The Edge October 2009

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EDGE

the ISSUE NO: 156

www.theedgemag.co.uk

AUTUMN / WINTER 2009 COLLECTION NOW IN STORE FOR MEN AND WOMEN

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‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’

The Edge, Chelmsford, CM2 6XD.

Telephone 01245 348256

OCTOBER 2009

Mobile: 077 646 797 44

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It is against the law for a man to wear a skirt whilst riding a donkey uphill backwards.

Page 4

The Edge Editor’s Column Despite what’s written on page 9, this really is the last piece of the jigsaw.

Bugger, what to write about when I’m ‘all written out’?

OK, well, I wasn’t going to say anything because I always end up getting it in the neck, but I’m off to Montenegro tomorrow for a week (but I’ll be back by the time you’re reading this, all being well).

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Edge bloke’s off again.

Hang on, no, no, no, it’s not all sea, sand, buckets & spades and donkey turds where yours truly is concerned. Be fair, readers, I’ve only had a week in Gran Canaria so far this year, save for a few long-weekends in sunny Dorset (see page 22 for the very latest), so I’m very much looking forward to the rest (I’ve currently got a groin strain, see, so if anyone out there’s had one and knows the best way to sort ’em out, then please let me know as it’s not allowing me to play my beloved squash at the moment. Equally, if anyone simply

Count Country try Flooring Fl oorin ng

wants to rub it for me???).

So yeah, that ‘holiday feeling’ has just started to kick-in, a day before I’m due to fly out with a list as long as your arm of all the cosmetics Mrs. Edge wants me to buy her in the Duty Free.

I never completely relax until my case has gone down that conveyor belt, Generation Game style, to doubtless be kicked about by all those baggage handling muppets behind the scenes. And I’m always anxious that the over-made-up checkin girl doesn’t tell me I’ve exceeded my weight allowance.

“Has anyone interfered with your case, sir?”

“Yes, the bloody wife has.”

See, that’s why I’m always sweating so much, ’cos she puts all her lotions and potions into my case and they weigh a bloody ton.

“Well, there’s no room in mine,” she always says.

Then don’t take fourteen evening outfits plus matching shoes and handbags for a seven day break then.....my sweet!

What’re those posh seafood counters all about in airports?

Don’t get me wrong, I like seafood very much, but aren’t they just a tad ostentatious?

“Oh, yar, look at one....I’m eating seafood. What’s more, even at these prices, I can afford to.”

At the other end of the scale, I’m not in favour of the crappy airport pub where there’s always halfa-dozen lads from up north sat around a table downing pints of Smoothflow, even at four o’clock in the morning.

“We’re off on our ’olidays, we are.”

Hmmmm. Was Scarborough fully booked then?

I do like people-watching though and I’m always intrigued when I see blokes dressed as if they simply don’t know how to ‘dress down’ (no, I am not saying everyone should be wearing shellsuits, but how can you be comfortable flying in a shirt, tie and a sports jacket with a silk handkerchief sticking jauntily out of the breast pocket?).

Eventually your flight is called and you get into the departure lounge to clock who’s going to be on the same ’plane as you, breathing the same air.

After a cursory glance around so see that there are no suicide bombers (well, it does cross your mind these days, doesn’t it, even if you’re only going to Spain), you then get to hoping that the people with the Scouser accents won’t be staying at the same resort as you.

And when you do finally board the ’plane, I’m forever eyeing the people up walking down the aisle, marking them out of ten as to whether I’d be happy if they were to sit next to me for the next three hours. Isn’t it always a crap start to any holiday when someone who scores but a four slouches in undignifiedly beside you (because they are buggers to get into, are aeroplane seats).

Once you’re safely in the air, the trolley-dolly’s spring into action charging Ritz type prices for a cup of crap coffee, only you buy one anyway because you’re on your holidays and you really could murder a Nescafe.

Then out comes that book you took on your last holiday, but never got round to reading, before your mind starts wandering. Did I reset the central heating? Did I lock the garden gate? Did I even lock the car? Did I pack my nasal hair clippers, because I’ve been meaning to sort them out for ages, and now I’ll have the time?

Ah yes, holidays. You can’t beat ’em, can you?

Yet they’re over in but the blink of an eye (and I might as well not even be there on the penultimate day for all the pleasure I (don’t) get out of it).

Still, it sure beats being in Chelmsford.

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

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It would be optuse to loan a vacuum cleaner to a goldfish above a pig.

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Lily Allen

Irani ’Phones Edge!

Right tall Essex cricketing legend (or should that read ‘leg end’?) Ronnie Irani ’phoned The Edge the other week, readers, and thus joins Gabby Logan (nee Yorath) as ‘the most famous persons’ ever to ring ‘Edge Towers’ (and both withheld their numbers when I dialled 1471 immediately afterwards, the flippin’ baskets).

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” said I. “I want some meat,” says Irani.

“The Edge is not a bloody butchers,” says I. “No, but that advert you regularly run isn’t in your August editions...” says Do Ron Ron. And he was right ’n’all, for I’d forgotten to put Knight Meats advert into issue no: 154, (call myself an editor...a clown more like).

Thing is, Ronnie lad, Knight Meats are a wholesale butchers, supplying the likes of The Lion Inn, Masons Too, Grahams on the Green etc.

They’re not really the place to be contacting for a few steaks for a Sunday afternoon barbecue.

Having said that, I thought owner Jim Knight might be impressed and pull out all the stops for such a cricketing idol, so I rang him tout suite.

“Jim lad. It’s Shaun at The Edge here. Listen mate, Ronnie Irani is after some meat.”

“Who?” said Jim, without a word of a lie!

‘Edge Towers’ has recently suffered the trauma, yes, trauma, of having new wardrobes fitted to its ‘master bedroom’ (fortunately by Edge father-in-law as I am piss-poor at any form of D.I.Y., nor do I even want to ‘learn how’, if truth be told).

However, I did read something that might interest you ladies (and all metrosexual men out there) as regards storage, which is the bane of the good lady wife’s life (apart from my good self, you understand).

What our Lily says she does is photograph each and every pair of shoes she owns (and a typical woman owns how many pairs, right....about thirtysomething???) and thereafter attaches each photograph to its corresponding box.

Good idea, eh? The Edge likes that. In fact, I might try that with my underpants, whereby I attach a photograph of.... On second thoughts, the photo’s would get wet when my undercrackers were being washed. Eh? Oh sure, you can buy see-through shoe boxes at IKEA (come to think of it, what can’t you buy at IKEA....apart from sausages that actually smell real? God, have any of you ever eaten one of ‘those sausage things’ sold by the checkouts? The smell always makes me want to gag good’n’proper).

Anyway, the thing is, providing you already own a camera, Lily’s idea is far more cost-effective.

We actually had to have some new wardrobes as our current ones were bought as a ‘temporary measure’ twelve years ago (shucks, you know how it is) and the wife’s been having to go upstairs into our loft in order to choose what boots to wear (I kid you not). So really, it was pretty much a case of, “OK, what’s cheapest?

Moving to a bigger house, we shell out for some new wardrobes?” (I swear we actually had that conversation.)

As a football result, it would thus read: New Wardrobes Ath. 1 New House Rovers 0

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People wearing polka dots should never be trusted.

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Photo’s sent in by Manners!

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“Oh what fun....frolicking in the snow!”

Christ, this sort of thing used to be bad enough when you were a kid and you had a ‘Mad Aunt’ chasing you around a piano after she’s had a bit too much Sherry Trifle at the Harvest Festival and she wanted to give you a R.S.K. (right sloppy kiss) on the arse-cheeks.....but The Edge reckons this poor bugger’d get a lot more than just a wet slapper (no disrespect, Auntie) if he ever let this particular pursuer catch him up.

The Edge is thinking that polar bears have much better grip in the snow than mere wellington boots, right? So pray, what if ‘our man’ was to slip whilst tackling one of those tricky ninety-degree corners around his truck?

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Or maybe he’s dropped his keys in the powder and can’t get into the damn thing, so the bear decides to just sit it out on his bonnet. Who’d you think would get cold first, hmmm?

Or maybe The Edge has got it all totally wrong and it’s the bear who’s nicked the bloke’s keys and ‘our man’ is saying, “Grrrr! Gimmi back my keys, you God damn pesky bear.”

Thing is, I honestly don’t think there’s any reasoning with bears, so either way, I’d say matey is pretty much onto a loser in this particular scenario. (Unless it’s really just a man in a P.B.S. (polar bear suit) and it’s being filmed simply to dupe those poor sad twats at You’ve Been Framed!

Looking at all this snow is making The Edge think about the C-word though.

“What, CLUNGE?” “No, CHRISTMAS, you idiots!”

There. See? The Edge has gone and said it right at the beginning of October.

How bad is that?

No, seriously, how bad is that?

The reason The Edge asks is because there is actually a vigilante group called Movement for the Containment of Christmas that gets a little bit pernickety whenever the C-word is exhibited/ expressed too early. For instance, they often send correspondence to stores advising them not to put Christmas cards on display until November, OR ELSE! And by way of a subtle warning, they once superglued the door of a branch of MIND, the mental health charity, which was hardly very festive of them, was it? The notice they posted through the letterbox read: ‘This is a very polite, yet very serious reminder not to display Christmas cards until 1st November.’

S’truth, that’s all a bit harsh, don’t you think?

The Edge is all for not having too much Christmas (which is far too long to abbreviate), but who in their right minds would stoop to such measures? And wearing masks as well, for fear of the CCTV cameras.

However, this publication does think that homes that keep their exterior Christmas lights up all year round, though not necessarily illuminated, should pay an increased council tax fee (Ms Birk), as it is S.V.N. (so very naff).

Thinking about it (but not very much), The Edge reckons 20th October is a fairly reasonable date for ‘the Christmas period’ to begin (i.e. cards in shops yes, decorations down the High Street no).

After all, the only good thing The Edge has ever foreseen about the whole festive period is fat lasses decorated top-to-toe in tinsel.....whilst on the other side of the coin, blokes who wear ‘Christmas themed ties and socks’ ought to be shot on the steps of Shire Hall at dawn.

22/09/2009

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An elephant does not know what ‘inappropriate behaviour’ means.

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Oooops!

A bloke called Ian Jeffries emailed this photograph over to The Edge and said, “Is it OK if I send you stuff periodically as I’ve appreciated your mag for some considerable time?”

Is it OK, sir? Is it OK? Christ, The Edge should be bloody well paying you for ‘solid gold’ photographs the likes of this.

I honestly thought the snap on page 30 this month was possibly the best The Edge had ever published in its entire history, but I reckon this one takes the absolute biscuit.

Mind you though, there’ll doubtless be those out there who’ll say ‘this type of thing shouldn’t be allowed in a publication that’s freely accessible’.

Oh. Why not?

What harm is this photograph going to do anyone?

Tell me, how can it be offensive?

Is it ‘an offense’ that you are sat looking at this very photograph right now?

No? Are you sure? Because this photograph is exactly what got you into this world in the first place (OK, OK, so maybe you’re not an elephant who’s doing the complaining, but you get The Edge’s gist?)

This photograph is not just funny.....it’s bloody hilarious, full stop.

We’re dealing with animals here and clearly this is what animals do.

Christ, The Edge is almost certain that some of you parents out there wouldn’t think twice about complaining to a zookeeper about the shenanigans two animals (and not necessarily of the opposite sex either) were getting up to in a cage that had ‘upset’ their little Timothy or Grazelda.

Sorry. Do you really think your precious little kiddiwinkles were upset by such gross misconduct?

Give over. You are either (a) over protective, or (b) living in cloud cuckooland (or possibly (c) frigging well both) and The Edge despises your holier than thou, self righteous attitude.

You ‘made’ your kids by doing what these elephants are doing above, right?

You accept that, do you?

“Yes....but we weren’t doing it whilst transporting paying customers about on our backs who were merely along for the ride.”

Ah, right. Granted. But lighten up, yeah? Cos this publication isn’t and never has been out to offend (that’s not where we’re coming from, alrighty?)

But some of you do honestly need to loosen your corks just a tad.

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It is forbidden to wear a face-mask and snorkle whilst shopping in Asda.

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Last Piece of the Jigsaw

talkSPORT I do like listening to the talkSPORT radio channel whenever I’m out in The Edgemobile and Mike Parry had me proper gurning to myself the other morning. He said he was adamant, in his own inimitable style, that a plumber by the name of Thomas J. Crapper had invented the first ever flushing toilet system, but went on to muddy matters by stating that some French fella called Monsieur (Otto?) Titsling invented the very first brassiere.

Now The Edge doesn’t honestly know if either are true (and, quite frankly, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to Google it, what with a deadline for this particular edition fast looming), but if any of you good readers could put The Edge straight, I’d be most appreciative.

In general, they do name things after the inventor, don’t they?

But Parry then went on to insist that a wee man by the name of Mickey Motor had created the first ever internal combustion engine, so you honestly never know where you stand with that lad.

Those amongst you who don’t publish a magazine (hands up now, don’t be shy) might be forgiven for thinking that the very last page is the last thing you do.

Only it isn’t.

This month, for instance, it’s this.

“What, Edge bloke, page nine?”

More specifically, this little section of page nine ....this little piece that I’m writing right now!

You see, it’s all a bit like a jigsaw in that you never know what the very last piece is going to be.

But what I do know is that I am definitely going down the pub tonight to celebrate (oh yes).

Because what you also probably don’t realise is that The Edge has just completed it’s 13th year (issue no: 1 came out in October 1996), so it’d be mightily rude of me not to raise a glass or three, wouldn’t you say?

World Cup 2010 I’m not sure I can stand it.

I was too young to have anything to do with the 1966 World Cup, but as every 4 year period goes by, my hope (and it is always hope, rather than belief) that we’ll ever do it again diminishes.

In fact, it always feels like one’s been proper kicked in the knackers whenever England are inevitably eliminated from the latter stages.

Only at last we seem as though we’ve got a manager who knows what he’s doing, not to mention a helluva lot of players who’ll all be in their prime ....coupled with the conditions, which in South Africa at that particular time might just favour us (a bit of rain, overcast skies, et al).

Ooerr, it’s all extremely worrying.

So, do I dare to hope, all over again?

Do I dare to dream of what if’s...?

Ahhhh, who’s a pwetty doggy woggy woggy then?

He’s just shat on the duvet, but so what?

How can you be mad at this little fella, eh?

Surely you’d have to have a heart made out of steel....or stone, as that poxy song goes.

But hey, then they go and spoil it all by ‘growing up’.

And it’s exactly the same with kids.

Little puppies and babies, fine. They’re a nice, handy size and they’re all lovely and soft and new (there’s a novelty value, for sure) and squidgy and cuddly.

But when they metamorphosise into ‘dogs’ and ‘adolescents’, ooh no, f *** that.

I upset the wife’s best friends (both mums) a while back, simply because I couldn’t tolerate them going on about their kids....least not in our house....so they don’t speak to me anymore.... which I happen to think is a trifle harsh, because not once have I ever been round to their homes and rambled on and on about, say, necrofilia.

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22/09/2009

12:44

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It is against the law to drive above 50mph with a cow strapped to the bonnet.

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HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM THE EDGE!

Here Come The Boys

Look at this, ladies....The Chippendales are going back on tour.

No, not as they were then (see right)......but as they are now (see below).

Don’t they look great (as they are now, I mean)?

“We’re coming out of retirement because we’ve heard there’s some new kids on the block called Here Come The Boys who’re out to take advantage of what we were all The Chippendales, as they once were about,” says Matt Chipp (gold leotard below). “But The Chippendales are the original and the best and we feel certain that our fans will once again turn out in their thousands to throw their knickers at us.”

“Trouble is,” says Mick ‘The Midget’ Chipp (green leotard), “we’re not as young as we once were and we haven’t really had chance to get into shape for our forthcoming tour, which has all come about a ...and as they are today. little bit out of the blue as our manager seeks to exploit the stir caused by that other lot (see below), the great bunch of fairies.”

“My boys are true professionals,” says Dougie Starr (manager of The Chippendales). “You can’t bottle what they’ve got. Here Come The Boys are just a here today, gone tomorrow, piss poor imitation. What’s more, times have changed. Women aren’t the same as they used to be. They honestly don’t want good looks and washboard stomachs anymore. They find it immensely off-putting. What they want is blubber - and plenty of it - and The Chippendales 2009 will definitely not disappoint.”

Meanwhile, Glutimous Maximus of Here Come The Boys says, “The Blubber Whales are has-beens. OK, so they might appeal to women who read The Edge, but that’s about it. But normal women still like their guys vain and chiselled with not too much between the ears and plenty between the thighs, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

The Great Giant Pumpkin Race of October 31st, Hylands Park, Chelmsford.

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10:56

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It is illegal to wear a false moustache in church, by chance it causes inappropriate laughter amongst the congregation.

Swingers Club There’s been a bit of a ‘to do’ of late from some of the residents in Gloucester (and what a lovely town that is) about the proposed opening of a Swingers Club.

So readers, supposing one was to open in Chelmsford - what would we think?

The Edge honestly doesn’t know.

Swinging is surely something you’re either into, or you’re not. But just because you’re not, is that enough reason to oppose such a club?

I suspect Chelmsford’s an awful lot smaller than Gloucester, but can you imagine walking in, ordering a couple of drinks, and actually recognising someone?

Is it just The Edge, or would that be highly embarrassing?

“Is that you, Joan? Joan from the florists? And this is your husband, I presume? Well I never, I didn’t know you were into this type of thing?”

“Oh no, we’re not, we’re not. We were just passing and thought we’d pop in and have a look.”

“As did we, Joan, as did we.”

“Oh, so you’re not into the whole swinging scene either then?”

“Oh, heaven forbid, nooooo.”

What’s worse though: drunken yobs spilling out of nightclubs, swearing, fighting and pissing in shop doorways, of swingers simply...well, er... swinging?

YOUR CHEQUE’S IN THE POST

Ah, that old chestnut.

How many times have we all heard that load of old cobblers?

And how downright rude is it? An insult to our sensibilities and intelligence, right?

The Edge received a cheque at the beginning of August that was (a) a whole month late, and (b) hadn’t even been signed, which always immediately makes me dubious in a ‘Did they do that on purpose?’ kind of way.

So I popped it straight back into the post and, one month further down the line (which is surely time enough to scrawl a signature on ‘an old stiff neck’), has it been duly signed and returned to its rightful owner (me)?

Has it arseholes, which I think is truly despicable.

I wouldn’t do that to anyone, so I don’t expect anyone to do it to me.

And what about when cheques bounce - how irritating is that?

It’s all just a form of stealing. The money isn’t theirs, it’s yours - it’s what they owe you - so f *** ing well PAY UP! Still, there’s always the Small Claims Court if they don’t, which I used to place my faith in, but now simply forward all debts to my brother-in-law who’s shaped like a cube, but he’s very effective with it!

Page 11

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22/09/2009

15:11

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The awards season is upon us and a few rightful recipients are deserving of a special mention. First up, Rudgate Mild has won CAMRA's Champion Beer of Britain award. Yes, that's right; mild.

Mild, mild, mild, mild, mild, mild.

Landlords and punters alike should take note. Mild is nice beer. It's not, as was claimed in my presence the other day, “slops”. Nor is it "old man's beer". It is very simply traditional quaffing beer, and if you haven't tried it, you ought to.

Rudgate is a small brewery in Yorkshire, which will undoubtedly have its work cut out trying to keep up with demand following this prestigious award, previously won by the likes of Mordue, Fuller's, Moorhouse and Crouch Vale. The chance of you actually finding any Rudgate Mild in this area is, therefore, small. You can, however, explore the delights of mild at The White Horse, Townfield Street (Brains Dark or Thwaites Nutty Black), or in The Original Plough (various, including Harveys, Moorhouse's Black Cat and Mighty Oak Oscar Wilde).

Another regular outlet for Oscar Wilde is The Wheatsheaf in Writtle, which was recently named East Anglia Pub of the Year by CAMRA. The pub's success in the earlier stages of this competition caused some degree of controversy, particularly amongst people who think a 'specials board' is a feature of a traditional pub (it isn't). CAMRA, needless to say, have stuck to their guns and continued to promote the ongoing existence of the community beer house, in keeping with the organisation's remit.

The Wheatsheaf is a tiny, two-bar pub at the end of Writtle's main street, just along from the village green. Run for the past decade by Tony and Barbara O'Boyle, it has a basic but comfortable interior, with plenty of interesting historical artifacts adorning the walls. Aside from the mild, you will find other Mighty Oak beers, a selection from Cornish brewer Sharp's (often Sharp's Own or the superb Doom Bar Bitter) and often a local guest beer.

Food is limited to filled rolls and the usual array of packet snacks, which is entirely suitable for this kind of pub, but which caused concern amongst those who are incapable of distinguishing between a pub and a restaurant.

Fortunately, CAMRA's judges were not in such a confused state. The Wheatsheaf will now be judged against regional winners in London, the South-East and the East Midlands in order to determine a shortlist for the National Pub of the Year award.

On the subject of national awards, congratulations are due to Dave and Maggie at The Woolpack in Mildmay Road, which has just been named Cask Ale Pub of the Year by trade journal The Morning Advertiser. The Woolpack hasn't received much attention on this page before, which is odd, as over the past three or four years it has become something of a regular haunt for your correspondent. (It's not technically my 'local'; that would be the Rising Sun, which is why I go to The Woolpack!)

Dave and Maggie have been running The Woolpack for four and a half years, during which time they have generated a reputation for taking full advantage of the range of beers offered by Greene King. For the sceptical amongst you, GK's range doesn't consist merely of IPA and Abbot (which is an excellent beer in itself); it also includes the Hardy's and Hanson's brands, Morland Bitter and Speckled Hen, the Ruddles range, a variety of seasonal beers (currently Bonkers Conkers), St. Edmund's and the fantastic XX Mild. A guest beer or two is also available to GK's high-turnover pubs, which has resulted in a handful of Everards, Bateman's and Titanic beers making their presence felt at various points in the past year.

But it isn't just the beer that attracts; nor presumably is it the MA's only criterion for the award. There's a good crowd of regulars here, and the pub is home to both pool and crib teams alike. Tuesday night sees the incredibly popular general knowledge quiz (usual attendance is somewhere in excess of fifty, but has been in the eighties), which has been joined by an entertainment quiz on Sunday evenings. Alternate Sunday afternoons are set aside for informal folk music sessions (players and spectators are welcome) and the last Sunday of the month is open-mike night. There's also a comprehensive menu (although not available on Saturdays) featuring an ever-changing selection of speciality sausages, which draws an appropriate audience without changing the character of the pub, plus a sizeable beer festival twice-a-year.

All in all, an extremely well-deserved win. Go and see what all the fuss is about, why don’t you?

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You can be fined for saying “Book ’em, Danno” in certain parts of Huddersfield.

Kingpin visits

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CHRISTMAS

The Blue Bridge in Writtle

LUNCH MENU now available!

One of Chelmsford’s best loved and longest established theme restaurants. A lively American Diner, promising good food and good times! With an array of American favourite dishes!

After Posh and Becks ruined my last visit to The Blue Bridge with their incessant arguing about peas (see August Edge), I decided to visit the place once again in more convivial company, and sample the food and the ambience without having to dodge around all the paparazzi.

50%

Situated in Writtle, on the site of the old Cock & Bell pub, The Blue Bridge is an extremely well appointed building. Modern, without being overly pretentious; spacious, yet retaining a sense of intimacy, due in no small part to the way the main dining area is separated into different sections.

OFF

YOU R FOO TOT AL D WITH B THIS ILL A

Upon entering, the very first thing you notice are the staff, and I must say, the good folks at The Blue Bridge are excellent. They made us feel incredibly well looked after and were attentive without being intrusive. They even managed to keep up with ‘Jimmy the Cuckoo’ (his nickname’s a long story, so I won’t go into it right now) ordering a bottle of wine every 15 minutes.

DVE

RT

Then there’s the food, and on that particular score, for me personally, I felt it was a bit ‘hit and miss’. While it was undoubtedly of a very high quality and superbly presented and prepared, I unfortunately experienced that ‘Goldilocks sensation’ where something simply isn't quite right (for my own particular tastes, I might add).

I plumped for the wild boar platter and, while it tasted truly fantastic, it wasn't what I would call a ‘platter’. If someone serves me a platter, I expect my plate to be groaning under the weight of all the dead animal they've piled upon it. Furthermore, I want it topped off with a pigs head and an apple stuck inside its mouth.

Instead, I got a rectangular plate with a few small portions of swine-flesh, artfully arranged and carefully spaced along the ceramic surface. I think it's this aspect that put me off the most, although I'm willing to admit that that’s possibly more to do with me than a reflection of the restaurant concerned.

Being a bit of a ‘spit and sawdust’ type of chap (and a budding fat bastard too, if truth be told), it was all a bit nouvelle cuisine for my liking. Having said that, I'm certainly not saying I’m the sort who deep down really wants sausage, egg and chips, because I’m not. It’s just that I’m stout of stature and a proper red-blooded lumberjack sort-of-a-bloke who needs to have a good sized portion put in front of him.

Arrange it as artfully as you like. Put a sparkler in it by all means, for all I care. Just make damn sure that there's plenty of it after I’ve done a hard day’s graft chopping down trees and/or fighting crime (dependent upon what guise I’ve been in on that particular day).

Such slight discrepancies about the food aside, I really couldn't fault the ambience provided by an excellent pianist and jazz singer, and I think a bit of live music is something that far more restaurants should go for, as it really does help make for a fantastic evening’s entertainment.

That said, The Blue Bridge certainly isn't the cheapest place in the world (or, indeed, Chelmsford), although I actually think that’s in its favour as it helps keep away the riff-raff. But for that which I received, ‘and may the Lord make me truly thankful’, I did feel it was a tad on the steep side.

So then, you readers are no doubt thinking that it’s a thumbs-down from me so far as The Blue Bridge is concerned, aren’t you just? You’re reckoning that this is not an overly positive review. But you’d be wrong. You see, the thing of it is, I would definitely recommend The Blue Bridge....only I’d recommend it to people who I know it would ‘click’ with, and that’s surely the whole point (horses for courses, and all that).

It’s just that personally, I don’t happen to think that The Blue Bridge and I are made for each other, that’s all. Where’s the crime in that?

Perhaps next time I go - and I will go back - maybe I'll order myself two wild boar platters and see how I feel about the place then!

Kingpin can only call it as he sees it, readers, and that’s a fact.

E.E.

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It is an offense to try and pawn someone else’s artificial limb, Heather.

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extÄÄç età{xÜ XÅ The Glamour Girl Who Cried Wolf I seem often to use this column to come out, writes Emily Breen. Nevertheless, I have another confession to make; I am fascinated by Jordan. Absolutely fascinated. When The Edge hits its stands this month, I am sure there will already have been revelations aplenty to top those I am currently recoiling from. But still, here's where we stand: Katie 'Jordan' Price has been raped "more than once". She came out to share these revelations in her (paid) OK column not because some of her many (Asda shopping) fans may be victims of sexual aggression, but because her Mr Potato Head boyfriend had the temerity to be in a cheap gangster movie shortly before they met, in which he may or may not have glamourised rape and sexual violence.

Her alleged rapist was a major celebrity.

Quite what Ms Price classifies as major celeb status has yet to be specified, but still, Rape Allegation + Celeb = OK front page.

Many moons ago, I wrote a column in defence of Jodie Marsh in these very pages. Within a year of that, I was having lengthy debates with friends about the validity of Jordan's presence in the media marketplace. I rather pride myself on my empathy for these Z list creatures, but you cannot defend the indefensible.

Yesterday, Ms Price, her voice still hoarse from crying wolf, telephoned daytime debate show The Wright Stuff to protest against her inclusion in a conversation about 'celeb' rape allegations. The call was received while the ink was still wet on the cheque for her "it was a star wot raped me" OK cover. Was I not 100% hooked before, she certainly had me now.

she hooked up with Pete, Can went into action. The family friendly Price you know and disregard is a product of their hard work. Cruelly, when Andre walked out, he stole the PR team away. Had he merely taken the children, she would have sufficient fuel for a year of tabloid pain with fewer pesky nannies and brats cluttering up her pikey palace. Instead, he packed up and left with her 'nice Mummy' ball gag…and now look what's happened.

Ever since the split with emotionally incontinent pop simpleton Peter Andre, I have been intrigued to see what Katie Price would do next. I had always assumed that the Mysterious Girl singer was an utter pussy, yet in fact, he had the balls to deliver a coup de grace from which his wife will never recover. He took his PR firm with him.

I am not sure what it was that finally pushed Katie Price over the edge. Her borderline personality disorder; characterised by the flat affect in everything she says and does, has been evident for years. Certainly she has made an art of the red-top 'reveal'. Lately though, the leaky tap has become a tabloid tsunami a destructive and unstoppable force bent on (self) destruction. Her new PR team, Outside, represented Paul McCartney in his discreet, amicable split. One must assume that either they are brilliant in an indiscernible dog whistle kind of way we have yet to fully understand, or that they simply cannot withstand the whack of the Jordan super wave.

Peter Andre has been represented by Can Associates for the larger part of his career (you might know them best as the reason you associate Jordan with anything other than boob jobs and blowjobs). As soon as

What happened? Did she crack after Jade gained the lead by telling the truth about her terminal cancer? Ms Goody did have the cheek to die at approximately the time she said she would, garnering not one,

but two glossy tributes in Price's 'home' territory. Did Andre dare to grow a pair and act on his numerous threats to leave if she insisted upon behaving like a dirty skank?

Or is it simply that she is free of her shackles and making up for lost time? The media conceit of her alter ego Jordan was a clever trick Can Associates played, but the cold hard truth of Katie Price is a brittle stick of candy pink Brighton rock with chav scum running right through its core.

Cheap, nasty and irresistible - it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.

This time next week, I will be at a screening of The Invention of Lying, a movie in which Ricky Gervais realises he can rule a world of truth with the power of a fib. Katie 'Jordan' Price has gone one step further.

She has realised the power of taboo, for who would dare to challenge the word of an ex-glamour model who has found time, in her three decades on earth, to be kiddie fiddled, flashed, naked, famous, drugged, raped, married, depressed, drunken and divorced? Form an orderly queue behind me, folks….

Since the death of Diana, there has been an opening for a new Queen of Hearts.

Perhaps Price, in her Ed Hardy separates, could be a contender? A Princess for the pikies, a diamante Duchess. Goodbye England's Rose, hello England's plastic Gerbera.

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Pedestrians are not allowed to walk across a zebra crossing whilst dressed as a pantomime horse.

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Retirement for Ray

Look Who Popped Back Into Town!

How can this man be put out to seed (as opposed to stud)?

Just look at him, readers. Check out the Clooneyesque locks and movie-star good looks. Why, he’s almost in the prime of his life.

But no, for at the tender age of 65 years young, Raymond Leese is seemingly fit for nothing more than the Knackers Yard.

The Edge doesn’t know exactly how long it’s known Ray, but regular as clockwork, once-a-month, I’d get the call with the sound of heavy machinery in the background and it’d be Ray saying, “Your Edge’s are ready, mate!”

Although dwelling in Wickford, Ray’s worked at The Printing Place, on Chelmsford’s Widford Industrial Estate, for the past 13 years. A descendent of South East London, he spent the first 5 years of his working life in the Merchant Navy.

“During my retirement, I hope to do some fishing,” says Raymond. “I will hopefully do some casual print work, just to keep my hand in, but primarily, I hope to do some fishing. I do enjoy a pint or two, but I hope to do some fishing. If all else fails, I hope to do some fishing.”

Speaking of ‘keeping his hand in’, you can tell that Ray’s a cheeky so-and-so who’s always had a bit of an eye for the ladies, and it didn’t seem to matter how young they were either. There used to be a lovely little lass at The Printing Place called Sarah who’d regularly go home with Ray’s inky paw prints all over her bottom, yet not once did he ever have to face a disciplinary tribunal.

Y’see readers, some people have got it, and some people haven’t.

It won’t be the same without you, lad.

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Tom’s cat Stella reading The Edge!

Plastic is one of the most used materials in everyday life that we all take for granted.

I recently did a talk to a group about plastic and it got me thinking how much we really do rely on a material that is used every second of every day, writes Steve Collins, Recycling Promotions Team Leader of Chelmsford Borough Council.

It is suggested that some 35% of the 13.1billion plastic bottles used in the UK now end up being recycled. Great news as this is, much more still needs to be done.

All plastics can be recycled. However, the extent to which they are recycled depends upon both economic and logistical factors. As a valuable and finite resource, the optimum use for most plastic, after its first use, is to be recycled, preferably into a product that can be recycled again.

As mentioned, the UK uses over 13.1 billion tonnes of plastic bottles every year. Some say, “That's not a lot of plastic bottles, so why worry?” But just think about the weight of a two litre fizzy drinks bottle (approx 55grams). Now work out how many bottles that is (let me help you, it’s 235,800,000,000) which is an awful lot of bottles. Of which a quarter will be recycled by 2010, which is 58,950,000,000. So maybe now you’re thinking what I’m thinking, i.e. where do the other 176,850,000,000 go?

Some one asked me recently how long it will take for plastic to biodegrade, so I went in search of the answer, but then realised that no-one can be certain as plastic has not been around long enough to find out. However, some scientists say hundreds of years, yet we are having problems with it already, so just imagine what 500 hundred years of plastic landfill will be like.

Plastic in our oceans is responsible for the deaths of millions of sea animals. Plastic bottles floating on the surface of our oceans can look like food to larger sea life, often with fatal consequences. In addition, fish, sea birds, and other ocean creatures often get caught in plastic rings that strangle them, or constrict their throats so that they cannot swallow. If you happen to walk along any Essex coastline you will see many types of plastic and it is a truly shocking sight.

Recycled plastic is found in many unexpected places, including carpeting, the ‘fuzz’ on tennis balls, scouring pads, paintbrushes, clothing, industrial strapping, shower stalls, drainpipes, flowerpots, lumber etc. It also contains oils that could be recycled and reused as fossil fuels.

But the bottom line of why we should recycle plastic is this: recycling plastic is a very good idea.

It's good for the environment, good for energy saving, good for the health of wildlife and humans alike. So next time you buy a bottle of fizzy drink or water, don't just throw it in the waste bin.

Recycle it and do one small favour for the environment.

For more information go to www.chelmsford.gov.uk/recycle or recycling@chelmsford.gov.uk

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In order for a pickle to be officially classified as a pickle, it has to bounce.

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‘CHUGGERS’

‘Chuggers’, or charity muggers, is the name given to the street fundraisers that try to get people to sign up to various charities.

Tottenham Court Road, close to where I work, is besieged with them. Every day there seems to be a different set of people representing a different charity out in force, wearing their brightly coloured coats, weighed down with clipboards and armfuls of literature. "Fair enough!" I hear you cry. "Lay off the decent charity people; they're doing a damn fine job." And I would agree with you....to a point.

But what I really object to are their tactics in trying to get money out of you.

Cheryl Let's suppose, for the sake of argument, that it's a Tuesday and therefore NSPCC day for the ‘Chuggers’. Why is it necessary to post a person every 100 metres down a stretch of Tottenham Court Road? It means that you can't walk for longer than a few brief moments before you're batting them off again. And if you've already told the past four of them, “Not today, thank you very much!”, then why would you want to stop and empty your pockets to the fifth one? I've had to resort to either being on the ’phone or pretending to be on the ’phone as I walk the gauntlet to simply buy my lunch, just to get a bit of peace.

This brings me onto my next point the way in which ‘Chuggers’ try to stop you in your tracks. I suppose they must be getting very desperate in their attempts to weasel you away from competing charities, but really, I've heard better opening lines in Dukes nightclub way back in the eighties. Such as, "You've got a lovely smile/eyes/ bum." Or "How are you today? Can I help you carry your bags?" No, you most certainly can not. Piss off. If they wanted to get to the point and talk about their charity, I might have a bit more respect.

Depending on where you live and where you work, doubtless your own personal experiences of ‘Chuggers’ will affect your feelings about the subject. If, like me, you work in the capital (other hotspots

include Oxford Street, Regent Street and, apparently, Tooting Broadway), you may well understand my irritation. Chelmsford, however, doesn't seem to suffer in the same way (yet). Come to think of it, the nearest I've come to being accosted locally is by people conducting market research. For some reason they always seem to be lurking outside Barclays Bank (has anyone else noticed this?). Just two days ago, I was approached by a lovely looking old lady who politely asked me if I liked liquorice and could I answer a few questions? Forgetting I wasn't in London and in my usual defence against ‘Chuggers’ mode, I immediately gave her an evil stare which not only sent Norton the poor woman scuttling off, but had her apologising profusely for disturbing me. Damn it, and I like liquorice too!

I haven't always been such a cold hearted bitch though, but I'm sure my intolerance levels have increased, just as the number of ‘Chuggers’ have multiplied. Nine years ago, I remember I'd just returned from travelling. I was skint and looking for a job. I'd also felt unable to say ‘no’ to a charity worker who had approached me in Oxford Street. Despite my protests of being broke, I found myself signing a monthly direct debit agreement for the charity Shelter.

Similarly, two years prior to this, I'd got myself into a conversation with a Jehovah Witness who I felt a bit sorry for. I then spent the following two weeks hiding down the side of the bed whenever they knocked on the door trying to recruit me into their circle and save my soul.

So either I was much weaker back then, or maybe times are now harder. Perhaps because we're in a recession the ‘Chuggers’ feel they have to resort to ever stronger tactics, building up from one poor sod on a street corner to having a complete army out in force, using such ridiculous opening lines. I just wish they would give my particular part of London a break and try somewhere else.

Just not Chelmsford!

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Old people can be a proper pain in the arse sometimes.

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For more details about these old codgers, page 29!

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PANDEMONIUM!

Magicians often get confused as Mexicans.

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Ant

!

The back of the queue stretched right around the corner to almost Pizza Express!

This was the scene outside LANCE JAMES the JEWELLERS at opening time on Tuesday 1st September. The first 100 lucky customers who had each collected their Edge vouchers from the June, July, August and September editions stood in line to collect their FREE Pandora bracelets.

“I told you!” said Antony....and he had predicted this,as well.

I

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Nathan is recently back from New York assisting on several photographic shoots, including styling Rhianna's hair for the front cover of Italian Vogue. Zoe and Nathan are now working hard with their team on new collections for Autumn/Winter before embarking on Fashion Shows for Spring/Summer 2010.

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Most fish have a massive set of balls.

What Edge ‘Colonists’ Get Up To when they’re NOT bashing out their columns!

"People don't realise what a hard job this wordsmithery lark really is,” says The Kingmeister (see his column on page 34 this month, readers).

“Deadlines loom like the sword of Damocles, and the unrelenting pressure to be consistently erudite, articulate and all-round awesome can really take its toll.

“Fortunately, every now and then, The Edge Ed. stops cracking his whip for just about long enough for some of us to get a little R&R, so I recently spent a couple of weeks relaxing against the stunning backdrop of the River Nile (and what a stud-muffin I am too).

“What’s more, a constant stream of attentive waiters were always on hand to keep me lubricated with cold beer, while just out of shot, I had a bucket of stones to throw at any local children that dared wander past.

“It really was beautiful over there though, with Snowy Egrets strutting primly through the reeds along the riverbank, whilst at sundown, there was the haunting sounds of the Imams calling the faithful to prayer that always drifted over from the west bank, as the sky turned a deep shade of red.

“Yep, the life of a wordsmith is hard, damned hard, if truth be told.... although it does have its compensations every now and then!"

Now get your next colon bashed out, you frickin’ lazy blighter.

E.E.

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It is illegal to have a baby and some fresh sweetcorn in the very same perambulator.

SWANAGE FOLK FESTIVAL Saturday & Sunday 12th & 13th September 2009

H’Hey, check out these babies, readers! They are an amazing tribal dance troupe called The Barefoot Belly Dancers from Staffordshire (I think), set up in 1999 by dance teacher Steffi Colbert, and The Edge bumped into them at the annual Folk Festival on Swanage seafront the other weekend (by all accounts when it was also dull and lifeless in Chelmsford) and I have to report that they are absolutely superb. The ladies are available to participate in street events, music festivals, corporate events, weddings, private parties etc. and can be booked via emailing barefootsteffi@hotmail.com (And for those of you who’re curious to know more, simply log onto www.barefootbellydance.co.uk)

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No good ever came from washing a poodle in a tin bath full of banana milkshake.

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EDGE REACHES MACHU PICCHU! I’d wanted to do a 'challenge' for several years, but like most people, I’d somehow never found the time for getting round to it, writes Edge reader Carl Davis....and what an absolutely cracking photograph this truly is, Carl. Many, many thanks for it. E.E. But I finally got my act together and booked up the MND (Motor Neurone Disease) Challenge Trek to walk the Inca Trail along the Andes to Machu Picchu, the famous lost city of the Inca's. It included some very different terrain from the high desert plateau to sub tropical rain forest.

Thirty-five people had signed up to it and we all met at Heathrow Airport for a flight to Madrid, followed by a 13 hour flight to Lima, Peru. From there, we took an internal flight to Cusco, where we had to undergo three days of acclimatisation to help combat altitude sickness.

The trek itself began at Piscacucho.

Each trekking day started at around 4.30am.

Our 'team' were ably supported by about 60 porters who carried our supplies and camping equipment etc. We were also accompanied by a doctor and three guides, but we were expected to carry the balance of our equipment ourselves.....which is precisely when you appreciate how heavy drinking water is (try 3 litres for 9 hours).

Not to mention an extremely ‘weighty’ copy of The Edge!

We trekked to a height of about 4,300 meters, the highest point being 'Dead Woman's Pass'.

The terrain is extremely steep with severe drops to the side should you decide to stumble (how very comforting). With the lack of oxygen at that height, even the slightest effort is difficult. However, we manfully overcame such hindrances and boldly trekked on.

Camping was extremely basic and the toilets - sorry, holes in the ground was something that should be experienced by all at some point in their lives. Day times were warm/hot whilst during the night it was sub-zero.

However, the views were totally beyond description and photographs simply fail to do Machu Piccu justice. It is literally something that simply has to be seen and experienced in person to be fully appreciated.

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Available Monday 30th November - Wednesday 23rd December Playing everything from Dance & Club Classics, Pop & Cheese, RnB plus all the latest chart sounds.

During the month of December, the Basement Club Bar will be open from 12-noon. Office/Christmas parties welcome.

A great, intimate venue for pre-lunch/pre-dinner drinks.

Our ‘group’ raised circa. £150,000 for the MND charity to try and find both a cause and a cure for this most hideous disease.

If any of my co-Edge readers out there would like to donate any amount to this most worthwhile cause, please contact carldavis-mnd@hotmail.com How about this for a photo, eh, readers? I was honestly gobsmacked when I received it. And to think my lil old Edge has gotten to Machu Picchu before me!

Speaking of which, anyone who’s got this trek down on their list of ‘Things To Do’ (like me) seriously needs to get their fingers out, because Carl reckons the Peruvian Government are putting a ban on it in about another 18 months, due to the wear’n’tear of all that footfall.

Contact your travel agents now!

email: reservations@onthesquarerestaurant.co.uk web: www.onthesquarerestaurant.co.uk 01245 505880

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YOUR letters

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&

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By and large, toasted teacakes are not as popular as they used to be.

What an excellent letter in favour of good old Yorkshire Tea, Mrs. Garty. And now, sadly, I’d best brace myself for t’other side of t’coin...

Hold Tight, Please

Dear Edge, She seems like she’s got a firm grip!

Regards, Manners.

e-m@ils

to theedge! ***

CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Yorkshire Tea

Hi Shaun, Having just read your article on Yorkshire Tea in the September Edge, I wanted to tell you that there really is no better tea - PG Tips tastes of perfume, Tetleys like wee (not that I have ever tasted any wee, you understand).

My dear old Nan used to swear by Yorkshire Tea and always drank it, as do I. In fact, I cannot drink any other and sadly carry bags around with me and rudely offer them to whomever I visit as no other tea will (ever) do.

Sainsburys used to sell boxes of extra strong Yorkshire Tea, but unfortunately not anymore, so it’s 2 teabags, 3 sugars and full-fat milk for me every time. Ahhhh!

Have you ever had a cuppa with a slice of Yorkshire Tea Loaf? That is just heaven, I tell you. My dear old Nan (once again) used to send me regular parcels that contained Yorkshire Tea and a Yorkshire Tea Loaf - and, curiously, always a box of American (tan) tights in size XXL which used to come up to just beneath my armpits and at least four inches past the end of my toes.

I never did discover why she sent me the tights though, bless her (maybe it was something to do with ‘the war’?).

So there you go. All Hail Yorkshire Tea. People simply don’t know what they’re missing.

(Mrs.) Jo Garty.

Yorkshire Pudding

Shun, Us southerners don’t like Yorkshire Tea because it’s shite.

It’s like Yorkshire Pudding is to fine dining, you bloody great puddin’.

Chris Yardley.

Just to clear the ‘Shun’ bit up for starters, readers, southern bloke Yardbrush has always called me ‘Shun’ for no real reason that I’ve ever been aware of.

Yardbrush laid the patio at ‘Edge Towers’, what, it must be a good 10-12 years ago, mustn’t it, lad?

And it still hasn’t fallen apart!

However, tha’ clearly knows nowt about tea, y’soft southern shite.

In fact, if you had your way, you’d probably rebrand it Yorkshite Tea, wouldn’t thee?

Indiana Kingpin

Hey up, Captain!

Whilst exploring the Temple of Queen Hapshetsut in Egypt recently, yours truly was shocked to discover a 3,000 year old back issue of The Edge in her tomb.

It was still a right riveting read though, even way back then.

All the best, The Kingmeister.

Never mind about the old mag, lad. What’s that ‘thing’ dangling by your side? Why, it’s a manbag, you bloody great metrosexual tart. Unless, of course, you’ve got a pick-axe in there, and maybe some mountaineering rope, like what the real Indiana would have had? But if not and all you’re carrying is a bit of lippy and a packet of tampets, well then, your days in the mag might be numbered. (Discrimination my arse!)

Oh Manners, have you been getting up to no good again with that toy camera on your mobile ’phone, tut-tut? (Psst, keep up the good work, fella!)

Recycling

Dear Editor, Can we have a similar system in Chelmsford that is operating elsewhere?

That is, in order to encourage recycling in the Borough, the council gives rebates on council taxes to all households that recycle waste.

Whether it be across the board or by chip and pin on individual waste bins, they can decide.

After all, I suppose someone somewhere is getting paid for recycled material, so why not the householders?

Your faithfully, Bob Miller, Springfield Green.

Stephen Collins of Chelmsford Borough Council’s Recycling Promotion Team responds: With regards to 'can we have a similar system in Chelmsford that is operating elsewhere’ - unfortunately, we are not able offer a similar system to the residents of Chelmsford at this time.

The main reason for this is that in Chelmsford, we offer a kerbside collection of separate materials (i.e. paper, card, plastic, glass and cans). This system is called ‘source separation’ and it offers several advantages. This collection method results in less contamination of recyclables and therefore offers a higher percentage of recycled items. Stillage vehicles used for kerbside separation have a lower fuel use than compactor vehicles used for commingled systems.

There would also be nowhere to weigh the material as it was collected from the kerbside as that is a separate matter and handled in a different way to commingled (and by not weighing, we could not reward residents with a system similar to a Recycle Bank).

As regards the other system that is being trailed, the preferred collection method is commingled collection. This is where all items are put into a single bin and then emptied into a compaction vehicle. There are disadvantages to this system, one being the risk of contamination, making it unsuitable to commingle some materials (for example, glass should not be mixed with textiles or paper). Compaction can also make it impossible to recycle certain materials, particularly aluminium, plastic and glass. The trend in recyclate markets is likely to be towards requiring higher quality materials (separate).

Increased energy prices are likely to result in increased prices for recycled materials, particularly those with high embodied energy e.g. aluminium, steel, glass, paper, plastic, which will shift the balance towards separate collection to maintain quality.

However, we do encourage residents to recycle throughout the borough and promote the three R's (Reduce, Reuse, Recycle).

Recycling reduces the need for extraction and processing of new resources, therefore saving fossil-fuel energy and avoiding climatic impacts of alternative waste treatment systems. These include the release of fossil-fuel derived carbon dioxide (CO2) from incineration and the release of methane, a much stronger climate change gas, from landfill.

For more information visit: www.chelmsford.gov.uk/recycling

Manbags

Hey oop there!

Thanks for yet another right good edition of T'Edge....except for one article. I was going to suggest an addition to Tracie's list: You Might Be Metrosexual IF you don't carry a club and spear and go around grunting, although far better if I just said, “PACK IN THE SEXIST REMARKS. Right?”

It really does seem like some people haven't made it out of the Stone Age in their attitudes.

Matt, Rettendon. ’Ey, calm down, calm down, Matt (let’s hope my Scouser impersonation isn’t as bad as your ‘northern’ one). Tut-tut, a bloke complaining about sexist remarks made in The Edge...now there’s a first! But hey, it’s all just a gentle bit of rib tickling is all, sir. You need to roll with it, know what The Edge is saying? No good getting all uptight about it as it’ll seem as though you’re ‘due on’, bloke.

And Finally

Dear Edge, What’s it all about, eh?

Regards, Dave Rollings.

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Pawns are the dumbest piece on the chessboard.

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Knight Meats Ltd. Knight Meats are local suppliers of high quality meat, poultry, game and delicatessen products to the trade. Years of experience, together with well trained, highly motivated staff working in an excellent environment means that you get exactly what you want: consistency.....time after time after time.

Shooting Stars is like Marmite

When The Edge heard they were bringing back Shooting Stars, it felt a sense of trepidation deep within its bowels.

Well, you do, don’t you....if you really liked something in the past and there’s a chance it’s going to make a complete arse of itself by making a comeback in a sixth series.

Fear not, Edge bloke, says a deep Godlike voice in the sky, for new show no. 1 had me in stitches. Only I thought, to be fair, I’d better watch helping no. 2 before writing anything in the mag about the comedic genius that is Vic & Bob (well, just Vic really, in The Edge’s eyes), just to make sure the previous weeks helping hadn’t been a one-off.

It wasn’t.

I’ve always been a bit annoyed with myself for not being in at the start of it all, when Vic Reeves’ Big Night Out was first broadcast a couple of decades ago. Jonathan Ross (who The Edge likes as well, no matter what anyone says about him) originally signed the duo to his production company - not a lot of people know that. “It was like watching (Big Night Out) something being beamed in from a parallel universe,” says Wossy.

Personally speaking, I have Vic to thank for the chat-up line I used with great success on my wife after I’d only just met her in Corks Wine Bar almost 15 years ago. I fixed her with a steely gaze and said most accusatoraly, “Are you looking at my bra?” (Who can ever forget the aggressive, donkey-jacketed Pat Wright and Dave Arrowsmith characters, who used to take on all comers for seemingly looking at their bras?)

Thing is, many of you won’t like Vic & Bob. You won’t ‘get’ them. Indeed, you’ll probably think there’s nothing much to ‘get’ at all, and to The Edge’s mind, that’s exactly how it should be.

But ‘get’ this: in a 2005 poll by their peers (and comedy insiders), Vic & Bob were voted as one of the Top 10 acts ever.

Nuff said.

Vic says, “Comedy should be natural, not learnt or polished. It would be awful to be slick. I’ve never been a fan of consummate skill.

“We’ve done many a live show and completely bombed. We were on the same bill as Harry Enfield once, and he was doing his Smashy & Nicey thing, which, strange as it may seem now, actually went down like a lead balloon. When he came off stage, he smashed his dressing room up. Me and Bob bombed too, but we just had a bit of a laugh about it.” (Your editor actually went to see Vic & Bob live in Ipswich once, and was so disappointed that he walked out during the interval - I did, tha’knows - only it never put me off.)

Basically, Shooting Stars is plain daft. It’s pretty much a piss-take/parody of the stereotypical game show format and I absolutely love it. For half-an-hour on a Wednesday evening (BBC2, 10pm), real life can go f *** itself.

“I don’t see why we continually need new series the likes of Armstrong & Miller or Mitchell & Webb,” says Mortimer.

Here bloody here.

“And Twitter,” says Reeves, completely out of the blue, “is a total waste of time. I’d rather shout at people in the street and tell them what I’m doing “I’m going into the newsagents to buy a scratchcard!””

What’s also interesting (according to The Edge’s most limited research) is that they don’t look upon drummer Matt (George Dawes) Lucas’s massive mainstream success with Little Britain and think: ‘That should have been us’ (Vic & Bob gave the bald little fatty his ‘big break’).

“We don’t really have it in us to do the commercial thing,” says Vic. Hallelujah.

But what about Angelos Epithemiou, eh, readers? You know, the award winning burger van owner on Ulrika-ka-ka-ka’s team (aka comedian Dan Skinner, stood behind Vic in the photograph at the top of this page)?

The Edge thinks he’s a top bloke.

Definitely one to watch out for.

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Disliking Abba can land you in the clink for anything up to 18 months.

Page 27

“They’ll carry me out of here!” says Mike. the name up at the front of the building minus ers, what she means is that they gave it a two letter E’s when we took it over. We found P.D.O. (proper damn overhaul)!

“All of the cooking apparatus was removed and deep cleaned via jet washing,” says Tina, “because I certainly wasn’t going to be preparing any food on the equipment as it stood, that’s for sure. But now we’ve got a spotless, fully functioning kitchen that’s much bigger than the one we used to have at The Riverside, so that’s a bonus.”

“We obviously had to deep-clean all the carpets too,” says Mike, “whilst we’ve treated all the wood and completely repainted the place throughout.”

When I was there, in the middle of September, things were happening at a pace and it was so good to see as The Two Brewers has been in decline ever since Steve and Sarah left around five years ago (now installed at The Oddfellows Arms up the road).

Tina & Mike have taken over The Two Brewers in Springfield “We’ve also introduced some Road and it’s their pub.....they’re not just managers! sofas to soften the place,” says Tina, “and I love it. This pub’s got a really cosy them in an old plant pot!” feel about it and I’m sure we’ll be very happy “We’re going to get this right,” says Tina, and here. It just needed a little TLC is all.” you believe her too. “One of our biggest regrets Meanwhile, Mike interjects, “They’ll have to at The Riverside Inn was that our hands were carry me out of here!” and receives a rather firm tied as regards the pricing structure, which we slap from his wife for his troubles. “Seriously, thought was too expensive in certain instances. this is it for us. After that, our boys, Dan, Marc But now that we’re in a position to do something and Ben, will probably take over, so it’s a real family affair. There’ll be no more chopping and changing over the running of this pub for many years to come, and that’s a fact.”

Now that’s what The Edge likes - a bit of commitment - for it fondly remembers The Two Brewers of 20 years ago when it was definitely one of the places to be in town.

“Tina and I didn’t have to do this all over again,” continues Mike. “We could have just retired, but we’re almost certain we would have become bored all too quickly. Surely you have to have a certain amount of stress in your life, otherwise what reason is there to get up in a morning?

Many people retire, only to suddenly find that they haven’t got anything left to live for.”

The plant pots receive some much needed The Two Brewers is also a genuine pub for ‘new life’! adults. “The minimum age requirement is 21,” says Tina, “and we’re after mature, responsible about that, we definitely will.” twenty one years olds, which is why we took the And The Edge has saved the best bit ’til last. decision to remove all of the TV screens that “A pub isn’t about bricks and mortar,” says Mike. were in here. This town’s got enough pubs “It’s about the people running the pub and the people who come in. Big breweries don’t seem catering for the 18-25 year old market. The Two to be able to grasp that these days. It’s a very Brewers isn’t one of them.” personal relationship.”

So what’s on offer?

Every town deserves a Tina and Mike and “I’m starting up my Sunday Chelmsford should consider itself pretty lucky. carvery again, that’s for certain!” says a gleeful Tina. “I couldn’t believe it when Youngs wouldn’t let us offer it at The Riverside anymore. Why on earth not? So the Sunday carvery will be making a welcome return at £8.95 or £12.95 for two courses.”

The Two Brewers will also be serving traditional pub food throughout the week from midday to 3:00pm and 6pm-9pm, all Springfield Road, Chelmsford. day on Saturdays and from midday to 6:00pm on Sundays.

Telephone “This pub needed us,” says Mike Doing things properly...a whole army of people got ‘stuck in’ emphatically. “It was sad to see 01245 268801/261185 to help refurbish the all new Two Brewers!

What defines Chelmsford, writes The Edge Editor?

What makes it the kind of place that it is?

OK, so we’ve got the Army & Navy flyover, but that’s hardly anything to brag about, is it?

And sure, Essex play their home county cricket matches opposite a multi-story car-park that’d look far more at home situated opposite the offices of Wernham & Hogg paper merchants in Slough, so no change there then.

I suppose we do co-host the V-fest.....but then a helluva lot of that’s for ‘outsiders’, isn’t it?

Where The Edge is coming from is, a town is really all about the people who inhabit it and contribute towards it, for better or for worse. And on the positive side of matters, when it comes to helping give Chelmsford a pulse, Tina and Mike Collins are genuinely right up there, because they’re so very committed to what they do.

And what do they do?

Why, they run a pub and successfully ran The Riverside Inn in Victoria Road for 10 years, up until the end of April 2009, without so much as a ‘thank you’ from Youngs when they left.

“That wouldn’t have happened if old John Young had still been alive and kicking,” says a reflective Mike, “but times change, and sometimes not necessarily for the better.”

So this couple, who used to run The Windmill and The Coach & Horses in Mayfair, and The Three Lords in The Minories in The City, took an extremely well deserved four months out for some very much needed R&R, including a family holiday in The Algarve, before hearing that The Two Brewers was up for grabs.

“Mike and I used to wander into town to do some shopping, or to have a spot of lunch, and there’d always be some of our old Riverside customers stopping us in our tracks and asking what we were doing next?” says Tina.

“When The Brewers came up,” adds Mike, “the sheer goodwill of our old customers made us go for it, without a shadow of a doubt.”

See readers, this is exactly what The Edge is on about.

“People matter!” is what Peter Postlethwaite so rightly said in the movie ‘Brassed Off’ when they were closing the pits down oop north, and he’s right, they do. People’s what life’s all about, and in The Edge’s view, this town is lucky to have Tina and Mike, because they’re committed, dedicated, and like to do things properly.

“The first thing that needed to be done was to close the place down and sort it out,” says Tina.

“In short, we cleaned it ...oh how we cleaned it...and got all of the things that weren’t working working again.”

Ahem. When Tina says they ‘cleaned it’, read-

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In Bolivia, you can be shot for wiping your car windscreen with a pair of women’s panties.

ONLY JOKING!

beckoned the exceptionally attractive female bartender over to him.

She smoothly glided along behind the bar until

Barred From B&Q

I just got barred from B&Q. Some twat in an orange apron came up to me and asked me if I wanted decking. Luckily I got the first punch in, and it was a beaut.

Leg or Breast?

When Paddy was asked whether he was a leg man or a breast man, he actually confided that he had a particular fondness for shaven havens.

He was then firmly, yet politely, informed that this wasn't an option when choosing a KFC ‘Bargain Bucket’.

Cunning Stunt

Take Two Priests

Two priests decided to go to Hawaii on vacation and were determined to make it a real vacation by not wearing anything that would identify them as clergy.

As soon as they landed, they headed for a store and bought some really outrageous shorts, Tshirts, sandals, sunglasses etc.

Next morning they went to the beach dressed in their ‘tourist garb’. They were sitting on beach chairs, enjoying a drink, the sunshine, and the scenery, when a 'drop dead gorgeous' blonde in a topless bikini came walking straight towards them.

Well, priests or no priests, they couldn't help but stare.

As the blonde passed them by, she smiled and said, “Good morning, Father. Good morning, Father,” nodding and addressing each of them individually.

The priests were stunned.

How in the world could she possibly know they were priests?

So next day, they went back to the store and bought some even more outrageous outfits that were so loud you could almost hear them before you saw them. And, once again, in their brand new attire, they settled down in their sunchairs to enjoy the sunshine.

Presently, the same gorgeous blonde, wearing a different coloured topless bikini, taking her sweet time, came walking toward them. And, once again, she nodded at each of them and said, “Good morning, Father. Good morning, Father.”

The priests could stand it no longer.

“Just a minute, young lady,” they called after her.

“Yes, Father?” she innocently replied, looking seductively over her shoulder.

“Yes, we are priests, and proud of it,” they said, “but I have to know how in the world you know that we are priests, dressed as we are?”

“Why Father,” said the luscious blonde, “it's me....

Sister Kathleen.”

Crusty Old Biker

A crusty old biker out on a long summer ride in the country pulled over to a tavern in the middle of nowhere, parked his bike and walked inside.

As he passed through the swing-doors, he noticed a sign hanging over the bar that said: COLD BEER : $3.00 HAMBURGER : $3.50 CHEESEBURGER : $3.25 CHICKEN SANDWICH : $3.00 HAND JOB : $50.00 Checking his wallet to be sure he has the necessary amount, he walked slowly to the bar and

couldn't have cared less about settling up, and knowing that Horatio could never report the matter to the King, with a disdainful laugh, he told him to get lost.

Next day, Horatio slipped a massive dose of the same itching powder into the King's underwear and the King immediately summoned Nick: the Dragon Slayer to his quarters.

And the moral of this story is: always pay your bills.

she is standing directly opposite the ole biker.

"Yes?" she enquired, with a wide, knowing smile.

The old biker licked his scorched lips and leaned over the bar towards her. Then he whispered, "Say, you wouldn’t happen to be the young lady who gives out the hand jobs, would you?"

She looked deep into his eyes and purred, "Why yes, I sure am, sugar."

The old biker stiffened and said, "Well go wash your hands, cos I’d like a cheeseburger and a Coke."

Nick: The Dragon Slayer

Once upon a time lived a beautiful Queen with large, magnificent breasts.

Nick: The Dragon Slayer obsessed over the Queen for that very reason. Oh, he knew that the penalty for such desire would be certain death, should he try to touch them or fondle them, but it was worth a shot.

One day, Nick revealed his secret desire to his colleague, Horatio the Physician, The King's chief doctor.

Horatio thought about it and said that he could arrange for Nick to more than satisfy his desire, but it would cost him 1,000 gold coins as an arrangement fee. Without pause, Nick readily agreed to the scheme.

Next day, Horatio made a batch of itching powder and poured a little into the Queen's bra whilst she bathed. Soon after she had dressed, the itching commenced and grew intense.

Upon being summoned to the Royal Chambers to address this incident, Horatio informed the King and Queen that only a special saliva, if applied for four hours, would cure this type of itch, and recent tests had shown that only the saliva of Nick: The Dragon Slayer would work as an antidote to cure the itch.

The King, eager to serve his Queen, quickly summoned Nick to their chambers. Horatio then slipped Nick the antidote for the itching powder, which he put in his mouth, and for the next four hours, Nick worked passionately on the Queen's large and magnificent breasts.

The Queen's itching was eventually relieved while Nick left satisfied and became hailed as a hero.

Upon returning to his chambers, Nick found Horatio demanding the agreed payment of 1,000 gold coins.

But with his obsession now fully satisfied, Nick

A Redneck walks into a bar with a crocodile that he immediately places on top of the counter. He then stood on a chair and announced to the astonished patrons. “I'll make you all a deal. I'll open this crocodile’s mouth and place my manhood inside it. Then it will close its mouth for one full minute before opening up and I will remove my tackle completely unscathed. In return for witnessing this spectacle, each of you will buy me a drink.”

The crowd murmured their approval, so the man immediately dropped his trousers and placed his Johnson and related parts into the croc's open mouth. The croc then clamped its mouth shut and the crowd gasped. But after a minute, the man grabbed a beer bottle and smacked the croc hard on the top of its head, after which the croc immediately opened its mouth and the man removed his genitals totally unscathed as predicted.

The crowd cheered and the first of his free drinks duly arrived.

After a while, the man made another offer. “Is anyone willing to give this cunning stunt a try?” he asked his audience.

After a while, a hand went up at the back of the room and a blonde woman timidly spoke up. “I'll give it a go,” she said. “Only please don't hit me so hard with the bottle.”

Penguins: The Truth

Did you ever wonder why there are no dead penguins on the ice in Antarctica?

Where do they all go?

Well, wonder no more. It is a known truth that the penguin is a very ritualistic bird which lives an extremely ordered and complex life.

The penguin is very committed to its family and will mate for life, as well as maintaining a form of compassionate contact with its offspring throughout its years.

If a penguin is found lying dead on the ice surface, other members of its family and social circle have been known to dig holes in the ice, using their vestigial wings and beaks, until it is deep enough for the dead bird to be pushed into and buried. The male penguins then gather in a circle around the fresh grave and sing, "Freeze a jolly good fellow...."

Men!

A woman was in labour, kicking and screaming at the top of her voice for all she was worth. “Get it out of me!” she wailed. “Gimmi drugs! GIMMI SOME GODDAMN DRUGS!” Then she turned to her husband and shrieked, “You bastard! YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD! You did this to me!”

“Honey,” he said, “you’re upset. And, if you remember correctly, I wanted to f *** you up the ass, only you said it’d be way too painful.”

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

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If you spill mustard on your bare testicles, simply carry on as if nothing has happened.

Forty Plus Cycling Club

The chaps (and lady, singular) on page 17 are all members of something called the Forty Plus Cycling Club which The Edge thinks is absolutely superb (I spotted the gang at Channels Golf Club enjoying a half-hour pitstop/tea-break).

The Edge is all for cycling clubs, rambling clubs etc. because life is surely about social interaction and camaraderie, and clubs of such an ilk surely top the bill as they get you active and outdoors in the lovely fresh air.

The club began in 1951 in order to cater for cyclists (of both sexes) who had reached the ripe old age of 40 years. Originally, they had but monthly meetings, whereas today, the members get together every single week for a good old pedal and a spot of lunch, which is usually in a pub (here, here)!

Many members are actually in their sixties whilst several are in their seventies, so it really is a club that’s open to all (so long as you’ve already kissed goodbye to your twenties and thirties). In fact, they even boast some octogenarians....how good is that?

Many of the riders have been cycling since their very first bike, although the club welcomes late converts and people who have more time on their hands since retiring who’re possibly looking for an activity that is a little kinder to their ageing limbs (save a little saddle-soreness of the buttocks every once in a while).

Club membership extends in the east and south as far as the coastlines of Suffolk, Essex, Kent and Sussex, and as far as Bedfordshire, Cambridgeshire and Northants in the north.

Cycle meetings are weekly affairs with membership costing as little as £10pp p.a. (or just £15 for a jointhousehold membership).

Further information is available from Bernard Curtis on 01708 347226.

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Page 29

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22/09/2009

12:05

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Simians have always known what they are up to.

DON’T LET MUM CATCH YOU, DAD!

I think this is possibly the best photograph that has ever appeared in The Edge. Just look at the little simian (left)....he reminds me of one of those martians leaning backwards onto the spaceship console in the Cadbury’s Smash TV commercials many moons ago. And what about Big Daddy monkey, eh? Is he a charmer, or what?

And the blonde too, bless her, is absolutely loving all the attention (as blondes have a tendency to do). Yep....The Edge wants to be that ape in the Brazil shirt!

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It is an offense for women to climb ladders wearing high heels and no knickers.

Jethro

QUALITY! Coming to a town centre near you, one pissed up person of no fixed abode who simply, by the looks of him, cannot be arsed anymore...... with moderately alcoholic powered drinks, lavatories, life in general etc. etc. etc.

Jeez, this fella’s clearly been on a bucket or two of that 25% Brain Lightening cider stuff, if you ask The Edge, and it looks as though it’s definitely hit the spot.

Strange though, isn’t it? I mean, The Edge can look at a photograph such as this and find it mildly amusing, yet if it were a scene physically witnessed, well then, it’d be positively revolting.

As is ‘lads’ (and not all of them are ratboys either) urinating in shop doorways and on walls around Chelmsford town centre of a Friday and Saturday night. You can be fined for that these days, can’t you?

Personally speaking, The Edge would like to see police with discreet little water cannons hidden about their person, so that anyone caught doing such (as well as a fine) is thoroughly soddened to the skin and thus their night of frivolities would be abruptly ended.

That might learn ’em.

Also, whilst the old Woolworths building remains boarded up, forget the map. Instead, adorn it with photo’s of people caught urinating in public.

Top Cornish comedian Jethro (Geoff Rowe, geddit?) will be appearing at the Cliffs Pavilion on the evening of Monday 9th November if any of you lot fancy getting an otherwise doubtless dismal winter week off to a right sniggering start.

This fella used to be in the St. Just & District Operatic Society (aged 18), so I reckons (that’s ‘Cornishspeak’ is that) that he probably used to drink in that cracking pub in St. Jest (who’s name momentarily escapes me) that was featured in The Edge a summer or two ago.

Anyway, Jethro’s ‘claim to fame’ is that he’s made a record nine appearances on TV shows hosted by Des O’Connor - yes, really!

He also appeared five times on The Generation Game when it was hosted by Jim Davidson, who’s favourite Jethro tale is entitled ‘Train don’t stop Camborne Wednesdays’.

So far as The Edge is concerned, it’s only ever caught glimpses of Jethro on TV, but the wife’s just told me the father-in-law likes him, so seeing as he’s made a damn fine job of fitting us some new wardrobes, the least I can do is treat the old scrote, ’ey what, readers?

So put Monday 9th Nov. in your diary, lad, and we’ll pick thee up at 6.30pm sharp!

Page 31

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22/09/2009

ESSEX ‘IMAGE STUDIO’

12:12

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What came first, the tractor or the wellington boot?

Lengthy Boy’s

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Antiques Roadshow

A man who turned up at the filming of an episode of the Antiques Roadshow was left red-faced when he was told what he thought was an expensive bottle was simply an old bottle from Tesco. Presenter Fiona Bruce revealed how the collector arrived with the item he had spent more than £1,000 on, only for a glass expert to tell him: "It's just an empty olive oil bottle. It’s probably Tesco circa 2008. It’s worth absolutely nothing." The footage will not be shown during the current series to save the collector's blushes. Ms Bruce (possibly) told The Edge: "It would have made great television, but it would have been far too cruel. He seemed devastated, poor chap. The thing about the show is not to humiliate people."

If The Edge had been running the TV show, it would definitely have shown it, the stupid pillock. E.E.

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£20,000 Haircut

A celebrity stylist is charging £20,000 for a wash, cut and blow job...sorry, blow dry. The Stuart Phillips salon in London's Covent Garden has Swarovski crystal chandeliers and Japanese shampoo beds.

Clients are not only offered a treat for their hair, but they can have champagne on tap and order anything from the menu at the five-star Covent Garden Hotel just across the road. Clients flying in from Moscow or New York will be put up for two nights in the hotel. Bodyguards, interpreters and/or personal chefs can also be provided, not to mention a chauffeur. Mr. Phillips (might have) told the The Edge: "You get treated like a king or queen. It's glamour and luxury all the way, and you will leave looking a million dollars. I love it because the client is smiling all day long and it's the best job in the world."

Bloody great tart! What a ridiculous waste of money. Bring back the red & white diagonal pole. E.E.

Cockney Rhyming Slang for Cash Machine

A cash machine operator has introduced cockney rhyming slang to a number of its ATMs. People wanting cash out of bank machine ATMs in East London can now choose to have their instructions given to them in cockenee rhyming slang. Customers will be asked to enter their Huckleberry Finn, rather than their pin number, and will have to select how much sausage and mash (cash) they want. The company plan to trial the rhyming slang version in five cash machines for a three month period. Ron Delnevo, managing director of Bank Machine, (maybe) explained to The Edge: "We wanted to introduce something fun and of local interest to our London machines. Whilst we expect some residents will visit the machines just to have a butcher’s, we feel most will be genuinely pleased as this is the first time a financial services provider has recognised the cockney hammer (grammar)."

You’ve been speaking to that Jim Sweeney character again, haven’t you, lad....even though I warned you to steer well clear. E.E.

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EasyJet is being sued by a passenger after check-in staff refused to let her board because she was apparently ‘too fat’. Instead, check-in staff handling the internal Italian flight from Bari to Rome asked her to jump on a set of scales in front of a queue of other travellers and said she could only fly if she bought two tickets. "I'm sorry, but you're too fat to fly with us,” she was told.

“You’ll need to buy two tickets if you want to climb on board....that is if you can manage the steps, Chunky," a check-in girl (could have) told the astounded (but proper obese) passenger. Anna Delluci, 55, who tips the scales at 15 and a half stone, stormed off and is now suing EasyJet for the humiliation they put her through. Meanwhile, EasyJet executives issued an immediate apology. Thomas Meister, corporate communications manager, said: "It was an unforgivable mistake. We will investigate this matter thoroughly to establish what has gone wrong. Our company doesn't have special rules about people's weight." He added: "We only have a rule about minimum space between seats (17 inches) and we expect our customers to purchase two tickets if they (are too fat?) know they cannot fly comfortably.”

That Stellios bloke should bring out something called Chunky Monkey Airlines with ‘wider seats for the wider arse’, don’t you think, readers? In fact, that could be their strap-line. There. Job done, Stellios. E.E.

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It's official: Russians are the world's worst tourists, beating the Germans into second place. The World's Worst Holidaymaker poll, created by the Real Holiday Report website, surveyed more than 1,000 Brits who went abroad this summer (to Spain, France, Cyprus, Malta, Italy, Turkey, Greece and Portugal) and the majority (a whopping third of all votes cast) gave the flashy Russians - now dubbed ‘the new Germans’ - a resounding thumbs down, dethroning the Teutons from their long-term ‘least popular’ perch. According to the poll, Brits are now complaining that Russians hog those precious sunloungers, “eat almost everything" at all-inclusive resorts, belch, swear and dress like chavs. According to the author of the site: "We've been flooded with complaints about Russians. People commented that they are rude, flash their cash around, and think they own the place."

I don’t even think I’ve ever met a Russian, Lengthy Boy, so I couldn’t rightly comment. They do sound an awful lot like ‘you on holiday’ though. E.E.

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It is a crime to whistle for a lost canary before 7:00am.

Notes from the Battlefront

Page 33

by A FAT CAPITALIST PIG in LEAFEY SURREY

Caribbean Contempt

Call me mad if you like, but the thought of another holiday sweating on a sunlounger after taking eight hours to get there was, in the end, too much of a privilege. And for what? To watch large numbers of Anglophiles, if not Brits, dedicating their entire evenings to inebriation (sorry, make that fun). No, such held no appeal to me. I've done all the water skiing and sailing I can stomach in this lifetime, thank you very much. Yes, yes, I know, I know, I am well aware of the countless thousands who would give various limbs for a holiday in the Caribbean. But the truth of the matter is, familiarity does breed contempt, and in my own particular case, lots of it.

Sport

Congratulations to our heroic Ashes winning cricket team. As ever, the hard way. After a resounding thrashing in that awful place in the northern county, whose name I cannot bring myself to utter, England came back with remarkable skill and indeed calm. It is wonderful that the much maligned selectors (always deserved) persevered with ‘new’ golden boy Stuart Broad. After the northern match, there was much demand for his head. He is only 23 for God's sake, and one of a very small handful who has shown any real, natural promise since our beer swilling swashbuckler, Freddy Flintoff.

I was fortunate enough to attend all but one of the Tests (guess which one?) and I am once again reminded of the somewhat limited humour of our criminal cousins. "Sing when you're winning," springs to mind. Very strange also is the posse of ‘late mid life gentlemen’ (about 100 of them) with whom I became acquainted at various stages of the series. All dressed from head to toe in exactly the same olive green tracksuits, complete with beer bellies and a canary yellow cap to round off the ensemble. I don't know about you, but if I'd shelled out the best part of £5,000 to visit the other side of the world, I would not want to have a dress code for 10 year old school kids imposed on me. Supporting your country is one thing: it reminded me of my trip to the Moscow Olympics in the 80's (God, it was dull).

The joy of winning the Ashes is, of course, unsurpassed (perhaps only by England winning a football World Cup), so we will just have to content ourselves with the Ashes then. One of the reasons it gives us such delight is our Crim Cousins take it all far too seriously. We are supposed to be the ‘Whingeing Poms’, but do you remember the outcry when the Edgbaston crowd had a go at Ponting, or indeed his remarks in defeat? Just one day, before I die, I would like to hear: "England deserved to win because they played better than us". (The paradox is England were pretty shite throughout, but Australia, remarkably, were even more inept).

Members

I am quite looking forward to the return of our expense fiddling, serially adulterous, free loading Members of Parliament from their 9 month summer recess. I expect they'll manage a week or two (arguing over their entitlement to half rations) before they break for the 3 month Christmas recess. I used to think Oxbridge took the piss with three 8 week break terms annually.

Graduate

While we're on the subject of money, I interviewed a keen young graduate yesterday. He got a first and clearly worked hard for it. He told me he had £25,000 worth of student debt. He's 21. What is this madness? When I went to university, William Caxton was just starting his printing press. We were all means tested and the local education authority paid all tuition fees. A very modest subsistence allowance was paid for rent and so forth, and the (usually modest) balance was made up by a weekend job and/or long suffering parents. This was over 30 years ago. There were Universities and Polytechnics. They were different, and you couldn’t have 3 years in a modern red brick reading ‘Hand Knitted Yoghurt and Environmental Studies’. Not least (just as today), nobody would employ you and nor would they fund you. So please, let’s get back to common sense. Return to studies for ‘the professions’, cut the number of ‘university places’ by two-thirds and return to the full grant system so that everyone who aspires to education (real education) is not barred by finance, but all are barred from time wasting.

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England, our England

Duly liberated from air travel in search of sun, I found it in England (well, most of the time during August at any rate). Truly we have the most amazing heritage. Thirty odd years ago, I first went to Burghley House, in Lincolnshire. An amazing piece of architecture, history and a phenomenal collection of paintings. One cannot help but be awe-struck by this Cecil family owned pile. Nearby, I visited Peterborough Cathedral (burial place of Catherine of Aragon), first built in 800. Just take a look at the vaulted ceiling. Slightly further south, King's College, Cambridge Chapel. A monument to our former creative genius and architectural acumen. At 52, it was my first ever trip there. Completely dumb struck by the sheer brilliance of the edifice. In stark contrast, Paternoster Place, next to St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Or that eyesore Gerkin. Oh dear, oh dear. And as for the Tate Modern (most especially its contents), don't even get me started...

Watford Gap

Our country is an amazing one. Its heritage is stunning, illuminating, inspiring, and very often free. Take time to see it. Though much maligned, the weather too is very often wonderful, rendering such places even more beautiful. However, I do expect the sun to finally have disappeared this month, when the magic line north of Watford Gap is passed - although you do get more sun in (unfriendly) leafy, gated Surrey. After all, the taxes are higher.

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Animals should be banned from mating publicly for at least 50 metres from all school gates.

This month I have mainly been....learning all about the dangerous follies of utopian endeavours. I recently returned from a brilliant two week break in Egypt, where I utilised my ‘pool time’ to learn about how deluded a large part of the human race is, and that our constant attempts to make the world ‘better’ are actually making it much, much worse.

It's no secret that I view religion as a dangerous hodge-podge of ludicrous inconsistencies, childish rhetoric and general ignorance. However, I've been made to realise that my beliefs in scientific progress and continuing human evolution are not only just as deluded, but are actually just religion in a different guise.

Religion helped to instill, in the western consciousness at least, a belief that history was a teleological process - meaning that it was moving to an end point; that history had a goal. In classical Christian terms, this is conveyed by the rapture or Judgement Day, when our current history ends and the new/improved one supposedly begins.

This is, of course, a fallacy, and one that certainly isn't confirmed by history itself. If anything, history has shown itself to be more cyclical in nature and certainly not possessed of some nebulous will that is working towards a certain end.

The new ‘religions’ of humanism and scientific progress still adhere to this misguided belief, but now our faith is in our technological advances, our saviour has evolved from a Nazarene carpenter to nanotechnology.

Humanists display the classic signs of teleological and utopian thinking in their beliefs that science will be able to cure all of our ills and deliver us to a new ‘promised land’.

These beliefs are just that: beliefs. They're certainly not backed up with any kind of evidence. Indeed, the evidence points towards our ever advancing technological prowess contributing to our eventual undoing.

While our technology, and therefore our power (particularly our destructive potential), advances day by day, human beings are still the same murderous little primates that we've always been. Contrary to what lots of us would like to believe, acts of barbarism and genocide aren't things of the past, and we still indulge in mass murder and rape and pillage on a grandly horrifying scale.

The only thing that's changed is that now it's an awful lot easier.

One thing that history shows us, whilst neatly demonstrating its cyclical nature at the same time, is that every time a utopian project has begun, it has ended in immense suffering and loss of human life. It's worth noting that a utopian project is simply trying to change the world from the way it is into how a person or society thinks it should be.

In this way, the Third Reich and Communist Russia were utopian projects, as much as that might seem a perversion of the term, and I'm sure we all know just how they ended up.

Despite these glaringly clear lessons that history has shown us, the US of A, and to a lesser extent the UK, are embarking on their own utopian crusade to bring the marvels of

THIS MONTH I HAVE MAINLY BEEN...

western democracy to the rest of world, whether the rest of the world wants it, or it doesn’t.

This is arrogance wrapped in a delusion of the most dangerous kind, and like all the utopian projects before it, doomed to abject failure and the causing of untold strife and misery in the process.

as unruly and stupid children who need to learn from their betters.

There's even been reports of the US soldiers viewing the Iraqi people as ‘Untermensch’, and if that isn't a disturbing parody of the Third Reich, then I don't know what is.

The Middle East has always despised any sort of American meddling or intervention in their The way a country, or writes Kingpin provinces, so why anyone state, is governed is a with half a brain thought it product of hundreds of years of its history, would be different in Iraq is, quite frankly, culture, social structure and even coincimind boggling. dence and accidents throughout the generations. To ask any culture, particularly under We all know that the Iraq war was fought for the threat of force or armed occupation, to oil. America has long distrusted the House suddenly throw away these decades of cultural evolution will never, and can never, of Saud and made no secret that it wanted to cut its ties with them and then find anothwork. er supply of oil to feed their ever growing The utopian thinkers in the American admin- hunger for fossil fuels. istration, aided by their lapdog Blair, decidUnfortunately, they wilfully disregarded the ed that western, or more accurately, US style democracy, was the best form of gov- advice of many intelligence analysts who ernance, and one that the rest of the world told them that any armed incursion into the region would completely destabilise it, makwere all yearning for. So they figured it was ing the production of oil slump and the price their God given duty to ram US democracy skyrocket, and went ahead anyway. down everyone’s throat with the butt of an M16.

Unsurprisingly, it appears that oil production in the Iraq region since the war has slumped This line of thinking was boosted by the fall and the prices have skyrocketed. Who'd of the USSR and the ‘collapse’ of Communism. Surely if the USSR were have thought that, eh? embracing democracy, then everyone While Saddam was undoubtedly a bastard could, and should? The problem is that, as we all saw, the USSR devolved into a crime- and a tyrant, Iraq worked. Another thing the US and UK failed to grasp (which is strange, ridden mess, whilst its member states began to dream of independence once seeing as the UK basically created Iraq) was that there really isn't such a thing as the again, a process which unfortunately involved an upsurge of nationalism and sev- ‘Iraqi people’. eral savage wars.

Iraq is comprised of different religious and ethnic groups (who, of course, despise each Even now things are calming down and Russia is once again becoming stable, other) and while Saddam was an evil prosperous and a player on the world stage, lunatic, he managed to keep all these groups in line without them killing each despite not being a democratic country in other. Whereas today, the new democratic the same style as the US or the UK. government in Iraq has little to no control Although while Russia is democratic to a over these groups, and thus we see a return point, it's a vastly more authoritarian style, to ‘the good old days’ of sectarian violence where the state still holds the lions' share of and ethnic cleansing. The US neatly manpower over its subjects. aged to exacerbate this by disbanding much of the standing military, republican guard If Russia, who are arguably much closer to and existing police force (over 300,000 men the rest of ‘the west’ in their cultural evoluin total) and neglected to take their guns tion than the Middle Eastern countries are, repudiate US style democracy, why on earth away from them. do we think that the Middle East will sudIt doesn't take a genius to work out that putdenly embrace it with open arms? ting hundreds of thousands of armed men suddenly out of work on the street would There is, of course, an element of (the undoubtedly lead to trouble, does it? mainly Caucasian) developed western countries in-built racism in this. Obviously Despite the appaling loss of life and sufferthese poor desert-dwelling savages don't know what's best for them. If only they'd just ing, this ill-fated adventure into Middle Eastern hegemony has caused, there is at listen and do as they're told! least the chance that it will start to make the American administration think twice about I've read quite a few reports from ranking British soldiers serving in Iraq that say the their democratic crusade. reason we have less trouble in the provinces we control is that we treat them Make no mistake, the US has lost in Iraq and made many more enemies in the as people, while the Americans treat them

process, whilst disenfranchising thousands of military trained young men in a region where fundamentalist Islamic groups will doubtless snap them up, thus making the rest of the world far less safe for the rest of us.

Fortunately, the era of American dominance on the world stage is at an end. The US enjoyed a decade or so of unassailable power after the fall of the USSR (and still thinks it enjoys this privilege), but they are now well on the wane, which can surely only be a good thing.

Hundreds of years ago, when trade routes were found to the Far East and India, the countries of Europe exploded into a flurry of imperialism and land grabbing. This was referred to as ‘The Great Game’, and as populations rise and resources shrink, we'll see ‘The Great Game’ starting again. Only this time, it won't be for control of lucrative trade routes for exotic spices, but for oil, food and water. Therefore, it will be a far more vicious affair.

While America still enjoys military dominance and technical superiority, what many people don't realise is that they don't have any money. America is actually the world's largest debtor and their continued affluence is mainly down to various countries buying up American debt.

At present, US debt stands at around $8.3 trillion dollars, with China, Japan and various Middle Eastern countries holding the lion's share of that debt. China alone now basically owns over 300 billion of the US treasury, with this share increasing year by year.

It's not a huge stretch of the imagination to see that two of the major players in ‘The Great Game’ will be the US and the rapidly developing China. It's also not a huge stretch to realise that if the US upsets China, they can basically cut American finance off at the knees.

It's almost a certainty that China will be the dominant force in world politics in years to come, and maybe this won't be such a bad thing, seeing as their consciousness isn't polluted with the same teleological and utopian views as the western mindset.

What is certain is that one form of Government for every country in the world can never, and will never, work. Human nature will not change, we'll never see this ‘promised land’ where we all just get along.

What we need to do is figure out a way for all the disparate cultures and societies to get along in relative harmony, and have the courage to admit that we're always going to be the sneaky, murderous, greedy bastards that we are.

Once we've admitted that, we can start dealing with the fact that history will always be littered with wars and conflicts, and that our duty will be to deal with these crises promptly and intelligently when they inevitably occur.

History has shown us, time and time again, that trying to make the world a better place almost always has the opposite effect. So let's stop trying to make the world into what we think it should be, and have the courage to deal with it as it really is.

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Women ‘bob’ their hair due to a deep mistrust of their own sexuality.

Men & Women

Public toilets. Men are expected to stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers, before unzipping their trousers, taking out their cocks (in full view of said strangers stood either side of them), then pee. In front of strangers! Who, it has to be said, invariably engage them in conversation.

I don't know about you, but I don't see having a pee as a social event to share with strangers.

Women, on the other hand, have individual cubicles in which to pee in private.

Women get to pee in private, whilst men are forced to pee in the gaze of strangers.

In accordance with sexual equality, I propose women should have one big open room with a row of toilets so that they can sit shoulder to shoulder with other women (strangers) whilst they pee.

Surely it's only fair, under sexual equality legislation?

Women bleat about equality, so why not let them pee with equality?

Coins

Men don't carry change. If they do, they don't use it; preferring to pay with notes, thereafter dumping the coins in a jar when they get home.

Women, on the other hand, love coins. They can't get enough of them; their capacious purses are full of them.

At the supermarket check-out, a man, when presented with a bill for £19.37, will pay with a £20 note; a woman will open her purse and say, "I think I have the right money." She will then proceed to produce £1, £2, 20p, 5p, £1. “Hang on, how much have I given you? Is it £6.70? No? Oh dear. Now, how much more do you need? Oh, here's 10p and a 5p; that's 15p....." For f 's sake, get on with it.”

***

Driving

Why do women feel the need to drive with their noses pressed against the windscreen?

Why do women feel the need to use the hand brake every time they stop at traffic lights; causing a 30 second delay while they struggle to release it when

the lights turn green?

Why do women shuffle the steering wheel through their hands with a motion akin to milking a cow?

Double Standards

If a woman discovers that her husband/boyfriend has been cheating on her, then proceeds to cut up his clothes, deliberately crash his beloved car, put laxative in his food, hit him with a frying pan, or even take a pair of scissors to his cock, it is seemingly a source of amusement. The newspapers report it as a funny story.

However, if a man discovers his wife/girlfriend has been cheating on him, then proceeds to throw her and her possessions out into the street; he's a callous bastard. It's his fault she had the affair in the first place; he should have told her every day of every week of every year that he loved her.

If he, in a moment of despair and distress, slaps her, he is then labelled a wife beater who “should be locked up" we all shout.

Screening

Women are encouraged, to the point of compulsion, to use the NHS breast screening service.

They are also encouraged, once again to the point of compulsion, to use the NHS cervical smear service.

And rightly so. Anything that can be done to reduce the risk of contracting cancer (I don't even like saying the word, let alone writing it) is an incredibly good thing.

Men also contract cancer. However, unlike women, we do not get an NHS prostate cancer screening service. We do not have a NHS testicular cancer screening service. Men have no NHS cancer screening service.

Equality? I don't think so.

Rape

If a woman, after having drunken or ill-advised consensual sex, goes to the police later that night, or the following morning, or even three years later, and claims she was raped, the man will be arrested and

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locked up in a police cell, pending inquiries.

It requires no more evidence than the woman's accusation.

The woman has anonymity; the man's name is all over the newspapers; not withstanding there is no evidence and he has not been convicted by a court.

So if a woman is believed when she says she has been raped (without evidence), why is a man not believed when he says she consented?

In the absence of evidence to support either side, why is the woman believed and the man not?

Maybe it's the one who goes to the police first who is believed.

If so, all men, after a drunken one night stand, should go to the police and say, "I've just had drunken consensual sex with a woman I've just met in a bar, but I didn't rape her." "OK sir," the police would reply, “if she says otherwise, we'll arrest her."

Ridiculous? Yes, isn't it. However, no more ridiculous than the existing procedure.

I know this is a controversial subject and this article is NOT aimed at genuine rape victims. However, a lot of totally innocent men have their lives ruined by spurious rape claims by women seeking revenge (for whatever reason), or women who regret their sexual conduct and are looking for an excuse for their ‘temporary moral lapse’; a way to regain their sexual integrity.

So why not investigate the allegation with anonymity for all concerned? Then, if there is evidence, arrest. Equality for men!

The Grumpy Goose

The Final Word

If I hear one more thing about Jordan and Peter... aggghhhhhh!

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Eating a cream cake whilst wearing a gimp mask often provides a spectacle. deterrent value.

But sadly, you cannot under any circumstances ignore the stupendous cost for But so many of us have seen the way the So you're checked in, and now the real something so poor.

Americans put on a side-show for every problems start. The security search. This single game, let alone a showpiece such has, of course, got ever more difficult. It Remember how the security guard at the as the Superbowl, that the rest of the was bad enough after 9/11 when they X-ray machine had confiscated your world has had to up its game a bit so as started looking for knives and such, but miniscule nail scissors on the basis they not to look too cheap in comparison. since the discovery that a tube of tooth- were a threat? Well, should you be intent Fireworks, clouds of smoke, paper paste became capable of killing hun- on such violent activity, here's a metal streamers and Queen's 'We Will Rock dreds of people, it's reached almost fork that you've been using on your You' are now pretty much de-rigueur for unbearable levels. bacon that you can now purloin and hide all such events. As it happened, the preabout your person. Quite how you'd bring game entertainment for the Wembley The real problem isn't even necessarily down a plane with a couple of forks, or Cup wasn't particularly outstanding in the fact that airports have been forced to even nail scissors, is beyond the under- the way that, say, a ten minute spot from introduce a security process; it's more standing of most of us, but logic rarely Bruce Springsteen might have been, but that they all seem to have different ideas plays a part when officialdom gets it had its own special moment. about what constitutes a danger. Anyone involved in making rules. who has travelled through Dublin airport The organisers had hired the parachute Come Fly With Me recently will have been staggered to be Finally, it’s boarding time. If you're really regiment, freshly back from Iraq, to bring Airports. Dontcha just hate them? asked the somewhat fatuous question, unlucky, there's one last security check the ball into the stadium. A number of the Anyone who has been forced to use one "Have you got an umbrella in that bag?" to go through as you hand in your board- soldiers then descended on ropes from in recent times, and we'll define 'recent Leaving aside the fact that given you are ing pass to get to the gate. The random the roof of the stadium, along with the times' in a minute, will have been in Ireland, the only possible answer to search. This is particularly annoying for ball and billowing flags and banners. It stressed beyond reasonable limits by the that is: "This is Dublin, where it rains middle aged white people because you has to be said that although it was relaevery day - what the feck do you think?" know you've been selected just to keep tively low-key, it looked pretty impressive horrible places.

Since when did anyone decide a brolly the PC brigade happy. However, that's as well as scary. The ball was then handThose of us well into middle age can was potentially lethal? Anyway, out they how it is, and it isn't going to change, and ed to one of their colleagues who was arguing or trying to be a smart-arse is not waiting on the pitch and he walked it to remember when flying used to be a have to come for separate inspection. a wise reaction. So you take the general the ref, who was standing in a line with slightly exciting prospect for most plebs.

It wasn't something we did very often, Then there's the thorny subject of shoes. indignity with grace after the minimum the players. The guy doing the final hanand so it was to be looked forward to as Some airports think they need X-raying, wage moron has pulled your pants out dover had two prosthetic legs - hidden under his army fatigues. Of course, an experience. The airport, back then, some don't. At other airports, certain peo- for all to see. everyone clapped, and that, we thought, was an integral part of that experience. ple are allowed through with their shoes There were strange procedures that did- on, others aren't. Some airports make So all in all, it's a wonder why any of us was that. n't exist anywhere else. Tickets were you put them on the belt with your bag actually bother to travel at all, given the complicated multi-leaf things with carbon and tray, others have a completely sepa- stress levels induced by a modern day However, the game started, and everyairport. It's always said that divorce and one got into the mood for a bit of subcopies. Even security checks, which con- rate screening section. bereavement are the two biggest stress- dued support for their team. But here's sisted of walking through a metal detector gate, were a bit novel, and so yes, So if you get the worst case scenario, es most people have to go through in where the good bit comes in. you're shuffling around with no belt, their lives, but in recent times, airports exciting. shoes in hand, and trying to make sure have to be right up there in the charts. About five minutes into the match, the As we began to travel more often, the you've picked up everything that went Indeed, nowadays there is probably only soldiers, who had by now changed into T novelty wore off, and the airport became through the X-ray. Then there's no seats one thing better at inducing stress than shirts and were clearly off duty, were wandering back along the touchline to a bore you had to endure before your to sit on, so you do your best to put on using an airport. the corner where all their kit had been flight, but that was about it. But then we your size 10s crouching on the floor left. To a man (and woman) the entire come to recent times. We can pinpoint whilst all the time a never ending horde A trip to IKEA. crowd stood up, ignored the match, and exactly when 'recent times' began. It was of people stack up on you in exactly the Hup-Two-Three applauded and cheered as the squadSeptember 11th 2001. The day that a same frustrated, semi-dressed and very dies passed by. And it was obvious the bunch of religious nuts decided to use stressed out state. If you weren't feeling the aircraft as a weapon of mass destruc- murderous before, it certainly wouldn't Anyone travelling to NW London to applause had nothing at all to do with the attend a slightly low-key affair known as abseiling from the roof stuff. tion. It's too easy to bang on about reli- take much to tip you over the edge now. the Wembley Cup in July would have gion causing so much misery, and it's been done a million times. So for our pur- Eventually, some form of decorum is been witness to a heart-warming phe- This mood of support for the ordinary poses here, we'll simply accept the fact regained, and once again fully dressed nomenon. And we're not talking here soldiers is something that has grown palthat there are deluded lunatics who want you are through to what is laughingly about anything that happened on the pably over the last six months or so. It's to kill the rest of us for whatever reason, referred to as 'Airside'. But your troubles football field, because that was a hugely as if the public have seen all those bodhaven't finished yet. There will be a seri- forgettable pre-season tournament, ies coming back and have suddenly and look at the effects they have had. ous amount of time to kill before you are whilst the teams played as if they knew realised the price that is being paid for Firstly, it's the attitude with which you, a actually allowed onto an aeroplane. it. one man's desire to make George Bush paying customer, is now regarded. You Several hours in which the stress levels like him. As usual, those so keen on are not a passenger. You are no longer a can be raised even higher.

No, the action that was most noticeable sending the British forces into danger valued guest who might spend some and praiseworthy was as a result of never have their own sons and daughmoney. You are not even a simple mug There is the possibility you'd like a drink something the crowd (such as it was) ters in the military. punter to be fleeced of as much cash as to calm your frayed nerves. But hang on, did. possible. No, none of those things. What what have we here? Why, it's a horrible Anyway, without getting too political, it's you actually are is a potential terrorist. Wetherspoon's full of unwashed men The organisers of these events - cup good that no matter how controversial it You must therefore be treated according- with beer guts wearing vests and down- finals and the like - have by and large is that we're at war in the first place, the ly. This starts at the check-in. "Have you ing vast quantities of lager. No, not the improved their act considerably in the poor sods who actually do the fighting had your bags with you since you packed place to be. last decade or so. Whereas pre-game and dying are at least being supported them?" and other such moronic quesentertainment used to consist of, well, by ordinary Brits. The military may be tions. In fact, if you check in online, you So let's have something to eat instead. nothing really, now something has to be starved of the proper equipment, comcan bypass this stupidity altogether, Keep your expectations low, and things included for the spectators' pleasure. pletely unsure of the mission's objecwhich kinda makes the point that so won't be too bad. You can possibly shut Back then, maybe occasionally, you'd tives, and generally pissed on by the much of the so called security procedure out the screaming kids being allowed to get the band of the Coldstream Guards politicians, but at least they now know is there to cover the arses of the airports run around the restaurant. You may even marching up and down playing military the rest of us are prepared to say 'we rather than being of any fundamental be able to forgive the dreadful service. music, but that was as good as it got. understand’, and ‘bloody well done'.

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FIFTY...

...NOT OUT!

steveward2000@hotmail.com

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Vehicles with ‘Princess on board’ signs in them are mostly driven by self deluded twats.

women can’t park

JOKE WINTER BEER FESTIVAL

Two buckets of sick were walking down the road, when one stops in its tracks and suddenly starts crying.

“Whoa! What’s the matter with you, Sick Bucket?” says his mate.

“Oh,” Trsays ang the e Cweeping bucket of sick, “it’s nothing really. I’m just being silly. It’s just that....I was brought up around here.”

Bum-Bum, eh readers?

It’s the way The Edge tells ’em. It is an’ all!

MAKE A NOTE IN YOUR DIARY!

there, i fixed it!

Wives and girlfriends the world over must literally shudder whenever their other halves say, “Leave it to me, love....I can fix it.”

So come on, readers, let’s be hearing from you about some of your CBJ’s (classic bodge jobs) to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Personally speaking, my best attempt ever must have been trying to build a patio. Correction! Strange as it may seem, the first one I ‘had a go at’ didn’t put me off (it’s paying someone else to have a go at it that always used to put me off) and in true Yosser Hughes style, I thought to myself, “How hard can it be? Gissa pick axe and a bucket o’cement! I can do that.”

No I bloody well couldn’t.

God, what an abortion I made of them both.

Then there was the time the TV in the bedroom was playing up, so I traced some wires around the loft until I found this kind of junction box thing, and without ever visiting the mains box downstairs in the house, I literally started slicing through the plastic on the wires with a Stanley Knife.

Jump?

You bet I bloody well jumped, banging my head on the bloody rafters.

So do let’s be hearing some of your most embarrassing tales, please.

Page 37

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BLOCKBUSTEREDGE DVD REVIEW “Get off my lawn!”

Oh yeah, Clint’s back alright, although these days, maybe he should stick to directing, or make a conscious decision to wear polo-necks.

Look, the guy’s been a particular hero of mine.

First movie I ever saw him in was A Fistful Of Dollars and if I’m ever cruising the late night channels, I’Il still happily watch that movie.

Then there’s ‘Dirty Harry’ Callahan: who can forget him and his .44 Magnum?

So that’s how I think of Clint. Not as some wrinkled, chicken-necked old pensioner.

In Gran Torino (which is a car, don’t you know; one which our Clint keeps shiny as a new pin), he plays a Korean War veteran who’s wife’s just popped her clogs and, now retired, spends most of his days sitting on his porch, drinking cold beer, casting his disgruntled, ‘squinty Clint’ eyes over the way his neighbourhood’s going down the pan.

Supposedly set in modern-day Detroit, he despises the ‘ethnic punks’ who have invaded his turf and seemingly have no desire to keep their own houses (and lawns) in order.

So do pensioners in the suburbs of Detroit really sit on their porch, drinking beer, with a rifle perched besides them?

These are ethnic enclaves, whose inhabitants struggle to pay the rent, with roaming gangs who patrol their territory like an inner-city ghetto.

Then there’s old Walt (or Mr. Kowalski, as Clint expects the local priest to refer to him as) who remains a custodian of what little values remain.

So maybe you see where this movie is headed, yeah? Walt Kowalski pretty much is (not that this should come as a particularly unexpected surprise) Harry Callahan. But older. And wrinklier.

After his Hmong neighbour’s quiet, shy, teenage boy Thao, tries to steal his beloved Gran Torino, which was an initiation test set by a street gang before he could join them, Walt decides to take him under his wing in order to instill some of the values he holds so very dear to his heart in him.

Naturally a bond is quickly formed and old Walt soon gets to realising, “I’ve got more in common with these gooks than I do with my own family.”

So really, it’s all pretty predictable stuff, though for all that, if you’ve a fondness for a Clint movie, you’ll doubtless want to see it.

This is Clint’s first screen roll since the excellent Million Dollar Baby (2004) and, in all honesty, Gran Torino cannot hold a torch to it, whilst Eastwood himself appears to have aged more in the past five years than he did in the previous twenty-five - although that comes to us all, including Walt, who was probably happy to check out anyway: he was just looking for a respectable means of doing so.

So does The Edge recommend you see Gran Torino? No, not really. But having said that, it would never, ever knock Clint.

“Get Off & Milk It!”

Or, in other words, perhaps it’s high time your cow (ahem, The Edge does beg your pardon)....bicycle was serviced?

It’s probably due, isn’t it? If it’s ever had one at all?

But where do you take it, that’s the problem?

Well, you won’t go far wrong at spokes (lowercase ‘s’ absolutely intentional) at Beehive Works.

Silke Kerr and her sidekick Jake set themselves up in unit 9 in August and it’s all taking off for them through word-of-mouth alone, which is generally a very good sign.

“I’ve been into cycling all my life,” says Silke, “and after qualifying for Cytech levels 1 and 2, I worked as a mechanic in a bike shop for a period before deciding to set up on my own offering servicing and repairs, as it’s something I’ve always had a genuine interest in.”

And spokes’ unique selling point would be...?

“That ‘d have to be attention to detail,” says Silke, with quiet confidence. “We do a good job at a fair price and we also offer a free collection and delivery service in Chelmsford and surrounding areas.”

So what are you waiting for, readers?

Bicycle services start at just £30.

spokes

Unit 9, Beehive Works, Beehive Lane, Chelmsford, CM2 9JY. Tel: 07977 051 052 www.spokes.uk.com

edge readers...

have you seen this dog? cool, isn’t it?!

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Where there are no height restrictions, people are allowed to grow as tall as they please. with fairy cakes. But Spotted Dick and faggots are seemingly the two worst offenders and are causing many men to have sleepless nights. (Secretly, methinks that it’s Jerk Chicken and crumpets that’s the cause of all this insomnia, but hey, what do I know?).

Hot on the heels of Spotted Dick and faggots comes Cock-a-Leekie, which is poised to get an urgent revamp, closely followed by Coq au Van. We’ll all be living on lentils and nut cutlets if this mob get their way.

A Bun in the Oven

Food, glorious food. Although, apparently not anymore.

Something that made me giggle this month was the story that councils are busy looking into making some foods illegal to sell unless it has undergone a gender reorganisation.

Gender reorganisation? Who thinks this stuff up? Apparently, the first to be reassigned is Spotted Dick, on account of it leaving many men feeling inadequate and uncomfortable when faced with such an option on the menu.

Then there’s the serving staff’s complaints of sexual harassment and embarrassing titters whenever Spotted Dick is ordered.

Apparently, it causes offense and embarrassment on such a grand scale that in view of the fact, they are even looking at changing its name to 'Spotted Richard', which sounds plain daft to my mind.

But then, as my Nan always used to tell me as a child, "Those that think with a filthy mind will find smut everywhere they look.”

But hang on. Just who are these wibbly-wobbly, legs-turn-to-jelly men who can't face eating in a restaurant with Spotted Dick on the menu? What’s happened to all those brave, red-blooded men who live on fried breakfasts and mixed grills, and who still call out to women, "You don't get many of them to the pound, darlin’"?

It would appear that these men are a thing of the past, along with humour, I might add. I have honestly never met a man yet who would rather starve than eat a dish that ‘sounds funny’. Given that women profess to value a good sense of humour way, way above looks when choosing a mate, I can definitely see trouble looming.

Other rude and offensive foods are to be given a gender makeover too, starting with faggots. I had honestly never given faggots a second thought, until now. Along

Apparently, a woman is the USA has filed a law suit for £20 billion dollars claiming mental distress, all because a man came into the store she worked in and asked for some Whipping Cream to go with his Roly Poly whilst staring at her melons. The woman seemingly thought he was making sexual overtures towards her, in view of her being a size 26 and all. In fact, such was her mental distress that she was unable to go to work anymore, so councils in the UK are perhaps right to be concerned about being on the receiving end of something similar.

I wonder if a good bit of stuffing would not go amiss to all these sour faced creatures, who seem hell bent on killing off our wonderful British peculiarities. You couldn’t ‘bake’ it up, now could you?

People make silly comments about everything in this life, so where’s the need to go changing names?

Spotted Dick is thought to have originated from the middle of the 19th century and I’m certain noone has died of embarrassment in all the time that people have been ordering it.

Who on earth sits in an office and dreams this stuff up? I used to love all the old Carry On films with their silly innuendos. For goodness sake, Sid James died whilst laughing and frying an egg. It’s what we’re here for. Surely a good laugh never hurt anyone. (And anyone who’s witnessed my cooking knows humour is a prerequisite before daring to tuck in.) I just cannot believe that real men are crying into their soup over the distress of complaining about a hard roll.

Surely it can't be made illegal to have a laugh over rude food?

How many years have women put up with being referred to as carrot tops, baps, crabs, raspberries, mutton dressed as lamb, wet fish? But we simply laugh it off. So leave our food alone, is what I say. It’s part of our culture and heritage. Eat, drink and be merry.....because tomorrow, you just might get sued!

Tracie123@aol.com

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