The Edge Mag March 2010

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EDGE

the ISSUE NO: 161

www.theedgemag.co.uk

FOR ALL YOUR CLEANING NEEDS!!!

‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’

The Edge, Chelmsford, CM2 6XD.

Telephone 01245 348256

Call: 01245 392593 MARCH 2010

Mobile: 077 646 797 44

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half Elvis, to do a v. To fall asleep whilst shitting on the bog.

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Insert dowel 85,689 onto slot X1.5 whilst facing north north-west in a pair of Wellington Boots beneath a full moon

Did you know that the Swedish have no word for Ergonomics, writes Kingpin in order to help me out! At least, that's all I can assume having attempted to put up some of their dratted furniture of late.

Do your ears continue to grow with age?

If they do, The Edge predicts that Will Smith has got huge problems, bless him.

But you do see old men with really massive ears, don’t you, kids?

Oh yeah, you might think it looks funny now, but trust your old Uncle Edge, you won’t when it starts happening to you, and it will, if God’s grace allows you to live until a ripe old age.

Honest, it’s just NO FUN getting older.

My back molars have even started moving (what’s that all about?) to such an extent that whenever I eat meat, the pressure caused by antelope and baby sheep getting trapped between my back two teeth is really damned uncomfortable.

And when I floss, Jesus, half a bloody calf shoots out.

Nope, aging ain’t NO FUN at all, kids.

I despise putting up furniture, or any form of DIY or home improvement, at the best of times and would happily pay for someone to come and do all that sort of stuff for me (all those people that didn't do very well at school need something to keep them busy, after all).

Flat-pack furniture has always been a bit of a pain to construct and, dare I say it, a bit shit, full-stop, but the siren song of ‘cheap and easy’ keeps fooling me time and time again. Ikea take this to a whole new level though, even making their shop layouts an arduous conveyor belt of despair that forces you to walk through the whole bastard place, even though you only stopped by to buy a Wok and some of those meatballs they sell near the checkouts.

The Swedish certainly have a word for ‘dowel’ though, seeing as all of their furniture contains at least 90,000 of them. It's all well and good for the instructions to state that you only need a hammer, some glue and a screwdriver, but they don't mention it's actually Dr. Who's sonic screwdriver that’s required - yes, the one that can bend the space-time continuum.

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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/IKEA to comment.

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The Edge Editor’s Column This month readers, you're witnessing something that has NEVER happened before in the history of The Edge magazine. For one issue only, there will be NO glossy photos of fit, young women with silky cleavages and zoo-sex smiles plastered all over its pages. Are you all OK with that? Oh, purr-lease guys, you must know I'm only teasing ya!

OK, what's actually happened is that our brazen, badboy of independent magazine publishing has handed over the March editorial reins of his column to...wait for it...a chick! No, you haven't read me wrong; I have tits, a wedding ring, a dog and a Kryptonite liver, which is probably why he offered me the slot in the first place. We've got so much in common. When he finally pulls his finger out and gets Mrs. Edge a mutt, it'll be the ‘full set’. So, a bit like a weary couple sitting across the kitchen table when their marriage has hit the rocks, the loaded question is: How the hell did we get to this point?

Are you still squatting comfortably? Then let me begin.

In a nutshell, his pasty bits needed bronzing in Thailand and he didn't relish the idea of finding himself sucked into a vacuum of writing deadlines when he touched back down in Blighty. Female subtext reads: He's filled out a bit over the past ten years, so he's got a hell of a lot more after-sun to rub in! But I digress...

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ankle spanker n. An extraordinarily long cock.

"Will you take over some of The Edge mag for me when I'm on holiday," he whispered, last year, whilst sipping his third pint. I literally choked mid-sip at that point, checking that someone hadn't served me Absinthe instead of Chardonnay. Given that this is the same bloke who won't even lend me a DVD in case I scratch it, I seriously thought I was hallucinating.

"What? You, Mr Control Freak, want me to write your editor’s colon? Take over your precious baby and dress it up how I want?" (Secretly, my female mind began whirring like a ceiling fan, wiping out all those columns dedicated to footie and shite, tits I'll never feel, cars I'll never drive, replacing them instead with semi-naked garage mechanics and fireman smeared in axle grease, for artistic purposes only, you understand) There then followed a contemplative silence, before a swift change of subject, which is par for the course with our Shaun. Trying to keep up with his frenetic brain patterns is the equivalent of trying to chase a hare over a ploughed field on a mobility scooter.

Some hours later, after more ale, he piped up again: "Nah, sod it. I've changed my mind..."

Given that I'm the sort of bird you'd worry about leaving in control of your heating thermostat, let alone your business, I was relieved he'd seen the light...until he added: "I want you to write it all!"

To top it off, he then concluded with those terrifying words that can make or break any friendship: "Dunno why, but I trust you, bitch!"

Now if The Edge Ed. had blue, rather than Northern blood, a pack of corgies and a ceremonial sword, this would have been the equivalent of receiving an OBE. There was a moment when I almost fell to my knees and in alcohol-induced flattery, blubbered: "I am so, so honoured, your Majesty..." but I've known and adored this Marmite-Mate of mine (you either love him or you hate him) for well over ten years and if truth be told, if he ever developed angina, had an attack mid-beer and dropped his heart pills, there's really no way I'd ever drop to my knees in front of him, even if his very last breath depended on it. (Mrs Edge and, in fact,

anyone with breasts, will totally get where I'm coming from here.)

As it was, my moment in the limelight didn't last too long. By the time the brandy finale came, he was hissing in my ear: "You do realise I'll be handing over my only child to you, don’t you? I've never ever trusted anyone with my baby before. Only I don't know whether I can do it cos if you screw it up, I'll...."

“WAITER! DOUBLE ESPRESSO FOR THE GUY RITCHIE FILM EXTRA, PLEASE!“ I swear, I would have felt less pressure if Satan had arrived at the end of my bed at 3.00am and asked me to breastfeed the anti-Christ.

However, it transpired that I needn't have worried because me and The Edge Ed. are both crap with money; he hates spending it and I'm a right greedy cow who'll sell herself up the river, rather than down it.

In a nutshell, I went from being The Edge’s non-executive Chairman to chief stamp-licker in a matter of 48 hours. But still, he's quids in because he’s got an extra FREE column out of me this month, only I like it that way because our mates-status and the 'voice' of The Edge therefore remains intact.

In short, we'll never really know if it would have worked out because it never happened. The crux of it all is that TRUST can take years to develop, but it takes just one screw-up or wrong decision to send you back to Ground Zero. Just take at look at the lives of Tiger, Terry, Vernon et al.

Thinking about it, if you take the 'T' out of 'TRUST', what you're left with is ‘RUST’. Mind you, in the case of the blokes just mentioned, they simply added an 'H’ (to TRUST), the dirty swines! Anyway, we all know that when the rust sets in, it soon spreads and things never quite look the same again. So if I've learnt anything, it's the fact that a little trust can go a long, long way....and sometimes not knowing can actually be a very good thing indeed.

THE EDGE Chelmsford CM2 6XD 01245 348256 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk

exchange way, chelmsford.

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brown sunrise n. Whilst ensconced on the throne, the majestic sight of a Thora Hird gradually emerged behind the scrotum sack.

Batchelors Savory Rice

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Double-Entendre British TV & Radio Gaffs Pat Glenn, weightlifting commentator: “And this is Georgiana from Bulgaria. I saw her snatch this morning and it was amazing.”

Ted Walsh, horse racing commentator: “This is a lovely horse; I once rode her mother.”

Carenza Lewis, about finding food in the Middle Ages on Time Team Live: “You'd eat beaver if you could get it.”

It’s that bloke off that fly-on-the-wall ‘FAMILY’ series on the tele

Yep, The Edge can confirm that he really does work at Heathrow Airport (he with the extraordinarily long ponytail that you cannot even see down his back in this shot).

Personally, I couldn’t abide the programme, but the good lady wife tuned in a time or two and I’m not one to forget a face, so I thought I might as well ask him if he wouldn’t mind a snapshot.

This incident occurred pre our flights to Bangkok on Saturday 23rd January 2010, and you’re going to have to excuse me this month, readers, because I am about to bombard you with Thailand tales and references as it’s just so bloody cold and miserable in Blighty that I’m hoping you’ll feel some genuine warmth from the mag, as it sure is as hot as hell over there.

Holidays are just great, aren’t they? However, I do like to think of ours as mini-adventures, so please accept my overindulgences (this issue) in the spirit in which they are genuinely intended.

A female news anchor who, the day after it was supposed to have snowed and didn't, turned to the weatherman and asked, “So Bob, where's that eight inches you promised me last night?”

Not only did he have to leave the set, but half the crew did too, simply because they couldn’t contain themselves live on air.

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Steve Ryder, covering the US Masters: “Ballesteros must feel much better today after a 69 yesterday.”

Mike Hallett, discussing missed snooker shots on Sky Sports: “Stephen Hendry jumps on Steve Davis's misses every chance he gets.”

Michael Buerk, on watching Phillipa Forrester cuddle up to a male astronomer for warmth during BBC1's UK eclipse coverage, remarked: “They seem cold out there; they're rubbing each other and he's just come in his shorts.”

Ken Brown, commentating on golfer Nick Faldo and his caddie Fanny Sunneson lining-up shots at the Scottish Open: “Some weeks Nick likes to use Fanny, and other weeks he prefers to do it by himself.

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Rasputin n. An unkempt vaginal beard.

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Locally Grown Plants

“Ahhhhh, G&T time!”

Do you remember that (right) ‘posh camping’ I was (briefly) telling you about in the February Edge, readers?

Well, it more than lived up to expectations and this is where we used to finish our days before dinner....with a few G&T’s relaxing in a natural pool on the banks of the River Kwai.

The Kwai is such a lovely river with a wonderful meandering current. In fact, I loved it so much I reckon I‘d be happy to spend a whole week floating/canoeing down it, stopping off here and there for a ride on an elephant and a spot of lunch - all very civilised, what, what, what, what.

Anyone interested ought to check out Hintock River Camp on the net (where we stayed) or www.riverkwaijunglerafts.com which were a series of floating accommodation (interlocking hut) just down the river from us, lit only with oil lamps at night, I understand.

Another option might be Audley Travel who I discovered on the net by accident. They sounded awfully posh and tailor-make trips to suit the buyer’s preference, I believe - so in hindsight, maybe they could sort me out that floating schedule down the Kwai after all? Contact www.audleytravel.com (01993 838100) What a pig to get to though. OK, OK, we are tight-arses and not only went on the 3rd class ‘rattler’ out of Bangkok’s Thonburi station at 7:45am (only it didn’t leave until 8:15am) arriving at our end-of-line destination some five hours later, but three days later, we caught the damn thing back again (this time leaving at 5:20am for a journey lasting 5hrs 40mins). But at just £4pp round trip, can you really grumble?

I also got lucky with out hotel in Bangkok - the SilQ at 54 Sukhumvit Soi. It hasn’t even been open a year, yet cost less than a Travel Inn per night, including a lovely breakfast.

However, this was my third trip to Thailand (let me know of your Sri Lankan and Goan experiences, please, readers, as they’re both on my list for the not too distant future) and I’ve had it with Bangkok now. Bugger, is it hot there; and bugger, is it dirty. We tried to find some respite in Lumphini Park, only there wasn’t any to be had and my shirt and undercrackers were positively drenched (nice).

Mind you, what an absolutely cracking underground and skytrain system Bangkok’s got; it certainly puts our own capital’s equivalent to shame (then again, what doesn’t?). Fancy thinking to put massive sheets of glass to separate the tunnels/trains from the platforms, keeping the whole thing ultra clean and not at all like one’s used to ‘up the old smoke’.

Anyone who’s been to Bangkok will definitely tell you that you need to chill out afterwards, and this setting (above) at the Hintock River Camp, I pretty much think says it all.

Whilst you lot were all freezing your bollocks off in Blighty, watching the early evening news, we’d be sipping G&T’s watching the sun go down, which was absolutely spectacular.

Where a holiday’s concerned, you’ve got nothing tangible to show for your outlay, but oh such sweet, sweet memories live on through the photographs you take and the memories you keep inside your head forever. Well, whilst you’ve still got all your marbles at least!

The famous bridge over the River Kwai, as it looks today.

Hellfire Pass - how it was constructed is criminal (check it out on Google).

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Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/riverkwai to comment.

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round the houses cockney rhyming slang. Trousers.

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Bird’s Eye View There's an old weather lore attached to March that goes something like this: ‘March comes in like a lion, but exits like a lamb.’ When I came across this little snippet, I thought that the same phrase could be applied to most of the men that had the misfortune of getting involved with me over the years. I'm not sure what it is that I actually did, but whatever it was, I can honestly say that the confident stags that came through my front door with a semierection on that first date were nothing like the hunched specimens who exited it at the end of every relationship. With the benefit of hindsight, I realise that, at times, I was to relationships what Count Dracula was to jugular veins. I sucked the life out of the poor sods, in more ways than one. I'll add here and now that a lot of the time, it wasn't what I did, it was what I didn't do. And there it is, plain and simple; the admission of omission. It seems a lot of marriages and relationships are hitting the skids these days at an alarming rate, and at the centre of most downhill slides into divorce or separation is 'the other'. To quote the late Princess Di: "There were three of us in that marriage." Thankfully, not every home has a Camilla, but today, most at least have a computer and a TV. Spend too much time with either, rather than your loved one, and you'll end up convincing yourself that you're living the wrong sort of life.

You could be so much more.

I'm so glad I was born in the late sixties, because my generation grew up being inquisitive and easily inspired by the changes and advancements in our world, yet without the early neurosis of too much status envy.

How things have changed. Today everyone is an impatient WANNABE and age or talent is seemingly irrelevant. You might be five years old and have a face like a pug dog, but you could be the next Cheryl Cole. Can't sing and can't dance? Is your hymen intact and can you play chopsticks on a Grand Piano and fart the National Anthem at the same time?

Great! You'll be dueting with Michael Buble in three months time. With one press of that interactive 'red button' you could go from your Argos armchair to Hello magazine...but please, finish your kebab and chips first. Our hair, make-up and wardrobe department will work overtime and deal with that chilli moustache and flatulent belly-tray later. Yeah, I know, I'm whiplashing the obvious targets, but I'm so, SO bored of having my reading and viewing life invaded by talentless twats aiming for their fifteen

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/birdseyeview to comment.

minutes of fame.

On top of that, there's the inane details of so called 'celebrities' and their financial and extra-marital affairs, their weight issues and fitness DVDs, their Tandoori tans and titivating text messages. So what if Lilly Allen has orange peel thighs and wants to lose weight, again? I actually quite like her pseudo-rebellious veneer and her yoofish song lyrics - but I don't give a shit about her yo-yoing poundage. It pales into insignificance when I'm staring at the handsome and healthy face of a young, fit soldier, with two young kids, who's lost a lot of weight after a roadside bomb in Afghanistan has blown both his legs and an arm off.

But do you know something? What annoys me most is not so much our obsession with celebrity, but the fact that so many people use these 'characters' as a benchmark by which to measure their own lives’ contentment and happiness. It used to be the bloke up the road in the mock Tudor house with the conservatory, the Jag, and a villa in Spain who filled envy air time. It seems nowadays that every Joe in the street uses Google, Yahoo, Twitter and/or Facebook to promote, compare, or contrast their relationships with everyone from their partners to their bosses and their pets. And if you can't face reality, get an Avatar and create a Second Life. Oh come on...escapism is great, but it's so short-lived. You'll still smell, have blackheads and a muffin top the following morning. And maybe that's why; because you spend more time online than you do showering and flab crunching. But I'm not knocking the web's resources, because I've tracked down obscure books, learnt how to iron creases in my husband's trousers, plaster a wall, and uncovered the endless cleaning talents of white vinegar, but you can take it too far. The moment you begin to undermine your own life by putting more energy into the comings and goings of others, you are in serious danger of placing a wishbone where your backbone should be, and it'll only lead to disappointment, because your backbone is the one thing that will get you what you want and take you where you want to go.

On a positive note, one man's junk is another man's treasure, so I'm relieved to say that most of my ex's have been happily re-homed, are now fully house-trained, can live with cats and children and are flourishing with their new owners. Some have been re-homed several times but are showing signs of finally finding their 'forever' home. One has gone feral, but early indicators point to the fact that upon capture, he will be castrated to keep him from straying again.

How do I know all this? Oh come on, I've been nosing around on Facebook when I should've been shaving my legs, squeezing my spots and servicing my husband, of course. Well, I never said I was perfect, did I? Just opinionated. x

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test ride n. The act of taking the office bike round the block.

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The Edge 01245 348256

Clearly your editor has always fancied his chances of making a right good Scout Leader, but did you know that the Scouts are the worlds largest voluntary youth movement with some 28 million members in over 250 countries?

It was that ultra-impressive Baden-Powell bloke who kicked it all off, so why ever, these days, if you mention the fact that you’re a Scout Leader, would someone slip on an old Gary Glitter track in the background?

It’s harsh, but undeniably true, the fact that many people (perhaps inwardly rather than outwardly) would raise their eyebrows and probably smirk if they didn’t have kids; or feel slightly distressed and uncomfortable if they do.

What’s all that about? Where does such come from?

Perverts, I guess.

But see, look at how ‘strange’ your globe-trotting editor looks (above), yet did that stop these young, impressionable boys from flocking all around me like bees around a jam jar?

Did it buggery (unfortunate term, many apologies).

So the message, quite clearly, is: BE VIGILANT IN YOUR SCOUTING.

Now I know it's old news that the great Edward Woodward died some months ago, but I've just recently been reading up on him a bit and found an interesting little fact, writes Kingpin. When I was a lad, I absolutely loved The Equalizer. Even then, the notion of someone helping the underdog and dispensing summary justice to evildoers and miscreants resonated with me, but I had no idea just how much it touched other people too.

During his time in the US, Mr. Woodward was regularly accosted by people begging him for help with all manner of problems, ranging from the outright stupid to the truly disturbing. Yes, I know, I'd be the first person to say that people who can't distinguish between a TV character and the actor playing him are morons, but I still think it's strangely touching that they reached out to our Eddie like that. What's even better is that he was such a gentleman, he didn't react with scorn or indifference, but instead started to carry around a folder with him wherever he went.

This folder contained details on shelters, help-lines, charities and support groups etc., and The Equalizer would take the time to actually listen to these people, before offering whatever advice and help he could.

Even a cynical old bastard like me thinks that's amazing. I think part of the reason people reacted to strongly to the character of The Equalizer is because he wasn't interested in the law - but justice - which is something that seems to be sadly lacking nowadays.

The law is a matter of facts, figures and technicalities. The law is something you can learn, where as justice is simply something that you feel.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/dibdibdib` to comment.

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bear claw n. Late night, drunken pawing at a ladyfriend’s honey pot, potentially resulting in a pair of torn panties.

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He said. She said.

He said: I don't know why you wear a bra; you've not got much to put in it.

She said: You wear underpants, don't you?

Brake & Accelerator Have you ever been on the back of an elephant, readers?

It took me a while to suss it out, but I reckon you’ll find that they all come with automatic transmission.

See, the little blokes what steer ’em sit on their necks and depress the back of the elephant’s left ear as a brake pedal, and their right ear as the accelerator pedal.

How cool is that?

Simple as!

I reckon you’ll definitely need an HGV license to ‘drive’ one in this country though.

And I’ll tell you what for free, when they craftily sound their horn....

Whoa! It’s brilliant! They make a proper E.T.N. (elephant type noise) the likes of which I’d only ever heard watching Tarzan movies.

And when they dump....there’s absolutely LOADS OF THE STUFF. Like I say, brilliant!

I want one.

He said: Shall we try swapping positions tonight?

She said: Good idea. You stand by the ironing board all night long while I lay on the sofa farting.

He said: What have you been doing with all of the grocery money I give you?

She said: Look in the mirror and turn sideways.

He said: What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is every night?

She said: A widow, probably.

He said: Why are married women heavier than single women?

She said: Because single women come home, see what's in the ’fridge, then go straight to bed; whereas married women come home, see what's in bed, then go straight to the ’fridge.

The Edge likes these because it’s never heard them before, where as we’re having a proper crisis on page 24, readers. Can you help? Things are getting increasingly dire.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/hesaidshesaid to comment.

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cock-a-hoop adj. The metaphysical state of mind produced by advantageous circumstances.

Page 12

David Sherman’s

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Available noon until Available ffrom rom 12 n oon un til 2.30 2 30 pm West W est H Hanningfield anningfield R Road, oad, G Gtt B Baddow, addow, C Chelmsford, helmsford, C CM2 M 8H M2 8HR R T eleephone: 01245 476444 Telephone: Em Email: ail: sales@pontlandsparkhotel.co.uk salees@pontlandsparkhotel.co.uk w ww.heritageleisure.co.uk www.heritageleisure.co.uk Terms T erms & C Conditions onditions aapply pply

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If you are reading this article, the chances are you like a pint or two (and I'm not talking about milk). Chances are, too, that you frequently find yourself grumbling about, or at least struck by, the fact that the price of beer routinely rises by more than the rate of inflation. You may well have had to cut your consumption due to the prohibitive cost, or grudgingly decided to spend less time and money in the pub and order some lesser, but cheaper, packaged beer from your local offlicense or supermarket. There are a number of factors behind the high cost of beer in this country, but one of them is undoubtedly the high and ever-increasing rate of taxation on our national drink.

Two forms of taxation are levied directly on beer. The first is alcohol duty, which is currently £1.64.7 per 100ml of alcohol per hundred litres of beer produced, or roughly 40p per pint of mid-strength beer. This has been increasing steadily over the last thirty years, whilst alcohol duty on other drinks has scarcely risen at all, except in line with inflation. In recent years, the government has introduced an 'escalator', promising to increase alcohol duty by 2% more than inflation for five years.

Alcohol duty is not, as is commonly thought, paid by pubs, restaurants and shops.

It is paid by producers, such as breweries. This is an important distinction as it means the duty forms part of the wholesale price and is therefore subject to VAT. That's right - you're not just paying tax on your beer, you’re paying tax on a tax on beer! At 17.5 % of initial sale price, that's another 40p or so on our midstrength pint. In total, 80p or so of the price is directly taken by the Chancellor.

The government justifies this on the grounds of combating public drunkenness and problem drinking. This is seriously misguided, for supermarkets are in a position to undercut alcohol tax. Indeed, you can buy cheap lager in some supermarkets for less than the price of the tax payable on it. The effect of high taxation is, therefore, to drive drinkers out of what should be a well-controlled and supervised environment (the pub) and into unregulated environments: for the problem drinker, the home; and for the public drunk, the parks and street corners of their home town. And, of course, should anyone get drunk cheaply at home before heading out for the night, it's the pubs that get the blame for their behaviour.

This is all part of the government's anti-pub agenda which it has been pursuing with a passion for some years now. It started by encouraging pubs to stay open later and later in order to generate media 'publicity' for the evils of pub-going in the form of pictures of drunken youths parading themselves around the street in the early hours. Few people seemed to consider that the behaviour displayed was that associated with 'clubbing' rather than pub-going. Then the government pulled the rug out from under many local community pubs by introducing an incredibly illthought-through and heavy-handed ban on smoking. Next came the tax increases. And, of course, what was the one group of products to have additional tax levied on them to off-set last year's VAT cut? You got it. Alcoholic beverages. For virtually every other industry, the government sent out a lifeboat. For pubs and breweries, it sent a destroyer.

We are now losing upwards of fifty pubs a week, and when the number of pubs declines to a certain point, the breweries who supply then will not be far behind them in the queue for redevelopment as houses and offices. Make no mistake; high tax on beer is killing the British pub.

You do, however, have an imminent chance to register a direct protest. Reduce Tax on Beer is a formally-registered political party aiming to stand candidates at the forthcoming election. Its credentials can be checked on the website of the Electoral Commission and information can be requested at Reducetaxonbeer@live.co.uk. Its policies are to remove VAT completely from beer, as it is a demonstrably healthy foodstuff; and to halve the current rate of alcohol duty payable on beer. Should you be local to the home of this publication, then, rest assured, your local candidate is already in place. Other candidates may follow in other constituencies nationwide.

Beer is our national drink; an important part of our living heritage. You shouldn't be fined like a criminal for the privilege of drinking it. The best party is the one with cheap beer!

VOTE DAVID SHERMAN. REDUCE TAX ON BEER!

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/shermanator to comment.

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Grahams

Bedknobs & Broomsticks n. The early morning result of a low fibre diet.

Page 13

Wo th the n odp e o een hut eck r e to n er G w r it tl drink - relax eat -

open for lunch and dinner throughout easter

And for those extra stubborn stains...

You know what it’s like....I’d left ‘the white shirt’ ’til I’d got a bit of a tan at the tail end of the holiday.

So there we were, sitting at this outdoor shack on the beach (I won’t call it a restaurant because it wasn’t; but give me a shack any day of the week in preference to a flouncy restaurant), listening to the waves rolling in and those ‘strange things’ that sometimes make a noise in the trees - what the hell are they? Insects? Birds? They seem to ‘let rip’ once in the morning and then again shortly after dusk and that’s it, they’re silent the rest of the time - drinking Singha beers and the inevitable G&T’s, when I genuinely picked up my very last salted prawn, ripped it’s head off and.....UGH!

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grahams g rahams @ tthe he w woodpecker oodpecker

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225 2 25 h hanging a n gin g h hill ill llane, ane, h hutton, ut ton, brent wood ccm13 m13 2 qg brentwood 2qg

www.grahamsonthegreen.com w w w.grahamsonthegreen.com

www.grahamsatthewoodpecker.com w w w.grahamsatthewoodpecker.com

cclosed lose d b bank ank h holiday o li d a y m monday onday

open o pen b bank ank h holiday o li d a y m monday onday

Nope, I wasn’t best pleased when it sprayed it’s orange guts all over my finest pristine M&S linenwork either (waddayamean it was dead....I tell you, that last damn prawn knew exactly what it was doing), but the night was young, so you’ve just got to gin (get it?) and bear it.

But as this is supposed to be a Dinning Out Review, let’s just for one minute consider our friends down the road at the Royal Phuket Yacht Club, dinning by candlelight, overlooking Nai Harn Beach, instead of the private little bay we were sat at, shared by, I dunno, just ‘normal holidaymakers’ who’d all gotten into wearing tie-dyed gear, it has to be said, all taking advantage of some exceptionally cheap - but nonetheless tasty - grub’n’booze.

The good lady wife and I dined at the yacht club last year, and it was fine, if that’s what you like. But I know what I prefer.

I’ve heard people say that they’ve been “five-star all over the world”.

Well bully for you. But honestly, what’s all that about? Do you truly experience ‘the real deal’ being sanitised from the environment you’ve supposedly flown over half-a-day to immerse yourselves in?

We chatted to a frightfully nice elderly couple after our meal at the yacht club last year, I seem to recall. But for my tuppence ha’penny, I’d far rather watch a local fisherman in action, casting and reeling in his line, sat on a big rock just a stone’s throw from our little shack, without any of the airs and graces that go with it, thank you very much.

I just think some people completely miss the point.

For instance, a cockroach walked across the floor at one of the places we ate at ‘on the street’ in Bangkok one night, and this woman, who’d previously been pouring over the menu, completely freaked out and insisted that they left without ordering....yet they eat raw cockroaches on I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out....

“Disgusting” she muttered as she left.

No, it’s not, love. It’s merely a slice of life.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/stubbornstains to comment.

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Gran Flakes n. The contents of a nursing home Hoover bag.

Children's Science Exam Answers

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Q: Name the four seasons.

A: Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.

nature hates a vacuum. I forget where the Sun joins in the fight though.

Q: Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.

A: Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.

Q: What are steroids?

A: Things for keeping carpets still on the stairs.

Q: What happens to your body as you age?

A: When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental.

Q: What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty?

A: He says goodbye to his boyhood and looks forward to his adultery.

Q: Name a major disease associated with cigarettes.

A: Premature death.

A kid enjoying a few HMS’s (heavy milk shots) with his toy bear that he has inexplicably given a pair of ruby red lips to....instead of revising.

Q: How is dew formed?

A: The sun shines down on the leaves and makes them perspire.

Q. Who lives in a house like this? a. J-Lo Makes you sick, doesn’t it? Does me at any rate.

I very much doubt ‘Edge Towers’ is as big as her garage.

Q: How can you delay milk turning sour?

A: Keep it in the cow.

Q: What causes the tides in the oceans?

A: The tides are a fight between the Earth and the Moon. All water tends to flow towards the Moon, because there is no water on the Moon, and

Q: How are the main parts of the body categorised (e.g. abdomen)?

A: The body is consisted into three parts; the brainium, the borax and the abdominal cavity. The brainium contains the brain; the borax contains the heart and lungs, and the abdominal cavity contains the five bowels: A, E, I, O and U.

Q: What is the fibula?

A: A small lie.

Q: What does 'varicose' mean?

A: Nearby.

Q: Give the meaning of the term 'Caesarean Section'?

A: The Caesarean Section is a district in Rome.

Q: What does the word 'benign' mean?

A: Benign is what you will be after you are eight.

WORLD CUP PREPARATIONS

What’s all this about, David?

You’re supposed to be keeping yourself ‘in trim’ for South Africa, not for centre-spreads of ladies periodicals.

And what’re y’doing with them football socks down yer pouch, eh?

Honestly, men posing in such a fashion just doesn’t look right, does it, readers?

It’s ladies work, is posing (as you can see by this lass below modelling a bikini her Nan knitted her).

Best you get on and kick a football about a bit, son.

The Edge 01245 348256

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/twitchers to comment.

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dumpling n. A solitary, suety Richard III floating in a pan of bum stew.

When Things Go Wrong

Don't you just hate it when things go wrong?

I'm not talking about anything major; just silly things that take time and effort to fix and are a general inconvenience.

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The first thing to go wrong happened a couple of weeks ago. Whilst Britain was in the grip of another big winter freeze, our boiler began to come over all strange with the heating only working upstairs and the hot water being sporadic. Nick, our boiler man from Sub Zero, who had only installed it just over a couple of years ago, came round to Cheryl take a look and told us that the motor was on the blink. He could fix it, he told us, but not until a week's time as he was off to work on a job in Cheltenham. So for seven long days the husband and I froze our arses off and took sporadic showers whenever the hot water felt like working. I was as grumpy as The Edge’s goose. I hate being cold at the best of times, but going to bed in full length pyjamas, fleeces, hot water bottles and thick socks was one thing; trying to wash with a kettle in the sink quite another.

After what felt like an eternity, Nick finally came back to fix it to my sheer and utter relief. But for some strange reason, our shower doesn't seem to do hot anymore, so we've still got to look into getting that sorted out.

LADIES, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? Just recognised your partner in plaster?

Well, you should be proud and grateful then, rather than sniggering like schoolgirls.

Us chaps get to ‘a certain age’ and, well, we kind of become ‘built for comfort’....rather than merely ‘speed’!

The Edge 01245 348256

The next thing to go wrong was our new car. The Husband and I had been talking about getting a new car for months on end. I'd bought my little KA pre meeting him and at ten years old it was getting exceedingly shabby. The Husband, who is six foot two, was also sick of trying to squeeze himself into it. He'd done a LOT of research (as he does) and finally decided that we should trade the KA in for a second-hand Saab.

I'm not really into cars, but if it made him happy, then I was happy to go along for the ride. So we traded cars just the other Saturday with only a slight pang of nostalgia from me for my KA. Our plan was to drive the new car straight on to his parents for the weekend, but five miles later, whilst driving on the motorway, we wondered why our fellow drivers were staring at us funny. Within minutes, they were pointing and flashing their lights at us as smoke began erupting from the exhaust and bonnet.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/cherylbarry to comment.

"Oh my God, we're going to die,” I shrieked. “Do something! Pull over!

Pull over!” I have to say, it really was very scary, thinking we might explode into a ball of flames at any given moment. My heart had literally been pounding like mad.

"This would never have happened in my KA," I added for good measure to The Husband, who gave me a look like death whilst he took the very next exit off of the motorway.

We pulled into a pub car-park and got straight on the ’phone to the Saab dealership who immediately informed us that it Barry was obviously way too dangerous to drive back to the garage, so suggested that we ’phone a car rescue company to tow us back.

So we paid £95 there and then for the privilege of rejoining Green Flag and waited over an hour for someone to come and rescue us.

The very nice man who eventually turned up told us that something “hadn't been clipped in place properly” at the garage and that the car had been spewing out diesel all over the hot engine.

We'd lost as much as half a tank of fuel in the process, apparently.

My dear old Nan always says that things happen in threes, so I was wondering what would go wrong next. And, lo and behold, I've just found out after finishing cleaning the bathroom. There's a big leak from the shower onto the floor which is dripping down into the kitchen below. We had this self same issue months ago, but naturally thought it had been fixed when we got someone out to seal our shower.

Any ideas anyone?

Grrrrrrr. It seems there's always something that needs fixing, repairing, or spending money on.

I'm hoping that those three things that’ve gone wrong in as many weeks is our limit as I'd really appreciate a weekend where we don't have to worry or have to sort something out.

But as my dear old dad always says, "Cheryl, that's just life.”

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dusty klatt 1. n. prop. Young Canadian motorcycle racer. 2. A lady’s underused parts of shame.

8 Words with 2 Meanings

Page 17

1. THINGY (thing-ee) n. Female. Any part under a car's hood.

Male. The strap-fastener on a woman's bra.

2. VULNERABLE (vul-ne-ra-bel) adj. Female. Fully opening up one's self emotionally to another. Male. Playing cricket without wearing a box.

3. COMMUNICATION (ko-myoo-ni-kay-shon) n. Female. The open sharing of thoughts and feelings with one's partner.

Male. Leaving a note before taking off on an otherwise totally unscheduled fishing trip with the boys.

4. COMMITMENT (ko-mit-ment) n. Female. A desire to get married and raise a family. Male. Trying your best not to hit on other women whilst out with your wife.

5. ENTERTAINMENT (en-ter-tayn-ment) n. Female. A good movie, concert, play or book. Male. Pretty much anything that can be done whilst drinking beer.

6. FLATULENCE (flach-u-lens) n. Female. An embarrassing by product of indigestion. Male. A constant source of entertainment, self-expression, male bonding etc.

7. MAKING LOVE (may-king luv) n. Female. The greatest expression of intimacy a couple can achieve. Male. “Call it what you like, just so long as I get my end away.”

8. REMOTE CONTROL (ri-moht kon-trohl) n. Female. A device for changing from one TV channel to another. Male. A device for scanning through all 375 channels every 5 minutes.

I think women read stuff like this and imagine that they’re deeper than men, only puddles can be deep, can’t they?

The thing of it is, men and women are just different, that’s all, and the sooner women accept this, the better it’d be for all concerned.

I mean, take point 3. Now that is an absolute cracker, is that. Forget about the North/South divide (see ‘Our Ang’ on page 20), this epitomises the Man/Woman divide to an absolute bloody ‘T’!

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surfboard n. Flat-chested female, Miss Lincolnshire 1973.

Page 20

Before You Go...

First, you'll need to work out what to pack. Ask a Southern Jessie and they'll probably tell you to pack shorts, suntan lotion and a fan to help you cope with the sweltering climate down south. This is but a sad southern delusion. You'll actually find the weather isn't massively different from the north. At any rate, you shouldn't waste the valuable packing space. Instead, simply find every spare bag and case in your house and stuff them full of cash to prepare for the extortionate prices you’re about to find.

Getting There...

The Angst of Ang

Currency Guide...

Although the money used in the north and the south looks exactly the same, there are, in fact, two totally separate currencies, with one northern pound equal to roughly four southern pounds.Check out the following guide:

Emergency Services...

If you do have the misfortune to get run over in London, don't bother calling for an ambulance.

Ambulance drivers and nurses can't afford to live in London because it's too expensive, so by the time they arrive, you’ll probably be dead. You could drag yourself to the nearest hospital and wait in A&E, but it's probably quicker to get the train back up north and get treated there.

Local Cuisine...

At some point on your trip, you'll need to find somewhere to eat. You might be tempted to try a famous London restaurant such as The Ivy, but unless you're a celebrity (and I mean a proper celebrity - being an

Northern Price Southern name

Crisps Cheese & Onion butty Pint of bitter Cup of Tea Pie Egg Custard Ham and Cheese toastie Chicken nuggets & chips

and you'll be presented with a list of bottled eastern European lagers that start from as little as £5 for a half (yes, a half). You'll also notice the bar staff will present your change and receipt on a little silver tray, as though expecting a tip for the strenuous exercise of removing the bottle top.

Obviously with the drinks being so cheap, you

path may be blocked by a strange, elongated bendy-bus which is stuck halfway over the crossing, forcing you to walk a few miles around it just to get to the other side of the street. But on the whole, the streets are pretty much the same as up north, apart from all the flash cars and Chelsea tractors smooching about.

try and force your northern accent into something more posh and southern sounding.

Getting away from it all...

If you're in London for some considerable time, you'll start to notice that when you blow your nose, the snot comes out black instead of green.

You might be alarmed by this and want to get back to the countryside double quick. Sadly, there isn't any countryside near London. And as for the rest of the South East, it's been concreted over for a series of identical, stifling commuter towns.

The Northern Monkey Survival Guide to L ondon

You'll start to notice southern prices come into effect the moment you step into your local station and ask for a rail ticket to London. At first it might seem odd that the clerk is asking for more than a return ticket to Barcelona. For example, it was recently calculated that travelling by tube from Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square is more expensive for the distance covered than a luxury trip on the Orient Express, only instead of the Swiss Alps, you'll be looking at the jowls of sweaty London commuters.

Northern Name

12:27

35p

£1.25 £1.85 60p £1.20 50p £1.25 £1.99

Around Town...

As you walk around the capital, don't worry if you detect a strange smell in the air; it's just the overbearing stench of self importance.

For your own safety, you should be aware of a few differences you'll encounter when crossing the road in London. For instance, you should take particular care when approaching a zebra crossing as the cars don't always automatically stop for you as you walk across. You'll have to wait for a driver to do you the courtesy of actually obeying the law, as opposed to actually running you over. Pelican crossings too can also be a bit of a challenge. Many of them resemble the starting grid of a Moto GP race to find out which motorbike courier can mow you down first. As you wait patiently for the little man to turn green, your The Edge 077 646 797 44

Southern Price

Hand cut vegetable shavings Ciabatta with caramelized onion & parmesan Imported bottle of specialist lager from our extensive menu Chai Latte Filo Parcel Pastel de nata Chorizo & Feta Panini Chicken goujons & pommes frites

£1.45 £4.95

£4.35 £2.85 £8.95 £1.85 £5.95 £7.95

X-Factor audition freak doesn't really count), you'll probably find they're all mysteriously full. At the other end of the scale, be sure to avoid the Albanian hot-dog stands and all the stalls selling rancid slices of pizza for five quid a throw and your stomach should just about be safe.

Nightlife...

The boozers in London have names like Thirst, Thrust, Truth and Remix, rather than The Red Lion, The Gallowgate Shepherd or The Newcastle Workings Men's Club, so it can often be pretty tricky to to tell whether you've found a pub, a hairdressers or some poncy retro art gallery. But when you do finally locate a pub, don't bother looking at the taps to see what beers they serve because they don’t. Instead, you should ask for the bar menu

shouldn't expect to be able to actually sit down to consume them. ’Course not, man. That would be ridiculous. In fact, you'll be lucky if you’re even able to find standing room inside the bar and so you may be forced/expected to drink up on the pavement outside.

Arriving Home...

You'll no doubt be relieved to eventually get back up north and may even try to blot the whole experience of your southern trip from your mind completely. But do be careful not to mention to your friends that you've visited the capital, otherwise everything you do or say will be taken as evidence that you've gone 'all posh' and now think you’re a cut above everyone else.

Amenities...

After you've had about ten bottles of ultra expensive weak lager, you'll probably be ready for your first dump of the evening, as no doubt your stomach will have been unsettled. Sadly, this can also be rather complicated, as toilets in southern pubs tend to have indecipherable symbols on the doors, rather than simply the words 'male' and 'female'. But even if you do work it out, you'll probably have to wait ages as there will be far too few cubicles, and all of those will probably be locked with strange chopping and snorting noises coming from within.

Wisecracks...

When visiting the south, northerners also need to brace themselves for a whole series of 'hilarious wisecracks’ that will be made at their expense. It certainly won't be long before someone does an impression of the way you talk. For most southerners, this will involve a broad Yorkshire accent, as though everyone in the north, from Liverpool to Newcastle, talks like Geoffrey Boycott or John Prescott.

It seems that the perception of the northern accent, by southerners at least, has changed to a degree, but not when it comes to the really important stuff. It's true that you hear more northern accents on the TV these days, but they're still more likely to be doing inconsequential stuff, like narrating events in the Big Brother house, rather than grilling the Prime Minister or reporting on a major tragedy. Equally, you may sound like you'd be great company on a night out - all fun and frivolous - but wheel you out in a job interview and you might as well turn up wearing a pair of braces on a pit pony.

Whatever you do though, don't ever

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/northernmonkey to comment.

A typical Northern Monkey happy to be back home after a right expensive trip up to the capital.

EDITOR’S NOTE I trust that you southerners can take Our Ang’s column in your stride because we like it down south and have no desire to go back oop north whatsoever. This whole column is just a piss-take on the north-south divide which definitely still exists.

Having said that, as someone who hails from the north of our great country, meeting Ang down here, so many miles from ‘home’, has been an absolute godsend for me personally, because what you southerners just can’t get your heads around is openness.

Furthermore, you can only do straight-talking when you’re aggressive with it, whereas me and Our Ang will call a spade a spade all day long and that’ll be genuinely ALL we’re saying.

There’s definitely no ‘side’ to either of us and many of you southerners could learn a thing or two from the likes of us great northerners in that respect....arf. arf, arf.

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unblocking the sink sim. A vigorous and impatient wank.

Page 21

CAMBODIA After Bangkok and our River Kwai excursions, we ventured north to Siem Reap, Cambodia - home to the fabled, fated Angkor Wat temple.

Back in April 2004, regular readers of The Edge may recall a feature on Angkor Wat by a bloke called Phil Parker who was writing for the mag at that time. Little did I know then that, some six years later, I would be treading in his footsteps.

I have to tell you one thing that instantly struck us about Cambodia, particularly after Bangkok - the feeling of sheer and utter peace. I have honestly never been anywhere and experienced such a feeling of calm in such a strange environment, and it’s all down to the big smiling/happy Buddha and that’s it for me now.....I am converting to Zen Buddhism and all of that malarkey, if it bestows such a precious calm within.

Honestly, what you see below-right will shortly be adorning a whole wall in the west wing of ‘Edge Towers’, it’s literally that important to me. And at the Bayon Temple in the centre of Angkor Thom (my own particular favourite) there are 216 smiles (54 towers with 4 smiling/happy Buddha faces per tower), so you cannot help but feel uplifted.

Apparently, it all dates back to Bodhisattva Maitreya, the Buddha that supposedly succeeded Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism. But that’s way too much history already for The Edge. What was it that Bruce Lee used to say: “Don’t think, feeeel.” Yep, that’ll do for me, because the big, fat, happy, smiling Buddha made me feel just great!

What I also like is the fact that the fat/smiling/happy Buddha, historically speaking (which I’m not at all big on, unfortunately), is all a bit ambiguous in that no-one seems to know who he’s actually based on. But whatever his actual origins, what history does record is that his influence has been tremendous throughout Asia, because he stands for happiness and prosperity. Furthermore, his influence also transcends to China and Japan and other countries where Buddhism and Taoism have taken root, such as Singapore, Malaysia and Thailand.

Thing is, even folk who do not subscribe to any religion whatsoever have taken to having the Big Buddha’s face in their home or office, probably due to the rumoured benefits such might bestow.

For me though, it’s simply all about the calmness and tranquillity and I have never seen such smiles on people’s faces as I saw in Cambodia, so I will definitely go back there one day.

They do like to sting you on airport tax though, to the tune of about £45pp , which temporarily wiped the smile off your editor’s face. But for the ‘experience’, it is honestly a pittance to pay.

Yes, inevitably, we did the Angkor Wat at dawn thing, which was disappointing, if truth be told.

Like I say, Bayon did it for me, whilst Ta Prohm (or ‘Tomb Raider Temple’ as it has also become known) and the roots of the bayon trees growing throughout, must also be seen to be believed.

Although we only spent three days there, we all absolutely loved our time spent in Cambodia and The Edge would encourage anyone who’s curious to give it a go as you most definitely will not be disappointed.

You’ll just beam from ear-to-ear.

They deal in American dollars in Cambodia and that was all this little girl said to me: “Two dollars! Two dollars!” For the privilege of taking her photograph, I assumed.

you’ve got a small dick

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/cambodia to comment.

by the looks of it, so have you, ladyboy

www.theedgemag.co.uk

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wife’s radar n. A lady’s bat-like ability to detect the merest rustle of a jazz mag in the closet up to 100 metres away.

&

e-m@ils

Edge in Cologne

Dear Edge, There I was, stuck in my lonely, boring hotel room in Cologne, Germany, when I decided to log onto the proposterously expensive Wi-Fi to collect my emails, and there it was....THE EDGE! What a relief!

Keep up the good work.

Gary Bainbridge South Woodham Ferrers.

North v South

My dear boy, I have been horrified by the debasement of the general standard of your fine clarion of journalistic excellence. The preponderance of Liberal, Left wing, tree-hugging tat, including a defence of the North?

What sort of hotbed of pinkery have you become?

Thankfully, it's bonus season again, so I can really put some additional lard around my already copious gut.

Normality has finally been restored and the Chateau Petrus can once again be opened in the (thankfully) rarefied atmosphere of ‘Le Pont de la Tour’. The smoking ban makes the cigar taste all the more mellow and satisfying in the comfort of one's own drawing room. So much more pleasant than some ghastly

This month’s STAR EMAIL!

to theedge! ***

CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Welcome Back

Dear Son, WELCOME HOME!

All my love, Edge Mum xxx Thanks, Mum. It’s tough going on holiday, but you’ve just got to grit your teeth and bear it. E.E.

OH MY GOD!

Dear Edge, Surely no words can describe the horror of the pallbearers coming down the steps on Shoreditch High Street recently!

Regards, Richard Manley.

Hi Shaun, Hope you had a nice holiday in Phucket.

As you can see, I’ve got my hands full with a couple of ladyboys just along the coast in Pattaya!

See you soon, Raymond Flouty.

That’s the spirit, Ray lad. GET STUCK IN! E.E.

Don’t be scared to send an email to The Edge ...it won’t bite!

Oh my God, Dick....how positively awful/inappropriate/excellent! E.E. The Edge 01245 348256

self-rolled item in the pouring rain.

Rarely have I heard so much self righteous whinging and whining about ‘Unjust Rewards’ and the inequity of the distribution of wealth.

'Twas ever thus, my dears. The rich will always get richer, no matter how much ‘fear of excellence, free loading pinko socialist’ taxation policy is brought to bear. The fact is that the clever will always make money and those who choose ‘vocational work’ will always be able to sunbathe in the halo of their beatification (and stay poor). Personally, I have worked very hard this year keeping up my British Airways Gold Card (nearly lost it last year, which would have been simply awful) and I fully expect my employers to show their intense (and indeed immense) gratitude at my efforts to keep Client Entertainment Expenses at or about the three year rolling average.

Recession or not, standards must be maintained. Just imagine how

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/letterspage to comment.

very embarrassed I was to find one of my clients flying Business Class to India recently, as I glanced over my shoulder.

Now, I have to take issue with last months' edition of The Edge: that self serving piece of hopelessly biassed propaganda promoting the insanely unlikely notion that ‘The North’ is somehow superior, or even from the same planet. This is the typical kind of spirited defence one gets when the 3rd round of the F.A. Cup is drawn: Chelsea v Gateshead Wanderers. Yes, of course, in theory it's 11 v 11, and ‘on the day’ and all that. But the fact is, the superior (like its location) Southern team is going to make mincemeat out of it's brave little Northern equivalent.

Don't give me Manscum. All their fans live in The North as well (Milton Keynes, that is). Someone introduced me to an interesting concept recently (presumably as some sort of a less offensive alternative): The Midlands. What on earth is that?

Surely your deluded Northern columnist must have heard about ‘The North/South Divide’? That is all there is: North and South (like the terrible US TV series). For the ignorant, may I refresh your memories: The South is an invisible line below Oxford Street. I feel sure I don't have to elucidate further.

There is nothing quaint or friendly about a ten mile terraced house, nor a five month permanently grey cloud overhead. Two thirds of child poverty is located in (yes, you guessed it)... Of course they are probably more friendly, but so would you be with so much time on your hands and only wooden toys with which to play (yes, I am old enough to remember even pre-black and white TV).

I must, however, exempt one part of the North from my disdain: Sunderland Football Club. Why? For doing the entire country a favour in 1973 by beating the then first division champions, ‘Dirty Leeds’ - quite the nastiest sporting team ever, in the F.A. Cup Final, as a second division team to boot! Oh how the joy still lingers.

Regards, The Fat Capitalist Pig. And it’s oh so lovely to hear from you again too, sir.

E.E.

British Pubs Need Your Support

Today the ‘I'm backing the pub’ campaign enters a new, critical phase. In just over two months time there will be a General Election to decide the next British Government.

We believe that all MPs looking for our votes need to set out whether or not they support British pubs and British beer. So we need you to lobby your MP to sign the ‘I'm backing the pub’ campaign now! http://edmi.parliament.uk/EDMi/ED MDetails.aspx?EDMID=40275&SE SSION=903 Thank you in anticipation.

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Mutley chunter n. The act of voicing disapproval under one’s breath when forced to perform a task under duress.

Page 23

Crack down on RUBBISH this EASTER, folks!

E

aster can be a time for family, DIY, camping trips (if the weather holds out) and lots and lots of chocolate, writes Stephen Collins of Chelmsford Borough Council’s Recycling Promotions Team.

But our love for all things sweet means that each Easter, we generate an astonishing 4,500 tonnes of extra rubbish in the UK (staggering, isn’t it?) from all the foil, plastic and card in Easter egg packaging.

Confectionery brands, manufacturers and retailers have achieved significant reductions in Easter egg manufacturing with some eliminating over 50% of materials. Even better news is that some brands are using up to 75% recycled content in their packaging too, so good progress is already being made, but with your help we can waste even less!

Chelmsford Borough Council is encouraging its residents to crack down on this extra rubbish right now, starting with a couple of smart shopping ideas: ! Buy eggs with less packaging.

The best example is the Cadbury (or now Kraft) eco egg. It’s just chocolate wrapped in a piece of colourful, shiny foil. Easter eggs with less packaging will generally save you money too. What could be better? ! Buy an Easter bunny basket and fill it with lots of small chocolate eggs - then store the basket away until it can be used again next year. ! Buy bars of chocolate instead.

Again, you get more chocolate for your money and your children will still be running around in circles from the sugar rush!

Of course, some packaging is inevitable, so this year Chelmsford Borough Council have made recycling easier by expanding our kerb-

side recycling scheme to accept more plastic packaging.

Here’s how to recycle your Easter egg packaging: ! Foil goes into your green box. ! The plastic casing goes into your mixed plastics clear sack. ! Cardboard goes into your cardboard sack.

If you have any questions whatsoever about reducing your rubbish and recycling, or you require a new paper and/or cardboard sack, or perhaps you would simply like some free chocolate, just visit The Recycling Team in Chelmsford High Street on either: Saturday 6th March Saturday 13th March Saturday 27th March We at Chelmsford Borough Council wish you a very happy Easter and thank you for your continued efforts to reduce, reuse and recycle.

For further information, please call 01245 615800, or send us an email to: recycling@chelmsford.gov.uk or visit our website at www.chelmsford.gov.uk/recycling

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/recycle to comment.

www.theedgemag.co.uk

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coup de tat n. Fr. A sudden and unexpected takeover of a previously classy High Street store by Poundsaver.

ONLY JOKING! Conclusive Proof

Two Eskimos were sitting shivering in a kayak, so they lit a fire in the craft. Naturally it sank, proving irrefutably that ‘you cannot have your kayak and heat it’.

Confessional

An Irishman goes into the confessional box after years of being away from the church.

To his amazement, there's a fully equipped bar with Guinness on tap, whilst on the wall there’s a dazzling array of the finest cigars and chocolates.

Then the priest walks in.

"Father, forgive me, for it's been a very long time since I've been to confession,” says the Irishman, “although I must say, the confessional box is much more inviting than it used to be."

The priest replied sternly, "Get out of my side!"

Invisible Man

An invisible man marries an invisible woman.

Naturally there kids were nothing to look at either.

Potted Geranium

A guy walks into a flower shop and asks for a potted geranium.

"Sorry, we don’t have any potted geraniums," says the florist. "But we do have some lovely African violets that make great presents. Would you like one of those?"

“No," replies the man, sadly. "It was definitely a geranium my wife asked me to water whilst she was away."

Strange Love

A friend of mine fell in love with two school bags.

He’s clearly bisatchel.

Condoms

A man walks into a pharmacy with his 10-year old son and they happen to walk by the condom display. The boy asks, '”Hey, Dad, what’re these?”

The boy’s father, extremely matter-of-factly, replies, “Why, those are called condoms, son.

Men use them to have safe sex.”

“Oh yes,” replies the boy. “I've heard about them in my health class at school.”

The boy then looks at the display and picks up a packet of 3 and asks, “Why three, Dad?” His father replies, “They’re for high school boys, son. One for Friday, one for Saturday, and one for Sunday.”

“Cool,” says his son. “And what about these?” pointing to a packet of six condoms.

“Ah, these are for college men, son,” answers his father, forthrightly. “Two for Friday, two for Saturday, and two for Sunday.”

“Wow!” exclaims his son. “And what about these?” he then asks, picking up a 12- pack.

With a sigh, his father replies, “These are for married men, son. One for January, one for February one for March....”.

Clingfilm

A guy walks in to see a psychiatrist wearing only Clingfilm for shorts.

The shrink says, "Well, I can clearly see you're nuts."

One Wish

A woman rubbed a bottle and out popped a genie. The amazed woman asked if she got three wishes. The genie curtly said, “Nope, sorry.

Three-wish genies are a storybook myth. I'm a one-wish genie. So, what'll it be, lady?”

The woman did not hesitate. She said, “I want peace in the Middle East. See this map? I want these countries to stop fighting each other and I want all the Arabs to love the Jews and Americans and vice-versa. That would bring about world peace and harmony.”

The genie looked at the map and exclaimed, “Be reasonable. These countries have been at war for thousands of years. Hey lady, I'm good, but not that good. So make another wish and try to keep it real.”

Disappointed, the woman thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I've never been able to find the right man. You know, one that's considerate, fun, romantic, likes to cook and help around the house with the cleaning, is good in bed, but also gets along with my family, doesn't watch sports all the time, is faithful. Yes, that’s what I truly wish for....a really good man.”

The genie scratches its head and says, “Let me see that map again.”

Swimming

I was swimming in the sea on holiday when I noticed a load of meat float past. Oh yes, the water was definitely a bit choppy.

Mexican Maid

A Mexican maid asked for a pay increase. The lady of the house was not amused so summoned her to talk about her demands.

She asked, “Now Maria, why do you want more money?”

Maria said, “Well, Senora, there are three reasons why I want a pay increase. The first is that I iron better than you.”

“Who says you iron better than me?” demanded the lady of the house.

“Your husband, Senora,” says Maria.

“Oh,” says the lady of the house.

“The second reason I want a raise is because I

am a better cook than you,” says Maria.

“Says who?” demands the lady of the house.

“Your husband,” confirms Maria.

“Oh,” says the lady of the house.

“The third reason I want an increase is because I am a better lover than you,” says Maria.

Well, the lady of the house is really furious now and says, “Did my husband tell you that too?”

“No, Senora,” says Maria, “the gardener did.”

“Oh,” says the lady of the house. “So...how much did you have in mind?”

Marijuana

Telephone answering-machine message: 'If you want to buy marijuana, please press the hash key.'

Slipped Disc

Paddy has slipped a disc so his mate Mick pops round to see him.

Mick says, “How y’doin’, Paddy?”

Paddy says, “It’s frustratin’ layin’ here not being able to do ought for mesel’. Say, do us a favour and nip upstairs and get me slippers for me, will you? Me plates are bloody freezing.”

So Mick goes upstairs and sees Paddy's gorgeous 19-year-old twin daughters sitting on their beds. Ever the opportunist, he says, “Hello girls.

Your Da's just sent me up here to shag you both.”

They giggle and say, “Get away with ya, Mick. Da would never suggest anythin’ loike that.”

So Mick shouts downstairs, “You did say the both of em, didn’t you, Paddy?”

Paddy shouts back impatiently, “O’course both of ’em, you daft twat. What's the bloody point in only f in’ one?”

***

Safe Bet

I went to the butchers the other day and I bet him fifty quid that he couldn't reach the meat on the top shelf. He said, "No chance. The steaks are way too high."

Arizona

Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking by the side of the road.

As the trip was a long and lonely one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a lift.

With a silent nod of thanks, the woman got into the car.

Resuming her journey, Sally tried in vain to make a bit of small talk with the Navajo woman, but she just sat there silently, looking intently at everything she saw both inside and outside of the vehicle, studying every little detail, until she eventually noticed a brown bag on the back seat of the car.

"What in bag?" asked the old Navajo woman.

Sally looked briefly over her shoulder and said, "Oh, it's a just a bottle of wine that I got for my husband."

The Navajo woman was silent for a moment or two longer, before speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder who has seen a lot in her life.

"Good trade," she pronounced.

Q&A

Q. What's a Catholic priest and a pint of Guinness got in common?

A. Black coat, white collar....and you've definitely got to watch your arse if you get a dodgy one.

Readers, come on....The Edge is right out of decent new jokes and desperately needs a whole fresh stash. So get your bloody fingers out and let’s be having some pronto!

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

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Ian Warn

Geldof v. To impose a fairly woeful performance on an unwilling audience who feel it would be impolite not to indulge you.

Page 25

“Up the workers!”

Hands up who knew that all the bees are disappearing, asks Kingpin?

Those of you who did can sit in the ‘nerd corner’, with me. The rest of you can keep on reading. It might sound a bit daft, but it's true and actually rather serious.

All over the planet, bees are disappearing, and have been for several years, which is causing much consternation in the world of men who wear those odd looking hats with the veils, not to mention people that want to break the biggest beard of bees record. It's actually something that we should all be concerned about.

Like all good mysteries, no-one is sure exactly what's happening, and the theories range from the plausible to the lunatic. My favourite ‘fact’ about the Beegate saga is what they're calling C.C.D., or ‘Colony Collapse Disorder’.

This is basically when a large percentage of the worker bee population of a hive mysteriously disappear en-masse, causing the hive to die.

(A) I like the fact that bees now have a proper disorder, and (B) I like to think of all the worker bees suddenly downing tools and saying, "Sod this for a lark, my back's killing me!" before buggering off to the bee equivalent of the pub or the seaside instead.

So what's the problem, I hear you cry. Surely this means we won't have the aggravating little buggers ruining our picnics in the roughly 38 minutes of summertime that we'll probably get this year?

While it's true that bees and wasps (who are a specialised type of Honey Bee, don't you know) can be a pain in the arse, they're actually extremely important in supplying our food - and not just honey. Most food bearing plants and/or crops can't pollinate on their own and rely on bees to do it for them.

So basically, no bees, no food, which is something I'm sure we can all agree is a very bad thing, especially for a porky bastard like me. My own theory is that they've finally got around to watching ‘The Swarm’ starring Michael Caine and, er, they're killing themselves from the shame of it.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/bees to comment.

www.theedgemag.co.uk

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fuck the dog v. To do absolutely nothing. “Not particularly. I just fucked the dog for the entire weekend.”

Wot U Say!

Text Speak. I bloody hate it, reports The Kingmeister. I understand that we're all very busy people these days (and still with an extremely large percentage of people who’re busy doing fuck all), and all those extra seconds it would have taken to type a complete, coherent sentence are absolutely vital to you. But please, for the love of Mike, at least try and talk bloody sense.

I am a huge computer nerd, so I'm no stranger to seeing such garbled shite pop up all the time on my screen at home, but I've got no intention of letting it slide and will fight tooth-and-claw to hold back the tide of idiocy that people seem to think is so ‘gr8’ these days.

SHIT HAPPENS

It does, doesn’t it? Pretty much on a daily basis, yet we’ve all just got to get on with it.

I’m looking outside my office window on a miserable Monday morning and it is absolutely teeming it down; it’s cold, miserable, the wonderful sunshine of Thailand seems like a decade ago already, I’m late getting to my printers with the March Edge after having a fortnight off (plus February’s a short month anyway, which hasn’t helped), and I dunno, but pretty much everything seems to be and feel like a right old pile of shit.

How some people can get up of a morning and be generally full of the joys of spring, no matter what the weather, is totally beyond me. Honestly, it is a proper alien concept, is that.

I wish I was different; by Christ I do. But I guess I’m just one miserable bugger at heart and I’m bloody stuck with it.

So if you thought you’d read The Edge to cheer yourselves up a bit, er, sorry. Definitely not at this time of the year.

Viewing Hour

Every internet based discussion I have, without fail, has me saying at some point:, "If you can't be bothered to write proper sentences, then I can't be bothered to read them". This is almost always followed by cries of: "Grammar Nazi!" and I'll proudly hold my hands up and accept such a label. (And if only I could put all these mouth breathers on a one way train ride to the shower block....)

English is probably the most expressive language in the world. I believe we have more words in our wonderful mother-tongue than any other, so to see it butchered and bastardized always makes me see red.

I know language evolves over time, and I know I'll never stop such inane babble singlehandedly. And, to be honest, if people really want to sound like complete idiots, then why should I stop them? But I don't have to bloody like it, do I? What’s more, I'll pull such bottom-feeders up on it every chance I get.

Back when I used to game online a lot, I was barraged with such shite on an hourly basis, and it was extremely immersion-breaking to be confronted with a character avatar of a wise, long bearded wizard saying, "Plz cn u hlp me wit dis quest?"

Now I know a lot of the people I used to meet online don't have English as a first language, so I'm not having a go at them. It’s just that too many people seem to have ‘Retard’ as their first language now, and frankly it's got to stop.

As a friend of mine always used to say when confronted with this sort of stuff: "If you say plz, because it's shorter than please, I'll say no, because it's shorter than yes."

As a buyer, it can sometimes be difficult to decide which properties are worth viewing and which aren’t, simply from their on-line descriptions. Perhaps you don't have sufficient time to consider the particulars, or the choice of properties is overwhelming. So why not let us help you? Let us take you on a ‘Viewing Hour’.

Our ‘Viewing Hour’ is designed to take into account your basic requirements in terms of accommodation, location and price. A telephone conversation with you, in advance, should give us a good idea of the type of property that would fit your lifestyle and preferences. We than agree a mutually convenient time to view all of the available properties on our books that appear to match your requirements.

it. You'll also gain a really clear picture of how realistic your expectations are in relation to what's currently available on the market.

Most importantly, during our time together, we gain a very good overview of your requirements and are then able to fine-tune our understanding of your needs. In short, we are then in a far better position to help you. For example, we can tell you about properties as soon as they become available (which is vitally important as good homes sell quickly!).

If you are serious about buying, why not book your ‘Viewing Hour’ now?

Our ‘Viewing Hour’ is designed to be a short, sharp, whistle-stop tour to give you a general overview of all potentially suitable properties; you can always come back and revisit the most appealing ones later.

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This initial viewing method generally saves considerable time as you will typically view around six properties in the same time that it would take you to view two. You'll quickly become an expert in the local market, enabling you to spot good value for money when you see

The Estate Agent that works ...for YOU!

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The Edge 01245 348256

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/textspeak to comment.

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Address: Unit 4, Well Lane (opposite Bell public house), Danbury, Chelmsford, Essex CM3 4AB Telephone: 01245 223747

BPF A4 advert v2.indd 1

22/2/10 14:52:53

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gashtray n. The gusset of a lady’s farting crackers.

Page 28

HOME INFORMATION PACKS

PATONG

in 48 hours £217.39

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OK, so first up you need to find ‘a little action’, which isn’t difficult. Ah, these look like good God fearing ladies, cavorting around on a raised stage. Let’s buy ourselves a drink and relax and take in the heady atmosphere for a while, to give us a chance to get our bearings, so to speak.

Mmmmm, she looks like a nice girl - the brazen one in red. Very ‘dark Maralyn Monroe’ style hair.

Pencil slim. Not adverse to flashing her black underwear beneath her skimpy red outfit like a bit of a slut, although far be it for The Edge to pass judgement.

Continued on page 35

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

In a word, Nah! I didn’t enjoy this movie at all, although I’m quite prepared to admit that, all things considered, Quentin Tarantino is probably ‘a bit too clever’ for me.

Set in Germany-occupied France.....but hey, that hardly matters, because Inglourious Basterds isn’t a film about war - it’s a film about films (apparently) made about war and a ‘gleeful burning of the history books’.

You’ve got to hand it to QT in that he is the creator of some truly memorable characters and scenes; none more so than the ’orrible SS Colonel Hanz ‘The Jew Hunter’ Landa, played by the exceptional Christoph ‘speaks in four languages’ Walz, and in particular the ‘apple strudel incident’ with Shosannah. His barely concealed menace is both expertly and skin-crawlingly conveyed.

Meanwhile, the movie’s star (not that it needed one) is Brad Pitt, playing the lantern-jawed Lieutenant Aldo ‘The Apache’ (because of his obsession with scalping Germans) Raine, only he always looks just about ready to piss himself at any moment and The Edge can only wonder just how full the ‘cuts’ canister on this movie must have been (filled to overflowing would be my guess).

Tarantino is a dialogue junky, that much is certain, and whilst some of you might marvel at the excellence of his craft (and I have to admit, the ‘lost shoe’ scene was sublime), I was often thinking: ‘Oh, for f *** ’s sake, just get on with it.’).

Apparently, QT spent more than 10 years writing the script to Inglourious Basterds....

All movies hired from BLOCKBUSTER inn Springfield Road.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/dvdreview to comment.

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chunderbirds n. Binge-drinking teenage girls, full to the brim with tart fuel, staggering around bus stations crying.

TV GOLD - THE PERSUADERS

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

THE SWAN INN

expensive show as the Yanks didn’t take to it.

I did though; every Friday night after swimming at Keighley public baths. I used to bloody love it, I did; the sheer luxury, opulence and escapism, even though I was only ten!

@ HATFIELD PEVEREL

The Street, Hatfield Peverel.

‘Live’ Music in March’10

PREMISE

And this month: The Persuaders, readers.

Do you remember ’em? Roger Moore as Lord Brett Sinclair in his Bahama Yellow Aston Martin DBS and Tony Curtis as Danny Wilde in his bright red Ferrari Dino 246 GT (a bit like a sort of a right rich, early Bodie & Doyle).

You’ve got to go back to 1971 to remember this one though, readers, and The Persuaders was reckoned to be ‘the last major entry in the cycle of adventure series that had begun in 1960 with Danger Man’.

To which The Edge says: “Bollocks!” What about the superb Starsky & Hutch, which I’ll try to remember to review next month.

His Lordship and Danny Boy were international jet-setters; playboys, if you will, but there was only ever one series of Lew Grade’s ambitiously

The Persuaders are two men from totally different backgrounds who reluctantly team up together in order to solve cases which the courts can’t.

Wilde/Curtis is a bit of a rough diamond, raised in NYC, who escapes by joining the US Navy. He goes on to make his millions in the oil business, as you do. Sinclair/Moore, on the other hand, is a Harrow and Oxford educated aristocrat who always addresses his comrade-in-arms as Daniel. (As a bit of an aside, Tony Curtis was actually raised in The Bronx and did indeed serve in the US Navy. He was 46 when he made The Persuaders and performed all of his own stunts and fight sequences.)

John Barry’s excellent theme tune always brings the hairs out around my goolies, if not on the back of my neck. Such nostalgia is almost palpable, even writing this.

At the time, the 24-series Persuaders was the most expensive British TV series ever produced, each episode costing a nifty £100,000.

There was talk of a second series, despite publicity about the two stars not getting on off-screen.

However, any such plans were scuppered when Moore was invited to be the next James Bond.

When you consider some of the shite on TV today, I do wonder why terrestrial channels don’t re-run the entire series of the likes of The Persuaders, Auf Wiedersehen Pet and Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads at peak times.

I, for one, would certainly tune in.

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new sheriff in town, there’s a exclam. Phrase used when someone visiting your home delivers an impromptu air biscuit.

This month I have mainly been looking into some of the things that make us who we are.

I'm not talking about each of us as individuals; more about how we developed as a species, evolving from a charming Captain Caveman chap to the nasty, rapacious little chimps we are today.

The more you look into this subject, the more surprising seem the origins of some of our physical and characteristic traits of today.

Unless you're one of those demented religious types that believes the world is only 6000 years old, was created in a six day frenzy by the bearded skyfather, and we all descended from Adam and Eve, you'll know that we actually descended from a branch of the primate family.

THIS MONTH I HAVE MAINLY BEEN...

yourself look stupid, as you obviously have no idea what ‘theory’ means in scientific terms).

If it works, then it helps the species survive and thus propagates itself. In this case, the trait was that babies born with less hair had the advantage of less lice and parasites, so they were a lot healthier than their more hirsute counterparts.

writes Kingpin

They lived longer, bred more and thus, the hairless trait gradually became the norm. Scientists also posit that our being hairless also had the added benefit of us needing to find other ways to keep warm, which led to us discovering fire and eventually making clothes.

In a roundabout way, I guess it also landed us with Gok-Wan, but you can't have it both ways, can you?

Was Adam a tit man or a leg man, do you suspect?

As an aside, you religious folk really need to come up with something more plausible than the whole Adam and Eve thing, because it's just so totally ludicrous. Seriously, I get really embarrassed about it on your behalf, and I'm a bloody atheist.

Back in the day (and I mean really back in the day) we were just as hairy as our monkey cousins, so what happened? To cut a long story short: we were filthy. Much like teenagers of today, primitive man didn't like to wash and so our fur was often teeming with lice and parasites, which isn't conducive to a healthy, or very long, life.

Not just any lice either. They've now found that we were riddled with pubic lice; pubic lice that we picked up from gorillas. OK, so they think we picked that up from using their nests, or even from eating them; only that’s got me thinking of clandestine monkey-sex and it’s a much more fun vision to have about our past, or is that just me?

Evolution works by selecting traits or random mutations that fit/work. That's it in a nutshell, which is why it's one of the most beautifully simple scientific theories there is (and if anyone says: "Well, you just said it yourself, it's just a theory!" then be quiet before you make

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So the discovery of fire, one of the most important milestones in the evolution of our species, actually came about because we were too bone idle to clean ourselves. If that seems hard to swallow, then how about our large brains and intelligence coming about due to our proclivities for stuffing our faces?

With all that free time on our hands from not having to wash, we had to do something, and excessive gluttony was obviously the best option.

Nowadays, we know that greasy, fatty foods aren't very good for us, so if we're so smart, and if evolution is so smart, why did we evolve to crave all that shit?

Don't lie. You want one of these every bit as much as I do.

Well, the reason we are so smart is because of stuffing fatty foods into our cavernous maws all day long. Our large brains require a huge amount of energy to function properly, and rich, fatty foods are the best source of such energy (it’s true).

Take a look at all the animals that live on healthy, plant based diets and you'll find that none of them are particularly smart. Most of the smarter animals, like humans, are essentially scavengers, and scavengers need a more than average intelligence to remember all the foods that are good, and all the foods that have a tendency to make you shit out your own intestines.

Humans turned out to be a lot better at finding the richest, fattiest foods we could get our hands on, and we also developed tools to enable us to get even more of that lardy goodness. I'm sure it's not hard to guess that we'd use the intelligence all those years of eating prehistoric junk food gave us, to essentially find even more creative ways to create heart attack inducing fare.

So what other sterling character traits, apart from being filthy and gluttonous, shaped our evolution? Apparently refusing to grow up is another one that has set us apart from our animal cousins.

Most animals are born and reach an adult state in a relatively short amount of time, particularly compared to the 20 years that most humans spend ‘in the nest’. Human children are born with small bodies and comparably gigantic heads, due to our unfeasibly large brains. Where as an animal's priority is to grow a fully functioning adult body just as soon as, well, humanly possible, which is useful to either run away from something that's trying to eat you, or to run after something that's trying to stop you from eating it.

Humans, on the other hand, expend the energies of their first few years developing the neural pathways within their brain, soaking up knowledge like a screaming, shitting sponge. These years of developing the brain, and the way we pass down knowledge through the generations, is one of the things that make us so unique as an animal.

It also means that when your son or daughter is still living at home aged 25 and sponging off you, that they can use evolution as a cast-iron excuse.

OK then, so far we've got being filthy, greedy and refusing to grow up as defining character traits of the human species. But what other nasty shit went into making us the way we are?

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/thekingmeister to comment.

If there's one thing I can't abide, it's gossip. People that scurry around digging into the minutiae of other people's personal lives should be shot, and anyone that's responsible for those execrable gossip magazines should be shot twice. In both tits.

I just realised that last line gave me the excuse to add some gratuitous tits.

However, it appears that the earliest forms of gossip actually helped us to evolve our large and complex societies. If you look at other primate groups, you'll find that most of the tribes or bands number around 50 at the most.

Studies have also found that the number of people we can comfortably keep track of, and form bonds with, is around 150 before our eyes start bleeding. So how did we more than double the number of members in our social groups compared to other primates?

We gossiped.

We have a much more complex language than any other animal species (which probably developed to aid us in coordinating hunting parties) and this mastery of language enabled us to talk about the other members of our groups that weren't currently present.

Other animals just couldn't, and cannot, do this, and it is one of the factors that will always limit their social groups.

As an interesting aside, did you ever wonder where the stereotype of gossipy women comes from?

Some anthropologists believe it all started way back then, as while the men were out hunting, the women sat around the campfire, talking about them behind their backs. Which figures.

So there you have it. Some of the things that have made us the world dominating colossi we have become today. Quite frankly, I think our roots are positively deplorable.

And next time you don't fancy washing and instead, all you want to do is shove a cheeseburger or a bar of chocolate down your neck, pausing only to slag people off, don't blame yourself.

It's evolution’s fault.

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prefer one’s peas minted euph. Alluding to one who participates in the burgling of turds.

"And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.

And the Lord said, “My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years.” There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown." Genesis 6, King James Bible

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Fields of the Nephilim

I recently went to Warsaw to see a band called Fields of the Nephilim (with a few good friends in tow), writes Richard Hindle. Most people don't associate winter in Warsaw as a popular tourist destination, and I can see why.

The Nephilim were, according to a few ancient texts (including the Bible), the product of renegade angels reproducing with earth women and spawning blood thirsty giants. They appear in various guises in the Old Testament, but seem to have been mainly 'edited out' after the King James Bible. There are even suggestions that Noah's offspring had a link back to these giants.

The mythos of the Nephilim has always been a central focus in the works of Fields of the Nephilim, a band that began in the mid-eighties during the period when goths were still goths and emos weren't even a twinkling in the eye. My fascination began at the age of 17 as I decided to do the ‘rebellious youth bit’ and trawled through Aleister Crowley, qabbalism and numerous left field esoteric (occult) works (not that, in all truth, I understood much of it).

Like most fans, I've always been drawn by their heaven and hell bound music; they’re like watching a dark gothic opera with dry ice poured not only over themselves, but quite frequently smothering the audience as well.

Whilst their fans have become older, there is still a bond between them, as expressed by a willing British turn out in Warsaw. It seems strange that a band that should have been lost in time have resurfaced after over a decade of nothing. What's more, they are now gaining momentum once again, with more new releases and touring dates scheduled. The Nephilim have always been something to return to, which is something their fans understand, and thus are willing to travel across the world for. Not bad for a goth band from Stevenage!

Their lead singer must be nearing his 50's now, but due to an obsession with looking apocalyptic from the start of his career, it’s hard to notice whether he’s even aged at all.

And as for Warsaw.....BUGGER, IT’S COLD.

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/grumpygoose to comment.

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rainman n. A woman with phenomenal mental capacity, who can commit to memory every single male misdemeanor...

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hat's the most soul destroying phrase you can think of? You know, a few words that make your heart feel like it weighs a ton and will drop your mood to something approaching suicidal. The words that will force your shoulders into a hunch and your back into a stoop. There are oh so many that spring to mind. How about, "There now follows a party political broadcast"? Or maybe, "And now, dressage"?

But there is one particular phrase that lets you know, without any doubt whatsoever, just how little your presence on Earth matters. It sums up your whole place in the hierarchy of the world, and it's not very high. For the sheer depression that comes from realising you count for nothing, that nobody gives a shit about you, and if you were to die right now, it wouldn't be too soon. Yes, every time you hear, or more likely read, these words, you just know for sure there is no God. It's only three words, but boy, what power they hold.

Bus Replacement Service.

This seemingly innocuous little phrase is nine months pregnant with hidden meanings. Firstly, it says that although you have paid out for a ticket - a full price ticket - you are going to get a service that's very far from full price value. Your journey will take twice as long as it's supposed to and involve three changes you shouldn't have to make. But tough tits to you, sucker; we've got your money.

The phrase is never ever seen alongside an apology. There is no inkling that the rail company cares one teeny weeny little jot about the discomfort, inconvenience and general stress being caused to you as a result of its actions.

The company cares so little, there's not even a cursory â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;sorryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. No, it's just tough tits to you, sucker; we've got your money.

Then the worst insult of all. Because, under normal circumstances, a delay of an hour or so on your journey into London would necessitate a compensatory payout, they change the timetable for weekends so that you aren't taking longer than the posted time. Yet again, tough tits to you, sucker; we've got your money.

Actually, there is a worse insult. It's the use of the word 'planned'. Because all this chaos is 'planned', that's OK, and the company involved can do what the heck it likes because it has absolved itself from any responsibility to you.

Apart from taking your money, obviously.

Now, if there were a regular reader of this column, he or she would no doubt detect an obsession with transport of all types. And it's a charge that cannot be denied, unfortunately, because for those of us with a bit of a wander-lust, or even just a lifestyle that doesn't yet involve sitting by the fire with a pipe and

a pair of slippers, it can be very frustrating to find that wherever you want to go, there's some reason why you can't. At least, not easily. The process of getting from A - B in this country, using any single mode of transport, is made so unbelievably expensive, difficult and uncomfortable that you can but assume it's a deliberate government ploy to keep us all in our homes where we can't be a nuisance.

Motorists are financially raped and prosecuted whenever possible. As we learned just now, trains often aren't running at all, and as for airports, well, we've done them to death before. Even cycling doesn't work because a sideeffect of the attacks on motorists is that our roads remain full of pot holes and aren't fit to use whether you're riding two wheels or four.

However, and unusually, there is a bit of good news on the travel front. You do have to go abroad to find it, admittedly.

Not far abroad, but abroad none the less. We need to jump the English Channel to find a country where the individual does still count for something.

The news is that someone has finally found the bottle to implement an idea that's been kicking around for a long while. It's an idea that, until now, has been deemed far too controversial for anyone to have the nerve to introduce in reality, but most of us have championed, should we ever slip into un-PC mode after a drink or two.

The company we must raise our hats to is Air France, and the idea that's time has come is the one that says fat people must buy two seats on a plane.

There are so many reasons why this is a good idea that absolutely every airline must have contemplated it at some time or other, before discarding it because of the bad publicity it would bring.

However, it's taken the French, with their arrogance and total lack of caring about what the rest of the world might say, to do the unthinkable. In this column's eyes, they have enhanced their reputation as a beacon of common sense in the process.

As with most things though, the devil will be in the detail. Has Air France really thought through how this will work?

What if the plane is full and fatso has neglected to buy a second seat? What should happen is that he/she should be booted off and his/her fare forfeited, but that might be a step too far, even for the French.

And you can't have a flat weight limit.

Someone 6'6" tall could weigh 16st yet still fit comfortably (width wise at least) into a standard airline seat. On the other hand, someone of 5'6" who weighs 16st will be forcing their sweaty blubber all over the person next to them.

So there has to be some sort of Body Mass Index type equation. But do you know your BMI ready for when you next book a seat? And what happens if you think you're OK, but the airline doesn't?

There are some tricky times ahead for sure, but let's not be too negative.

Instead, let's hope that Air France gains the support it deserves for its boldness.

Further, that it's the opening of the flood gates and in a few years time, if any of us can still afford to fly, the rest of the world's airlines have caught up and are also doing the right thing by the majority of passengers who can get into a seat without imposing their unpleasant body mass on someone else.

Not for the first time, it's France one, everyone else nil.

steveward2000@hotmail.com

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seven pint stunner n. A lady whose inner beauty only becomes apparent after the best part of a gallon of Nelson Mandela.

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Apparently, this is a spoof photograph....but The Edge likes it anyway.

It’s top quality creative thinking, is this, even if it’s been done by someone on Adobe Photoshop in their bedroom with their dick out....it makes no difference, for Pringles really ought to sack their current advertising agency and employ this whiz-kid.

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I've had to flex my muscles on Him Indoors this month after I discovered he’d gone and changed his Mobile Phone Tariff to unlimited calls and texts. I mean, you only have to look at the stories in the newspapers to know that a man on the loose with a mobile phone is a very dangerous man indeed.

Him Indoors said he wanted to save money.

I said, “Likely story. You’re obviously up to no good.”

I don't want to end up like poor old Cheryl Cole, now do I? There she is, singing her heart out about fighting for her love with Ashley - and there's Ashley, bedding a hairdresser whilst simultaneously puking over her at the same time.

I said to my friend, there’s no way Ashley bedded that hairdresser - it's a lie. I mean, how many men do you know who can manage two things at once in the bedroom? But just as poor Cheryl got over that one, lo and behold, he's at it again, texting pictures of his skinny torso in a pair of baggy underpants to seemingly a whole gaggle of loose women. Apparently, one of them drove for 3 hours to climb through a window to bed him; then he promptly asked her to get dressed and go get him a pizza and a bottle of Mateus Rose (class). But even then she insisted Ashley was “a kind and considerate lover”. Well, let me tell you, love, a man who makes you get dressed after sex and go and get a pizza and a cheap bottle of plonk is a lazy, good for nothing, selfcentred so-and-so. I mean, what sort of man drinks Mateus Rose anyway?

So I've made it crystal clear to Him Indoors that if I catch him texting random women off the internet, his life won't be worth living.

He protested that he doesn't know how to use the internet and hasn't even got a computer to find women with. “Excuses, excuses,” was my reply to that. If a man's got a mind to cheat, he’ll find a way. Him Indoors retorted, “Don't you think I've got enough on my plate with you?” But I gave him one of my stares and he promptly backed down he knows when he's beaten.

For the record, I've spent 4 years breaking Him Indoors in and if some woman thinks she's going to waltz in and take him off my hands now that he's house trained, she's got another think coming.

But back to this text-sex lark. Apparently, according to Professor Ludwig at Boston University, texting is as addictive as Crack Cocaine. Take that Vernon Kay fella, for instance. He always looked such a lovely man; as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But even he's been caught letting his fingers do the talking with a tangerine topless model with bandy legs. He stated, when caught red handed, that he’d not had sexual relations with the woman. Well, call me old fashioned, but sending pictures of your dangly bits and asking her to send you

pictures of her bazookas is hardly the thing you'd ask your Nan to do, now is it? It reminds me of that incident with President Clinton saying he had not had sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky and her producing a stained dress. What kind of a woman keeps a dirty dress in her closet?

Don't these men realise their texts and pictures are kept for just such an occasion when the woman decides to make a mint from a newspaper? My mate Max Clifford’s had to work his socks off this month.

Poor Tess (Daly); she's been slaving away trying to build up her family fortunes, writing books about having such a strong and successful marriage, and just when she's about to launch it and rake in the millions, Vern's gone and put the mother of all spanners in the works. Personally speaking, I’d have kicked him in far more than just his shins if I were Mrs Kay and I'd spent month's writing a book, only to have my efforts ruined. I bet Tess gave him hell when he got home that night. Apparently, Vernon has had to take time off work to say sorry, but I put money on it it’s because he’s got a black eye. Only what I want to know is, why, when these celebs get caught out (like they always do) do they need to take time off work to apologise?

Then there's John Terry who was caught well and truly off-side (ah yes, we girls know the off-side law alright). Apparently, he was texting his mistress whilst his wife was having lunch with her. Poor old Toni.

So the Terry’s were forced to flee to Dubai and trawl the shops day and night to get over the trauma of it all, not forgetting to sell ‘their story’ to Hello magazine who were stupid enough to pay for it (naturally I only ended up buying it for research purposes, you understand). Page after page was filled with Toni repeatedly gushing, "We’re so in love, we’ll be together forever." Umm. Personally, me thinks she’s far more attracted to his £170,000-a-week pay packet than any other package he might have.

Those who say money can't buy you love obviously never dated a WAG. You've only got to think Tiger Woods to know that if you play with fire, you're going to get burnt.

My mother once had her suspicions that my father was cheating on her as he was coming home in the afternoons and using the telephone. So one day, she hid in the wardrobe to catch him at it. She heard him come in and pick up the ’phone and then heard him say, "We have to keep it a secret from Chrissie." With that, my poor mother leapt out of the wardrobe like a woman possessed and bashed my father all over the bedroom with a Bible until she drew blood only to discover my Dad was planning a surprise holiday for their silver wedding anniversary and was actually talking to the Travel Agent! My father never tried any of that nonsense again, only my mother moaned for the rest of her days that he never did anything spontaneous.

So I've taken to sneaking up on Him Indoors when he's on the ’phone and snatching it away from him to see who he’s talking to. I've also taken to looking at his text messages, but so far, all I've got is the football scores, although I'm not convinced that’s not just a crafty secret code.

I had a long chat with my best friend the other day, and she said, “Really Tracie, I don't think you've got much to be worried about. Him Indoors wouldn’t even fit his body onto a mobile ’phone screen; his beer belly would completely obscure the view.

Besides, who wants to be saddled with his debts? He's hardly a footballer, is he?” So I hung up on her, on account that I think she's probably having an affair with him.

BITCH.

Tracie123@aol.com

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milk of human kindness n. See also liquid rage.

The fraulein comes to chat to a punter in a R.D.S. (right dodgy shirt) at the front of the stage. Perhaps he has as ‘favour’ to ask of her and a few Thai Baht in his pocket?

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Why, the O.D.B. (offensively dressed bloke) turns out to be none other than me, getting a quick cuddle and a photograph for the mag for £4 (I was feeling generous)!

And then it was off back to my place! Now come on, hands up how many of you sharp eyed readers had already clicked so far as ‘she’ is actually a Patong Ladyboy???

Kieran Galvin

Essex Cricket Gear Up for New Season

So, is cricket really not your bag? Vanish those thoughts of boring cricket, cucumber sandwiches and people in the crowd snoring and experience Twenty20 Cricket and you’ll soon change your mind.

What a year Essex Eagles have in prospect this season. With nine Twenty20 games and a new Sunday afternoon 40-Over league, it all bodes well for some truly exciting times.

Men: What's in it for you? Fast-paced action, twisting drama from the very first ball - oh, and a few beers.

Ladies: Well, all of the above (and other beverages) plus some ‘hot players’ (so we’re told), inc. England players Alastair Cook, Ravi Bopara, James Foster, Graham Napier and internationals such as Ryan Ten Doeschate and Danish Kaneria.

Tickets for the Friends Provident T20 always prove to be hot property and go on sale from 10am Thursday 1st April. To secure your seats, visit www.essexcricket.org.uk or telephone (01245) 254010. Failing that, why not visit our Retail Outlets in the High Chelmer Shopping Centre and at the Ford County Ground, Chelmsford.

Yes folks, ‘The Pub that just wouldn't die’ is back for round two, writes Crispin Coulson.

Following the outrageous success of last years reunion for the much loved bad-boy pub, The Prince of Orange, a second reunion is now taking place this year.

O'Connor's, in Hall Street, Chelmsford, will once again open its doors as ‘The Prince for a Day’ on Saturday 17th July 2010, from 2:00pm until midnight. And for those hardy souls still wishing to party on afterwards, Richard at Mustard’s bar in New London Road welcomes you in their downstairs bar, which stays open ’til 2:00am. Hey, it's going to be a busy old weekend!

This year's event is dedicated to ‘Absent Friends’ those special characters who are sadly no longer with us, like Richard Hambling, Pete Dee, Tony Gibbs, Steve Ainsley, Blind Mickey, Tracey Passfield and Terry who made The Prince of Orange the very special place that it was during its heyday.

For those of you unfamiliar with The Prince of Orange, it was, for at least three generations of Chelmsfordians, the place to be and a unique experience for all concerned.

It boasted two separate bars attracting completely different crowds, plus a beer garden, both of which would be at bursting-to-capacity point on a really good night, always without a hint of trouble.

As a result of word-of-mouth, the internet and extensive Crispin Coulson coverage in The Edge, last years reunion attracted multitudes of former patrons. It was honestly heart-warming watching it all come together as all the old faces started trickling in throughout the afternoon, leading up to a deluge of folk as the evening wore on. And it was a truly special moment when Andy Barrett arrived, returning to the pub he had created, and seeing his legacy still out there misbehaving and embracing him like a long lost, but slightly eccentric uncle.

There were so many magical moments that day, like former Prince patron Pee Wee carrying a huge section of the original pub wall decorated by the pub sign along the road like a religious artifact, accompanied by the sound of car horns heralding ‘The Return of the Prince’!

It was also overwhelming seeing the look on people's faces as they spotted old friends for perhaps the first time in 20 years.

Then there was the dancing and everyone singing along to Bob Marley's ‘No Woman No Cry’ towards the end of the evening. I can still remember closing my eyes, re-opening them, and thinking, "Whoa! I really am back in the Prince!"

Find out more about the reunion and the pub itself on www.princeofo.co.uk (and on Facebook and Twitter).

Go to www.theedgemag.co.uk/patongladyboys to comment.

The Edge 01245 348256

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