bobby47

Course, trying to get a decent conversation going down at the Commercial with the lads about stuff that really matters is becoming nigh on impossible. Last night for bloody example, I fell inside the aforementioned battle cruiser, I said, 'lads Im here. What shall we talk about tonight?'. Course, they all cried, 'Hoorah, the fat tw.at is here. Lets talk about girls we'd like to kiss'. I said, 'lads, we've done that twice this past month and I for one am sick of arguing over who I wish to kiss and who I don't wish to kiss. For the love of God and all that holy lets talk about something else'. Course, there's silence isn't there. No mention of Bill Norman, Geoff Hughes's enormous portfolio of responsibility that's impossible to deal with or even this latest offering Richard Penn who, at the request of Wirral Council managed to clear and exonerate a bunch of public servants involved in an allegation of being involved in acts of misconduct whilst in a public office. What about, if you won a million quid. We haven't done that for a while. Lets do that'. I said, 'No! I'll tell you what. We'll do, 'what's the worst thing that could happen to you'. We ain't done that one for ages.' And so, this gathering of minds, who I like to call 'the lads', went into a huddle and after much deliberation the worst thing that they could come up with that could have happened to them would be, 'we lost fifty quid in a game of three card brag and when we left the pub a mysterious woman dressed in black holding a pair of garden shears chased them up the road and cut their heads off'. I said, 'Is that it. Is that the bloody best you can do. Some old hag dressed in black chases you all up the road and cuts your heads off with garden shears. Is that the best you can do?'. I said, 'Thats nothing. Thats nowhere near the worst thing that could happen to you. You lot have no imagination. What about losing fifty quid, getting chased up the road by the woman in black, escaping her shears, getting inside your house only to find you've been cuckolded by Bill Norman who grabs you, shoves you in a sack full of killer ferrets who bite and nibble away at your flesh while your wife howls, 'Bill you are a wonderful lover'. And then, after he's finished ravishing my wife he walks across to me as Im laid in the sack barely alive because of all the ferrets feasting on me and he then wires me up to the domestic electricity supply and electrocutes me to death and I pay the electric bill'. Course, that shut them up. They knew that my worst was better than their worst and so, desperate to have a proper conversation, I said, 'I'm off up The Wirral to have a conversation with like minded souls who, through discourse, will challenge my intellectual ability'. And I did. I left the lads and some One hundred and twelve miles later, up the A49, I fell through the doors of the Ring'o'Bells somewhere in the vicinity of West Kirby and said 'lads Im Bobby Fortyseven. I've journeyed one hundred and twelve miles up here from Hereford for a challenging conversation about the Council. What's on the agenda tonight?' 'Tonight', they said, 'we are talking about girls we'd like to kiss'. And therein lies our problem. We don't care enough to ever ask ourselves the real questions. Is this Richard Penn ever going to tip up here and start feasting upon our public funds? Well, I'll tell you now, if he ever tips up outside my abode and starts asking me what my thoughts are on being tossed in a sack of ferrets I'll give him a piece of my mind. We are all asleep! Yes we are. Do we trust our Members of Parliament anymore? Do we trust our Banks? Do you trust the Police or the many other once admired and respected institutions to do the right thing anymore? Well if we have all these doubts about that lot, why on earth do we ever wonder if the Council hierarchy ain't up to mischief as well. They are at it. They are at it because the entire model of public service business is constructed to be abused and milked by those who have their hands on the levers of power.

Course, dough is a remarkable substance. It really is. It's a very fascinating substance that contains, water, some yeast and of course the main ingredient cereal grain. Cereal grain is an essential part of creating the dough and though many have tried not to use it, few would argue that to create dough you must put ground up cereal grain into the water and the yeast to create what you wanted to create, which is of course the dough. Now, once you've got your dough, its no good shouting, 'hoorah! Dough! The very thing I was trying to create'. No what you must do then is knead the dough. It's essential that dough be kneaded to create the sticky and elastic substance that when baked is turned into bread. I've written a book about it. It's a book that highlights the recipe for dough, the actual kneading process and of course the final outcome Bread. Yes I've written a book about it. A book outlining my experiences kneading dough. It goes into great detail about my personal experiences kneading dough. I've titled the book, 'My Experiences Kneading Dough'. Course, when I handed the book to my literary agent he said, 'this is the most boring book that's ever been written. You need to make it more interesting.' And so I did. Essentially I kept the whole dough thing in the book which told the reading world about me kneading the dough in the bakery, day in, day out, over and over and over again. But, to make it more interesting I incorporated the presence of thirty six scantily clad buxom strumpets who hid behind the oven whilst I was kneading the dough and every so often when they tired of hiding they'd all emerge and ravish me, howling, 'you are the most desirable man in this bakery'. That seemed to do the trick. Mind, when the Literary Agent reached chapter six titled, ' thirty six women were hiding in the bakery whilst I was kneading dough' I confess I felt alarmed when the agent began to masturbate in front of me. Course, I didn't say anything. I mean, if I'd said, 'I must protest. I didn't travel all the way down here to watch you masturbate', chances are he'd have shown me the door and told me to clear off. Anyway, after he'd ejaculated and me being very keen to break the intolerable silence, I said, 'it's a lovely read isn't it. I noticed you were particularly keen on Chapter Six'. He said, 'frankly the previous five chapters were the most boring words I've ever read but I liked Chapter Six. Have you considered having a higher number of women hiding in the bakery. S.ex does sell?' Course, that's the moment when I felt my artistic ability was being undermined by a man who loved Chapter Six, so I told him straight. I said, 'I've been kneading dough for forty years and I know how many women can hide in the bakery and how many cant and being cognisant of the bakery's dimensions Im telling you now there is no way that you can fit anymore that thirty seven people in. Me and thirty six women is all your bloody getting thank you very much'. Mind, I've also incorporated some violence and intrigue into the story. In Chapter Sixteen, titled, 'I shot him with my small pocket Derringer' I tell how Herefordshire Council Chief Legal Officer entered the shop waving a cheque for one hundred and forty six thousand pounds shouting, ' I've suddenly become loaded thanks to the tax payers on the Wirral'. I know! Your wondering about the intrigue. Where is the intrigue" Give us all our intrigue. Well the bloody intrigue is firstly why I was ever in possession of a small pocket Derringer that I concealed beneath a Crusty Cob Roll and secondly why give the man all that money and then try and hide it from the rate paying public. That's the intrigue!

I apologise. I shouldn't have ripped at everyone. We all have our different and many things to do and imposing my will on you all was wrong. I shouldn't have done that.

Well, after a brief exchange with The Gridknocker, Dippy, Ubique, GDJ and Cambo who witnessed my predictable intoxication on the night of the 'do', I can report without much doubt that we didn't raise a single penny for those at RTR whos daily lives are tougher than they ought to be. In short, we lost money! Yep! Despite my fears, my pleadings and threats to quit on me bloody stool, only sixty good souls turned up to support us which leaves me with the dilemma of who I should blame and dislike forever! Well I've made my mind up, and to those who've chosen to stay at home and watch bloody X factor instead of helping us out I say don't ever pretend to me that you are a group of caring principled people who tap upon these pages because you hope to change the world. There's no such noble place for you inside my bloody head! To those who communicated 'I'm sorry I cannot make it', you all escape my disappointment and you've no reason to be bruised by my comments. As for the future, and there ain't one, not for me on here, when you next see someone who's been dealt cards you wouldn't wish to play, don't tell me you gave generously and all is well with the world. It bloody ain't all well and I will never forgive your indifference to my friends who could be bothered to visit The Richmond Club, pay five quid and marvel at the people who ain't going to be getting any funding to help secure their future.

Not only will I not enter the place or involve myself with one single transaction, I won't even look at the place anymore. Why? Because Im a High Town man. I've always been a High Town man and I'll always be a High Town man and if I choose to look the other way as Im staggering home from some battle cruiser with twenty six pints of ale inside my bladder then that's my business and I refuse to gaze in its direction simply because its expected of me. Mind, the bloody salts gone. I was kind of banking on it being there for years to come so that I could moan about it. Course, if its gone, and Im not completely convinced it wont return, it still won't stop me moaning. Nothing will. Nothing! My family have been moaning for decades and I see no reason why all of a sudden I should simply stop. Never! I will never stop moaning. I wake up moaning, I go to sleep moaning and in between those two bits of my waking hours I moan about everything. Whether its the latest birth from Kerry Katona or that bloody Colonel Saunders and his face on KFC that says, 'come and try my chicken. It contains an addictive substance that makes you crave for it thrice fortnightly', I'll never stop moaning. I hate The Colonel and his neatly trimmed goatee beard. Anyone who has time to look like he does every single day of the year since he started dabbling in chicken some sixty eight years ago is an odd sort who I personally never wish to meet. No! I'll never gaze upon that accursed retail development. Mind, the rare times when Im not intoxicated and out of my mind on diazepam and psilocybin mushrooms and Im driving because I need to get to the Wye and fish for barbel, well I have to look then don't I. I mean, you can't journey up that carriageway of Blue School Street in control of a mechanically propelled vehicle and not glance over to make sure you don't flatten some poor fool who's been shopping in Debenhams. And as for bloody Debenhams! Mark my words, once they've gotta grasp of how bloody low our disposable income levels are and they can't shift their stock because we are all to fat to wear their clobber and their arrangement of five years of no rent nears its end, you'll soon see that store close leaving us with a bloody empty shell that's become a monument to stupidity.

A gift Dippy? Well you could argue that its a curse. To be so full of sh.it and be able to articulate it is extremely strange isn't it. Me? I wouldn't call it a gift at all. Far from it. It's a bag of pigswill that never ever empties and I never get any peace from it. It's a relentless conveyor belt of complete and utter boll.ocks and I'd sooner be without it thank you very much!

Bloody Bill bloody Norman. One hundred and forty six thousand bloody pounds. Good grief! Course, last night I had a spot of the usual didnt I. We were laid in bed watching a late edition of Pointless. It's her favourite programme isn't it. Every bloody day we sit there and everyday she says, 'I hope there's a question on spices. Im good on spices'. Course that is the only bloody area of humankind and our affect upon the planet this woman knows anything about. Bloody spices! Anyway she was nibbling on a custard slice and waiting for the question whilst I was feasting upon my nose bag that contained a kilo of Cornish Clams, when Alexander Armstrong posed the question that related to interesting facts about the peanut. When I saw the option that mentioned a former American President who used to grow and harvest the bloody peanut, I started gibbering, 'Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy as my addled brain searched for the surname Carter. Course she shouts, 'Tarbuck'. I said, 'bloody hell where did that come from'. Then, clearly cognisant that Jimmy Tarbuck never entered the political arena of American politics, she shouts, 'Jimmy Connors'. I said, ' he's a bloody former Tennis player. Let me bloody think'! Course it was all interrupted wasn't it! All of a sudden there was a tap, tap, tap on the window. I thought, 'Odd that! Tap, tap, tap on the window and here's us holed up on the fifteenth floor'. She says, ' I wonder who that is. Have you any idea'. I said, 'bloody hell! Im as much in the dark as you are. I've no idea who it is'. Course, despite her saying lets ignore it, I was more curious. I mean living on the fifteenth floor two bloody hundred feet up in the air and there's a tap, tap, tap on your window, you'd be an odd sort if you chose to ignore it. I was interested. I wanted to know who it was that was outside two hundred feet up in the air tapping on my window. Anyway, I hung me nose bag up on the hook I call me hook for hanging me nose bag on, got out of bed, pulled back the newspapers that blocked out the windows to find Bill bloody Norman clinging on to my window sill. I said, 'Bill bloody Norman! How on earth have you climbed up to the fifteenth floor without a ladder'. He said, 'I scurried up the drainpipe with the intention of fighting you. Let me in. Im losing me grip'. What was I supposed to do? Me on the fifteenth floor and him clinging on to my window sill. It was obvious. I said to her, 'pass me that pointy stick. That one there. The one I use to taunt the ferrets. Pass it here you sweet pudding of delight'. Yes! I began to poke him. Gently at first and then much harder as it became clear he didn't want to experience the forces of gravity and tumble to the ground. Anyway, after beating him for several minutes and shouting, 'clear off Bill. This is a good home. A family home that places great store on being able to watch Pointless without being disturbed by a tap, tap tapping on the window' he suddenlyreleases his grip on my window sill, screams, 'Jimmy Carter' and then began his fall. As to the outcome of the fall and not being bothered either way because I couldn't be bothered to witness the terrible hurtling toward the ground, I simply turned round, stuck the newspaper back on the glass, got into bed to hear that Jimmy Carter was the lowest answer and the next question did not relate to 'spices', which, given the circumstances was a huge disappointment to my dear wife.

Brilliant Paul!

Dippy, you any good with cuts. He may bring a knife.

Enough! Enough already! No more talk from Cardin! I want to fight him. I must! It's inevitable that he and I will meet and trade blows. And if he turns up at dawn this Sunday on the Castle Green beneath the leafy shadows of the autumnal rich tapestry of leaves that are about to fall off, may fall off or because like all of us they've lost the will to bother falling off, he won't find me lacking in the courage department. I am a stranger to danger. A man who knows no fear and is barely cognisant of pain. I challenge Bill Norman to a fight. And I know he reads these pages! I know he does and so I say to Billy, meet me down at the aforementioned location, arm yourself with whatever you can grab a hold of, get down here and do your worst. Yes, Im due a victory and a moment in the sunshine of success. Hitherto, its been drew one, lost three and chickened out of twenty five, but come Sunday Im going to win this bout for all the bewildered and demented folk who diligently recycle their waste, pay their Council tax and refrain from gathering in public spaces shouting, 'Bill Norman you are a stinker'. I've had enough! And mark my words, I know when I've had enough, may have had enough and haven't had enough because I've no idea what day it is because Im out of my mind on ale and diazepam. I want to fight Bill Norman. Just he and I. Skin on skin. Man to man. So confident Am I that I'll knock his bloody bonce off, all I'll have adorning my fat bloated body are my Grandmothers old boxing shorts, her heavyweight sixteen ounce gloves and one of her collection of gum shields gathered from the pockets of a thousand lovers. Im serious. I want to fight Bill Norman and come Sunday morning Im going to be building up a sweat as I await the arrival of Cardin's nemesis. Put your money on me. Mind, if he is the registered owner of a small pocket Derringer capable of being secreted beneath the buttocks of his backside, put your money on Norman especially if you've got information that suggest he has acquired a bullet. This is my moment and ill be damned if I let is slide from my grasp!

Well done our Chris. Thank you so much.

Im given to understand the total number of objections is just over twenty. Bloody twenty! After all the thousands of reads, pages and pages of comments responding to Dippy's topic, only twenty odd people could be bloody bothered. Apathy ain't the word I'd use to describe this. It's a bloody disgrace. That's what it is. A disgrace and its no wonder 'they' feel they can do whatever they like to us because we can't be bloody bothered. Me? I thought collectively that we were better than this. Clearly we ain't. They say, in life you get what you deserve. Well if that's true, and I suspect it is, we've got exactly what we deserve because 'we' can't be bloody bothered. Oh, it's fine and dandy to sit behind a keyboard and tap out a message that says, 'I'm with you brother', but when shove comes to push 'we' can't be bothered to lift a finger. Well I'll tell you now, if this 'do' this Saturday evening confirms to me that 'we ain't bothered' my reaction is going to be, 'I can no longer be bothered with you'.

Cambo, I know you'll be there old friend. See you on the night mate.

And lets hope it is a success because as things stand at the moment I've no bloody idea who's coming. I know of two tickets being purchased and they were sold to the Ubique family who, though unable to attend, still forked out a tenner to help us out. As things are at the moment I can see me and the Gridknocker sat there wondering how and why it all went wrong. If we don't get bloody sixty through the doors, he and I take a hit and that means one thing, Im going to hate you all forever. Bloody be there! The Richmond Club, this Saturday at 7.30. It's a fiver and its all for the benefit of Rosé Tinted Rags who's business is in people. People! People just like you and I who are trying to get a better life for themselves. Im getting bloody angry just tapping out this rubbish. Im serious. Im pumped and Im charged. If I don't see and embrace sixty bloody people at this 'do' I am withdrawing my labour from these pages. Please, throw me a bone of encouragement and tip up at this 'do'!

Course, last night we had another pointless conversation. Yet another one to add to the mountain of sh.it thats been exchanged between she and I. If ever the art of talking rubbish ever becomes an Olympic event then we two will most definitely medal. I mean there she is laid in bed scratching and sniffing at one of those girlie magazines that allow the sniffer to smell the odours of the latest fragrance gifted to the world by the bloody latest winner of Celebrity Big Brother, when she suddenly gets it into her head that the Council may kidnap me. 'Say you were fishing for Barbel on the Wye and the Council kidnapped you. What should I do. Should I negotiate with them'. I said, 'bloody hell! Where did that come from'. She said,'Oh come on. You never know it could happen. Should I open up a line of communication or completely ignore them'. Course the sides of my pit of despair began to crumble didnt they. I got myself hauled into this pointless exchange didn't I. I said, 'don't bloody ignore them. That's the last thing you do when your dealing with hostage takers. Ask them what they want. If they want next to buggar all. We're in business because we've got buggar all. Pay the buggar all and get me back'. Course, then it all gets worse doesnt it. She says, ' I'd need proof of life wouldn't I. I think I'd ask them to post me a leg'. I said. 'Not a bloody leg. A photograph of me with the Admag will do thank you very much'. Mind. It then progressed to an area where I became highly concerned that she would actually communicate with them, say, 'yes I'll pay the fifty quid but before I do I demand you post me his right leg.' I said. 'Listen you rotten old bag. Whatever happens, as unlikely as it is, don't ask for me right leg or even the left leg. If they start suggesting severing my body parts then just ask for a finger. Not a bloody leg'. But that wasn't the end of it was it. No! Not in our bed. She says, 'say I got you home. Say they did cut your leg off. What would you do to make a living'. I said, ' bloody hell! I don't bloody know do I. If I've got home without me bloody leg then planning a future career in the private or public sector would be the last thing on me mind'. Course, then I got thinking about it didn't I. I mean losing a leg is a big thing. Popping out one day with two legs is one thing but hopping up the street is an entirely different proposition. I said, 'I'd becomea street beggar. Yes! That's what id do. I'd become a street begged. Folk would throw money at me because I'd only got one leg. It's a money spinner. I couldn't fail'. Was that the end of this pointless shi.te? No! Not in our house. She said, 'say another beggar moved onto your patch and lets say he had no legs. You'd lose a lot of custom. Folk would pay him with no legs more than you with one leg. You'd have to lose another leg and an arm to get back on top of your chosen profession'. I said. 'Right. Stop sniffing that bloody perfume. Im going to sleep. I refuse to continue on this journey that sees me getting cut up into tiny pieces simply because the Council chose to kidnap me.' Bloody woman!

Buggar it! I'll tell you why I hate this sign. And hate ain't to stronger word. I hate it completely. In fact, the word hate doesn't adequately describe my feelings toward this rotten sign. Loathe is a much better word to describe how I feel deep within my stomach as the twenty seven miles of my stomachs intestine tubing gradually nibble away upon the half kilo of Scratchings I shoved inside my fat face last night as I stared at the image of that bloody sign. And I'll tell you all why, not that any of you are interested. I hate and loathe the man or woman who first came up with the notion, 'hoorah! I'll forward this idea to my line manager who'll think me bloody wonderful and perhaps allow me the honour of clipping their toe nails at some future date.' And that's just for bloody starters. I hate the person who read the idea and called a bloody meeting and whatsmore I loathe and detest each and every single human soul who then gathered around this idea, ran with it and then, to protect their fellow man from being washed away by this vast bloody deluge, decided, 'this is a noble cause, we're surely be able to claim we've saved scores of needless deaths from drowning and, who knows, someone may promote us onto a higher pay scale'. As for the tw.at who then set the wheels moving and phoned up some metal fabricator and sign writer who subsequently produced this loathsome sign, I hope they get the golden opportunity to be stood there peddling on the excercise machine and be washed into the bloody Lugg because they hadn't thought of hanging a Life Jacket upon their rotten sign. Course, its all a complete waste of time. That bloody sign didn't just arrive there. Before its arrival hundreds of human hours would have been spent pondering over it all and possibly thousands of pounds would have been taken from the public purse so that those now enjoying this public amenity could do it safely knowing that if ever they did drown then its all their own fault because they took no notice of the sign

I bloody hate this sort of pigswill and so as to emphasise my point, Im going to completely ignore the golden opportunity to mock these fools and place a rotten full stop at the end of my pointless piece. They can get stuffed!...

The whole 'bag of rats' is sending me ever loser to the edge. I can't bloody sleep! Radical action is required here. I've gotta bunch of sources within the Council and as good and brave as they are, they ain't higher enough up the pole. I've gotta get higher up and so I've decided that I must sleep with Geoff Hughes. If anyone knows what's really going on, its Geoff and when he drops anchor after sailing around bloody blighty Im going to meet him, seduce him and find out exactly what's going on. I've no choice! Someone's gotta do it and seeing as Im an adventurous lover and more than happy to talk dirty beneath the duvet, Im going to seek him out, make love to him and get him chatting after he's reached his climax. That's the thing with pillow talk, once exhausted by the whole love making thing, the males of our species can't stop gibbering on. Once my wife has violated me Im forever going on about this, that and the other and ive no reason to believe that Geoffs going to say to me, 'put your grannies frock back on fatso, pay for the room at the Holiday Inn Reception and clear off'. Mind, if he did, I'd say, 'you've used me Geoff. Tell me about the Gagging Payments or Im kissing and telling'! Yeah! That's the answer. Mind, I refuse to cozy up to Bill Norman. I'll be damned if I stoop that low and if any of you lot start moaning that I won't, I'd say, 'you go sleep with Bill, I'll sleep with Geoff and lets see who can get them to talk first. Put your bloody money where your mouth is instead of attacking me on Hereford Voice'.

GDJ. Brilliant old friend. Truly wonderful to read.

Clarkester, Yes my old friend, I remember it well. Ain't it awful! Good bloody grief!!! Anyway, to any one out there who has a Facebook account, I'd be grateful if you'd visit the Herefordshire Council Facebook page and pop a supportive comment to the question I've asked them about Compromise Agreements. I tried to word it in a way in which they won't send me hurtling off down the FOI route which TANNER & CARDIN have already been down. My warmest regards Clarkester. Take care pal.

It's a strange, strange reality isn't it? Here we are in this age of modern enlightenment, news coverage twenty four hours a day and something as fundamentally important as this issue is, and we can't be told how much it cost us. I think it's also tragic that people like our Mr Paul Cardin have to do so much work, face so much hostility and be subjected to huge pressures that surely must have an impact on the health, simply because they choose to ask why rather than sit there and do nothing to halt the slide. Our Bill Tanner, whilst he's a great journalist and the source of much of what we find out about, even he must have to fight these debilitating daily battles to extract information that, sooner or later will come out anyway. It all comes out. It always does but in the meantime, Cardin, Tanner and the rest of us have to keep tapping to put pressure on Councillors, who've really no real idea about what's been going on, just so that someone up on high caves in, gives up, resigns and makes way for another who'll then do exactly what his predecessor did that got us all moaning and tapping in the first bloody place. It's bloody relentless. What's wrong with concluding that Compromise Agreements, as the Council like to call them,are wrong! What's so bad about concluding that Council staff shouldn't be paid ninety thousand pounds simply because somebody unaccountable to us and elected Councillors thinks it a good idea to pay this money to someone who's leaving their employment anyway! And to dress it all up as good practice instead of saying what it really is, highly paid public servants feeding at the trough of public money, only adds fuel to the flames. Truly, it wouldn't surprise me one little bit if no elected Councillor knew a thing about what's been going on. I'd believe it! Call me a fool but I'd believe it. From what I've seen, from what I know and from what my sources have told me, the top floor of Plough Lane are beyond any accountability and it would be of no surprise for me to learn that the top floor never told their political masters anything about anything. And if this is true, and it bloody probably is, then God help us because its a sure fire indicator that other things, other illicit things, have been carried out during the procurement process of contracts which, like this hidden secret, will eventually be exposed and we'll all say exactly what we said when the MP's expenses story broke, 'never again. You won't fool us again'. The truth is, they can fool and trick us over and over again because our democratic structure allows them to behave in this poor way. I tend to agree with our Denise. I've looked deep into the eyes of Tony Johnson and whilst he is a lovely chap with some fine qualities, being inquisitive and wanting to grab a hold of our Chief Executive and his underlings to discover exactly what they are getting up to, ain't one if them. This leader of the Council hasn't a clue and if he tells me, 'I haven't got a clue about anything', I for one believe him.

It gets bloody worse. The Commercial wont serve me. What a sh.it day. And as for the above comments, it says a lot when my dear and old friend Aylestone Voice try's to mitigate my personal disaster by saying he saw me in action! What bloody action? I got handed the microphone. Muttered something about Compromise Agreements and Gagging Payments and more or less was told to clear off. I'm bloody drowning and you lot are painting the water. Bloody Hell! I've just done me sums and the whole thing cost me £13. Bloody 90 rotten pence. £13.90 to have my ar.se kicked in front of an audience of complete strangers. Good God! Course, she's of no help is she. 'Well', she said, 'you give it and so you should take it. It's about time someone cut you down to size'. I said, 'you rotten old bag. Can't you be a little kinder to me. I'm feeling all bloody sensitive aren't I'.

And the mighty Megilleland was there to witness my torment. In fact the more I think about it the worse it becomes. I'm going down the pub to get over this. What a shi.t night!

Dippy my dear and sweet friend. I didn't ask the bloody question. I couldn't get the bloody question out. As soon as I mentioned Gagging Payments I became as popular as the bloody bubonic plague and was required to walk. Course Cambo and The Gridknocker sat there grinning didn't they. Bloody humiliation that's what it was and if anyone says otherwise they're a liar and an embellished.

Truly, I'd have sooner stood in the Commercial, picked out the biggest tattooed beast in there, walked up to him, handed him my Shimano Barbel Classic rod and questioned his parenthood. His reaction,which would probably have seen me sucking Scotch Broth through a straw for a fortnight would have been easier to bear than this burden of humiliation. The Barstard!