuit. We love to stand here to show how British we are. How Christian we are. We, the people of Wootton Bassett, support the perpetual war, by Christians, on Muslims in the Middle East.
Double Glazing
Apparently, it will save you around £230 per year on your heating bills. It only costs £3,850 to install, so the £230 you save per year will have paid for itself in only 17 years; just in time for you to have to replace it again. On a similar note, there is a government initiative to encourage us to remove our old heating boilers and replace them with modern, more efficient ones. One woman who was about to make the change explained that she was replacing her 10 year old boiler with an efficient new one. So she is going to spend £2,500 on a new boiler that could save her up to £200 per year. Fantastic; in only a little over 12 years she will have recouped the cost of installation; just in time etc.
Highlights of my New Year
The Pope was pulled to the floor during his Christmas ‘pantomime procession’ (well, he does dress like a pantomime dame) which I found hilarious! ‘Rage Against the Machine’ was the Christmas number one. Fantastic! A blow against the insipid and contrived shite foisted upon us by that master of mediocrity, Simon Cowell. Well, Simon, in the words of the song: "Fork you, I won't do what you tell me." (Fork you, I won't buy what you sell me.)
Hearing Aids
I've just seen Tom O'Conner (the 1970s comedian) in a hearing aid advert on C5. Nothing remarkable about that, except the volume of the ad was significantly quieter than the one that preceded it. Then, when the next ad started, the volume increased to its normal level again. So, all you people who think you're deaf; you're not. You've been conned, that’s all. Simply turn up the volume on your TV set.
Computers
The government are paying £300million to give laptop computers to 250,000 low income families to enable them to check their children's educational
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progress at school. At last, parents will now be able to find out how their kids are doing at school. Until now, parents were kept in the dark; unless they undertook the impossibly difficult task of telephoning the school, attending numerous open evenings, or reading their children's end of term report cards. So, if you want a cheap lap top next Christmas, there’s bound to be 250,000 of them on Ebay.
The Grumpy Goose
The Snow
A friend of mine from Eastern Europe was astonished to witness this country come to a standstill because of a few centimetres of snow. Trains were cancelled, busses were depot-bound; everyone was warned to stay at home; extreme weather warnings, schools closed etc. Everything in Eastern Europe works as normal during far worse weather than we’ve experienced of late. Their trains and busses run, their schools are open, everyone goes to works etc. In short, things function normally. We, on the other hand, are the laughing stock of Europe. What a load of pathetic wimps we are.
Potholes
We (motorists) pay V.A.T. when we buy our cars, up to £400 per year road tax, and around 70p tax for every litre of petrol we buy. This adds up to several billion pounds per year collected from motorists. Why, then, are our roads in such a poor state of disrepair? Where is our (motorists) money going? What have the government done with it? They certainly haven't spent it on mew tarmac.
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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/grumpygoose to comment.
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lip reading n. Observing women in tight pants.
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ARTICLE 1 Dangerous Pants When historians look back on the noughties, 25th December 2009 will be recorded as another nail in the coffin of air transport. The reason has nothing to do with carbon emissions, high cost, the sheer dreadfulness of Ryanair or even the fact that because we're in Britain, you can't even get to an airport on Christmas Day because there's no feckin public transport. No, the reason is something that could have come straight out of the pages of Viz.
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Before we continue with the main theme, let's take a little time out here to salute Viz, a publication that has made men (but not many women) laugh out loud for thirty years, and although it sometimes misses the target, has a touch of true genius about some of its creations. The authors of this masterpiece of British publishing will never get a knighthood, but nobody deserves one more. Anyway, back to Christmas Day 2009 and the ongoing process of making flying so much trouble, we'll end up not bothering. Just as Viz has â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Felix and his Amazing Underpantsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, the terrorist world now has â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Abdul and his Exploding Shreddiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. The story, of course, is that a certain Al-Qaeda inspired religious lunatic decided that it was his duty to execute 300-odd perfectly innocent people by blowing up a â&#x20AC;&#x2122;plane midflight.
BVS C9Ă&#x20AC;a <] [O\cTOQbc`S`
Since 9/11 and the aborted 2006 attempt to destroy â&#x20AC;&#x2122;planes with peroxide and various other liquids, security has been increased at airports, so the loonies have to be ever more inventive in the manner of their methods of destruction. In this case, the would be bomber had managed to mould a certain amount of plastic explosive around his nether regions and was attempting to set it off by injecting a chemical detonator. Of course, as we now know, fortunately the man was not only a loonie, but totally incompetent to boot, and his attempt at mass destruction was thwarted when a nearby passenger saw the guy's trousers on fire and literally jumped on the bastard. Hang on minute. Loonie and totally incompetent? Maybe Gordon Brown was involved somewhere? Now that would be a good story - but sadly it's not true, so we'll have to leave Gordy to carry on his one man mission to destroy the UK and all who sail in her. He's certainly ended boom and bust, because one of those two has gone forever, and it isn't 'bust'. Your grandchildren will be
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taxed at 70% to pay for this one man's profligacy and incompetence, yet still the bastard continues to claim to be in charge of the entire country, even though only about 24,000 people have ever voted for him. Sorry, it's sad how everything, sooner or later, leads to an outpouring of hatred for that miserable, useless man. Back to exploding underpants. Leaving aside just how serious this could have been for all those on board, there is a certain air of comedy about it all. You can but wonder just how uncomfortable it must have been to have large quantities of plasticine stuck to your goolies for hours upon end. For instance, how did he go for a pee? Also, we all know (well, us men know anyway) how painful it is when your pubes get caught in a zip, so imagine if the explosive has entrapped a few of them. Every minor movement is going to pull hard on the buggers. That's got to hurt. Presumably he'd have needed particularly unattractive XXL underpants to cover it all too. Imagine the embarrassment of buying those in M&S. Then there's the thought that all those 75 virgins awaiting the glorious martyr are going to be left somewhat disappointed, given that he's blown his knackers to smithereens. Which kind of negates one of the key arguments used in recruiting these desperate and, presumably, lonely young men in the first place, don't you think? It's all going to be embarrassing for us too. Remember how, after the London bombings a few years back, anyone getting onto a tube with a rucksack suddenly found himself in an empty carriage? Clearly you can't get off a â&#x20AC;&#x2122;plane once you're on it, so now every time you walk to your seat, you're going to be staring at the crotch of every single one of your fellow (male) passengers. What are you going to do if you see someone with a particularly large lunchbox? Get the staff to demand he takes his todger out for inspection? Viz has the answer. It's already got 'The Bottom Inspectors', so it's only a small step to â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The Willie Menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, or some such. You may laugh, butâ&#x20AC;Ś. The really bad news is that airports are going to get even more horrible than they already are. The days of a four hour checkin for international flights can't be far away, now that there will need to be added measures taken to ensure our safety. They've already said that everyone will have to be 'patted down' as we go through the metal detector. It's not certain yet what that means, but the thought of some minimum wage moron in a uniform having a rummage around your underkecks is not very appealing. Alternatively, it's possible that you'll have to have some wet-nosed sniffer dog giving your crutch the once over. Either way, travelling by air becomes more of a trial. A final thought. Although history is littered with terrorists of all manner of political, religious and financial motivations, we all know the latest threat is predominantly from radical Islamists. This means the would-be bombers adhere to some strict moral codes, one of which is abstinence from alcohol. This, unlikely as it seems, is a good thing. Because if they did get boozed up, they might really get angry.
steveward2000@hotmail.com
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nodding donkey n. An ugly bird who doesn’t often turn down the chance to chew on a carrot.
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SHIVER ME TIMBERS
To be honest, The Edge actually enjoyed that cold snap we had recently. So long as you’re warm, it’s pretty, innit? Plus you get to wear a pair of sexy longjohn’s under your jeans without overly sweating around your cobbler region, which is a bonus. Mind you, it has to be said, Blighty’s not set up for it. Oh no. We don’t cope with plunging temperatures nearly half as well as we do with plunging necklines, do we? Certainly not in Costa Del Chelmsford where we’re pretty much used to our own favourable micro climate all year round. The Edge’s Extra Lengthy Boy (yes, he still does a bit for the mag, every now and then, only he’s now moved in wi’his bird in Southend, don’t y’know, so I hardly ever see the twat) very kindly went out and braved the elements in one of those RBC’s (right bad coats) he owns and snapped these amazing photo’s in early January....and doesn’t our town simply look a picture?
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The sea-front at Heybridge Basin!
OK, OK, The Edge has been rumbled (yet again). These photo’s weren’t snapped in Chelmsford....but that doesn’t alter the fact that The Length really does have some proper ghastly coats in his wardrobe. Hopefully tho’, his bird will be sorting him out in that department, as well as many others. But back to these snapshots and can you just imagine going out to your car in the morning, only to be confronted by this! Christ, you’d need a bloody blowtorch to even gain access. Or a really full bladder.
No way is this plumber going to make his first appointment! Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/shivermetimbers to comment.
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giraffe shit n. A stool passed which causes one to stretch one’s neck in order to get further away from the incorrigible odour.
Have your cake and eat it...
Forget about February being the month of cupid and love; after reading my column this month, you may want to re-think your ideas of proposing on St. Valentine’s Day and save yourself a lifetime of worry. According to the news, February, is the month where most couples throw in the towel and head off to the divorce courts. The stress of Christmas with the in-laws is said to be the final straw for most relationships. Personally speaking, I disagree. I think it's seeing your other-half making a complete pig of themselves and breaking wind for a whole fortnight that does it, not to mention picking whole dates out of their teeth as though they were merely seeds. That sort of thing kills romance stone dead. Ugh! The merest thought of my other-half prancing around the bedroom on St. Valentine’s night in a thong, jigging about with three bellies rolling over the top, is honestly enough to sends shivers down my spine. Up until now, the end of a marriage has been cause for commiseration. My Nan always used to talk about women who divorced in hushed tones and say, "Of course, Mrs So-and-So at number twenty three is a DIVORCEEEE," as if she had some sort of disease and wasn't fit to mingle with the rest of us. To be a divorced woman, or man, was viewed as a great sadness in life. Fifty years ago, less than 1/100 marriages ended in divorce, whereas today 50% of them end up on the rocks. Apart, perhaps, from death, can there be anything more painful than divorce, or separation? Years before a marriage ends, both parties started out on a path of love that should ideally last a lifetime. You put all of your faith into a partnership, not to mention all of your money, only now the whole thing lays in tatters around your feet. Surely it's only normal to want to curl up and hide away from the world for a while, isn’t it? But no, apparently this is no longer the time to feel sorry for yourself. Instead it's a time to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, reach for the ’phone and start planning a Divorce Party! Divorce Parties are all the rage these days; so much so that one well known high street store has devoted a whole section in their stores to ‘Divorce Party Present Lists’. It oper-
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ates in much the same way as a wedding list. They try to justify their grubby little enterprise with slogans such as ‘Starting Out Again - let our personal shopper help you make the right choices this time’. Errr, yes, my heart is broken, but perhaps a new toaster will make it all better??? Party Planners are springing up all over the place, eager to lay on the very best Divorce Party to get you back out there, complete with balloons, banners and coasters with ditties saying the likes of ‘who needs a husband/wife when you can have a drink instead?’ Not forgetting the ceremonial cutting of the ‘Divorce Cake’ either, which normally consists of a plastic bride or groom pushing the former other-half off the side of the cake, whereupon there’s a splattering of strawberry jam. How very grown up is that? They will also take care of the party invites and make sure your ‘ex’ knows you’re doing great without them. You can even have hundreds of non-existent made-up friends added to your Facebook site to make it look like you’re hugely popular and the world’s been waiting for you to get that divorce and be their friend. The most popular songs to get you up on the dancefloor are ‘I can see clearly now’, ‘You’re So Vain’ and 'Hit The Road, Jack'. But before you embark on one of these sordid little parties, you first need a ‘Divorce Hen Party’ or a ‘Divorce Stag Night Out’. These are now all the vogue. Whole groups of women and men rampaging through towns dressed in silly T-shirts eager to let anyone and everyone know they’re available and back on the market. Then there’s the ‘Divorce Dress’ for the inevitable party which simply must top the wedding dress to show the world that you’re back on the scene, eager to get laid/hitched again. And what about the Unengagement Ring worn on the middle of the ‘Up Yours’ finger? Not forgetting the photographer, ever ready to arm you with snapshots to stick on some dating website in the not too distant future. The truth is, divorce is never funny. Even if your partner turns into Cruella Deville or a psychotic nutcase, once their ring was on your finger. Divorce is a time for sadness and reflection, not a time for a knees-up or to do the Hokey Cokey. And how are you going to pay for all of this celebrating? Oh, don't worry, Gold-on-Line will melt your wedding ring down for you and send you a nice little cheque, all within 24 hours. Or friends can buy you some Divorce Vouchers to go towards your legal bills. I swear...its all TRUE! So before you reach for the ’phone to make an appointment with the lawyers, take a long, hard look at the person you’re married to. Go on, squint if you have to. Only ask yourself, do you really want to be back dancing around your handbag to Gloria Gaynor's ‘I will Survive’ and pay a lifetime’s subscription to Match.com? Much better to invest in some ‘Beer Googles’ and carry on regardless, I say. Who says romance is dead?
Tracie123@aol.com
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PHOTO FINISH!
And is that a Coke can stuck up his arse for ‘good measure’?
I
am writing this column, which I hope might become a regular feature of this magazine, for your edification and delectation; but more specifically to counteract the unopposed rampant fascism, defeatism, and whingeing of The Fat Capitalist Pig (hereinafter the FCP, or possibly ‘The Pig’ - depending on my depths of outrage at the nonsense he writes), opines Martin Farrell.
At the outset I must declare an interest, or rather three of them to be more precise. Firstly, ‘The Pig’ presently resides in my house with my wife. Secondly, I find his blend of self righteousness moaning, tinged with a dollop of self pity, to be wholly un-British and even nauseating. Thirdly, being of a centre left persuasion, I find his politics inimical. I rather suspect FCP's reaction to the recent (so-called) inclement weather and its consequences might comprise a series of complaints as to
such matters as the systemic failure of Train Companies, Airports, Local Authorities etc. to foresee the weather and prepare as he would wish them to do. My view is that it is one of almost universal benefit. It shows us, once again, that in the face of the forces of nature, we are utterly powerless. School children, who in this country are force-fed ‘education’ of the wrong sort, and from far too young an age what of the idea of giving homework to 5 year olds? - are allowed a few days off to enjoy themselves, free from that slavery, and to be children, rather than educational customers i.e. learning automatons. In passing, I must ask what, in principle, is the difference between our present education system and sending children up chimneys, down mines, and into factories, where at least they learned a skill and earned some money for the benefit of the family? Parents - if they so wish - can also ‘nick’ a few days off work and enjoy some all too rare quality time with their children. Walking about recently, I have seen and heard joy, not just of children, but of teenagers and adults too. What is, or could be better, than that? The dull suburbs have taken on an ethereal beauty and the countryside has become, quite simply, breathtaking. I have learnt, or rather re-learnt, that we live in a beautiful country, whose natural comeliness far out-
shines anything that man (or woman) can produce. In my little patch of garden, by dint of putting out water and suitable food seed, cooked pasta, raisins, bread, cheese, fat balls; or indeed whatever comes to hand - I have, in the last few days, seen redwings, thrushes, blackbirds, robins, jays, starlings, sparrows, a wren, blackcaps, blue tits, long tailed tits, pigeons and doves; as well as ‘others’ that I, with my limited knowledge of plumage, cannot identify. What pure pleasure. And, as a bonus, I can feel that I am being useful and kind, whilst contemporaneously indulging in self gratification and boosting my ego. All around me I see and hear people meeting on equal terms and talking to each other - if only about the weather! All that I seem to read in newspapers is war, murder, famine, stabbings, and general mayhem; whilst what I have seen all around me during the last few weeks are little (and large) acts of kindness. I see people pushing the cars of others; visiting, feeding and shopping for old people; shovelling snow off paths and drives. I also read and see on TV acts of genuine heroism by the emergency services, including particularly the Mountain Rescue teams and Coastguards; as well as almost unbelievable feats of courage performed by ‘ordinary’ (really extraordinary)
folk. Whilst we can moan about the snow, it must, in my view, be admitted that it is an inconvenience rather than anything more serious. My parents told of the winter of 1947 when, let us not forget, rationing was still the order of the day and very few homes had central heating. The snow was on the ground from January until mid-March, and there were feet of it, not merely a couple of inches. Temperatures were the coldest of the Century; parsnips were being extracted from the ground by means of pneumatic drilling; railways and roads were blocked; coal, very much the principal source of power - both domestic and for power stations - was frozen solid; besides which, transporting the stuff was impossible; electricity was cut off for industry and limited to 19 hours a day domestically. The corollary of this is that millions of homes had no means of heating and, in the evenings, often no lighting. The majority of those in work were laid off, without benefit. Also, lest we forget, whilst State Pensions had been introduced in The National Insurance Act 1946 (at the princely rate of £1.30 a week for a single person and £2.10 for a married couple), the legislation did not come into effect until 1st January 1948! Thus, most people were going to bed in the dark; cold and hungry. Snow, today, bad? I don't think so!
To contact that twat Bono log onto: www.wherethestreetshavenoname.org
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