bobby47

How terribly sad. Poor people. On a lighter note, it seems as though a Police Investigation, a Coroner and a Jury Inquest are now no longer required thanks to The Telegraph. I ain't so sure this 'piece' of investigative journalism is an entirely good thing for anybody concerned in this sad and tragic tale.

He's and angry young chap isn't he! Bloody Hell! Abu Baki al -Baghdadi. What a nasty bit of work he is. My God! He definitely wasn't breast fed was he. You don't see the lads staggering up the street with a carrier bag full of ale shouting, 'we're off to Baghdadi's for a good bloody laugh'. Good grief what with the beheadings, the stonings and now the bloody crucifixions he's the sort you want to keep well away from. If he comes up my path demanding I convert, I'll open the bloody door, throw me Scratchings to the floor, embrace him, throw myself on the Prayer Mat and with my tiny pocket compass I'll be facing bloody East screaming, 'Give me the blood. Give me the Healing. Allahu Akbar'. I'm converting. You'd be a fool not to. Bloody religious zealots. Every bloody time they fire off a bloody bullet or a bomb or slice some poor souls head off its, 'Allahu Akbar'. Bloody Hell. Mind, when half a bloody mountain falls off, flattens the village and concusses thousands, they don't shout, Allahu Akbar then do they? No they bloody don't. If half a bloody mountain fell off and hit me on the bloody head that's the last thing I'd be shouting. More like, 'you miserable toss pot. After all the bloody praying we've done this is the last thing we expected from you Allah' And of course you've got the last remnants of New Labours social engineering gang who's mantra is, 'Dont Tolerate Diversity. Celebrate it'. I'd like to see what they'd say if al-Baghdadi tipped up at their abode with a bloody sharp knife and a bag of rubble. Let them celebrate that and tell me how happy they are knowing that God approved of their horrific death. Bloody religious zealots. We've got Bush and Blair and they've got Abu Baki al-Baghdadi. Well he doesn't scare me. Never has and never will and i'll be damned if I change my daily routine simply because I've just insulted him. He can do his worst as far as I'm concerned. And the poor Muslim British! My God, how they must hurt inside knowing that their religion is being associated with a complete headbanger who was never given the opportunity to suck upon his Mothers breast. If ever there was an argument that breast feeding was good for you then this is it. I'd say to all the Moms out there who are heavily pregnant and near on ready to lactate their motherly milk, 'get your new born baby breast fed as quick as you can.'

Well I'll never stop smoking. Ever! If my mouth were actually bigger I'd smoke two at the same time. If some entrepreneur invented a helmet that allowed you to smoke in your sleep I'd wear the blasted thing. I love smoking, I love ale and without them I'd be an entirely different person and frankly, given that its great being me, I wouldn't change a single thing. Being 'me' is a bloody joy and I couldn't care less if it chops a few years off my life cycle. As far as I'm concerned being a smoker and a drinker allows me to be original and thankfully sets me apart from all these dull boring barstards who's aim in life appears to be to reach the age of 110, never commit a sin and then donate their shiney pink lungs to some poor soul who wouldn't mind living the life I've managed to have. What's more, I thank God I've an addicted personality and an excessive nature that allows me to smoke and drink and be happy with the consequences. All these devil dodging do gooders who wish to eradicate all risk in their pursuit of the perfect sinless society can all get stuffed. Stretch out for Heaven if you wish to but don't stop me embracing Purgatory! Being drunk and puffing on a cigarette is my idea of bliss and I'll continue doing it as long as my diaphragm allows me to breathe in and out. My only regret in life is I'll never recapture the rapture of 2004 when I was laid up in Hospital with a battle injury and they blessed my life with diamorphine. For the best part of six weeks they pumped this blissful chemical experience into my veins and it was truly the best time of my life. I've howled at the moon before but never have I howled at our heavenly satellite in quite the same way as I did back then. What a pleasure. A complete privilege to be out of my mind on a chemical that allowed me a brief glimpse into a life of joyous delirium!

Wonderful!

Well I ain't accepting delivery of their German manufactured plastic bin because I'm a black plastic bin bag man. Always have been and always will be. What's more, my old man would'nt have been a black plastic bin bag man if they'd been available back then because he was a silver metal dust bin man. Always was and always would have been had it not been for the Tram that flattened him near Lime Street Station. They can get stuffed. I ain't having it. I'd sooner become a fly tipper than comply with this latest instruction. They'll never get me to use the blasted thing. Never!

This tale of woe is really worthy of more discussion. Imagine the picture after they'd taken the telephone call. 'Lads, banish our fears that we are up against a Mastermind. The Holy grail was taken from Weston-under-Penyard and the relic is now eight hundred yards away secreted in a public house in Lea'. 'Hoorah', the troops would shout, 'the thief was a complete idiot which puts us at a slight advantage'. Not once did the Police consider treating this scenario with caution and a little common sense. 'Buggar knocking at the door, playing the whole thing down and getting written authority from the publican to have a rummage round'. No! Not for the lads who'd been liberated from their fears they were up against a criminal Mastermind. 'Lads, glory beckons. We'll take quick advantage of this fool who's hidden the Grail on top of the bar at the Crown Inn, we'll swear out a warrant and dozens of us will tip up and recover this ancient relic.' I mean for Gods sake didn't they glance at the map and realize that Lea is the next door neighbour to Weston and it'd be highly unlikely that the burglar, even a thick burglar, was likely to have staggered into the Crown Inn crying, 'hoorah I've got it. Lets pop it up on the bar for all to see'. It's Operational name? I'd have thought 'Bell Bloody End' would have been appropriate. It's truly depressing to think that despite their vast intelligence systems, despite all their equipment, their training and their knowledge of criminal activity, they'd simply do all this because of an anonymous call to Crimestoppers.

Bloody Hell! This result makes my posts look interestingly accurate and informative. My God, the Mastermind behind this little job will be heartened to know that the Police are behind him. About two years and a thousand miles by the looks of things. Good grief! To think that all it takes is a phone call to CrimeStoppers and they'll do all of this to you. Course, tomorrow the lads will regroup, they'll put aside this latest disappointment and move on to some other area of business that'll see them in confrontation with an easier target. A heterosexual white English Christian who, because he's starving stupidly decided to take a loaf of bread out of Morrisons Skip without permission. A detected box ticking Theft, a Caution or Warning, a DNA sample and a pile if paper you'd wish you'd never generated should get the lads fired up as they continue their pursuit of the Mastermind. The Police hierarchy will soon be out to face the camera and as usual, with a frowning brow and a curled lip, he or she will trot out the usual tripe that is, ' if you commit crime, we will find you and we will catch you'. They say it all the time nowadays. What they don't tell you is which date or year this is going to happen. They keep that to themselves. Mind, I suppose if they said, 'we will find you and we will catch you on the day after Pan Cake day in 2017 you'd be alerting the Mastermind to the day he'd get found and caught. I suppose on that day he'd simply find a really good hiding place like a thicket of Hawthorne bushes and stay there until the day after Pancake Day had passed and then emerge with the old relic and shout, 'hoorah! I'm the Mastermind and I'm far to clever to be found and caught.'

I've ripped this off and done it at my home. You'll laugh!Best Prank Call Ever by Tom Mabe - YouTube â–º 3:27â–º 3:27 www.youtube.com/watch?v=rBfsdkGeMc8 29 Jan 2009 - Uploaded by Nick Macdonald the best and most epic prank call ever recorded! apparently MabeInAmerica was the telemarketer.

Well done Dippy! Very, very good.

Well, as much as I care for and admire our Glenda, I'll be damned if I ever let go of this whole Bobby Fortyseven thing. In fact, I've become Bobby Fortyseven. I am Bobby Fortyseven and the real me was left behind a long time ago. Not because I chose anonymity deliberately. I didn't. I simply plucked a name out of the air, registered on the Hereford Times and now I am where I am now. The King of Cra.p! And in any case, what good would it do me if now, after all the rubbish I've shoveled out I suddenly decided to change my handle and provided my enemies with my real name. First thing that would happen, some fool would present a Regulatory Investigative Powers Act application form claiming that I was a subversive sort intent upon disrupting Council business. They'd dress it's up, present it to Bill Norman who'd happily sanction intrusive surveillance on me by the Council's little surveillance team who are tasked with carrying out both foot and mobile surveillance on those they consider a threat to local democracy. Then, the R.I.P.A application would authorize the Council Officers to monitor the electronic traffic created by my tap, tap, tapping on this keyboard, my mobile and landline phone numbers would be under scrutiny revealing who I knew, who I spoke and who I did business with and then, finally, when I was out fishing for Barbel on the banks of the Wye, two blokes in a van would tip up at my abode, slither up my drive, pop the ladder up, drill a few holes and install cameras to watch me in my home. You think I'm paranoid? Really! Mark my words this form of intrusive surveillance is going on every single day of the week. The Council have the authority to do it if they can show their actions are proportionate and you'd all do well not to think that my words are the rumblings of a paranoid idiot. No! Call me old fashioned. I much prefer Bobby Fortyseven thank you very much. Do you trust the Council to properly use the Provisions of R.I.P.Act 2000? I know I don't!

I ain't no 'toker'. Wouldn't know where to buy it, how much to pay for it or what form of Cannabis to use but, since I've become older, wiser and more tolerant to change and different lifestyles, I've come to the conclusion that making Cannabis a controlled drug, in this day and age is a pointless exercise and all we are doing is criminalizing a group of good people who simply like to have a puff of Marry Joanne and howl with laughter at the moon. Times have changed and legislation should be for the people, by the people and for the benefit of the people and I no longer see any sense in a young man or woman getting a criminal record for using a natural herb and being hamstrung for the rest of their lives because of a criminal conviction or a Caution for what is essentially a peaceful activity. In these times of stretched and strained resources, little public funding and a vast amount of Cannabis readily available to millions of young people, what's the point spending huge sums of money to recover a few ounces of Cannabis each week and be fully cognizant that three or four kilos of Cannabis have got through the net and are out there in Hereford undetected by the Police and other investigative agencies. The whole Cannabis thing is a nonsense and its time for our society to accept that Cannabis is as much a part of our society as tobacco and alcohol but much, much less dangerous and problematic. Course, there are dangers and problem areas. Any fool can see them. But, accepting that since the Misuse of Drugs Act was introduced in 1971, nothing as come close to ridding our culture of Cannabis and indeed many other natural drugs so i say lets grasp the stinging nettle, use some common sense and make Cannabis legal.

What are you doing my old friend? You've got seventy thousand words to produce before the end of February, 2015 or your publisher ain't going to be happy. Clear off! Leave the rubbish to me and get on producing something that's good, lasting and worth reading.

When it comes to being critical of Tommy Agomba and all the lads from the East End, I'd advise all United supporters to tread carefully. These lads, from Ham, Bow, Plaistow and Stepney are tough lads. Tough! They ain't your mamby pamby, pen pushing jotter blotters who, if you fall out with them they may punch you in the gob. Not these lads. More than likely they'll nail your head to a door. That's what they do in the East End. It's common practice. Fall out with someone and you get your head nailed to a door. Often you can cruise around the East End and you'll see them. Staggering back home with a door nailed to their head. They'll say, 'I've no time for small talk. Out of my way. I've a door nailed to my head'. In the East End, it's Blags, Jags and a Million Fags and if you step out of line arguing about the price of a kilo of Clams or Jellied Eels you'll probably get your head nailed to a door. That's the way of things in that manor. 'Stop your wriggling', they shout, 'be still while we nail your head to this light oak door'. Course, having your head nailed to a door can't be nice. I wouldn't want it. Who would? You'd be an odd sort if you wanted your head nailed to a door. I've researched this practice and not one person has said, 'I've had my head nailed to a door and frankly it's the best thing that's ever happened to me'. More often than not, they all say, 'what a dreadful experience. If I'd known then what I know now I'd have never allowed my head to be nailed to a door thank you all very much'. Mind, I'm not suggesting that you should run for cover if you see Tommy or one of the lads wandering around High Town carrying a door and a carpentry kit. They're probably carrying out a bit if work on the side and they've no intention of affixing your head to the door. But, if you've been vocal and you've complained that Tommy and the lads have buggered it all up and they know who you are, my advice is to shout, 'Tommy, the Police in these parts have a zero tolerance attitude toward heads getting nailed to doors', run away and when your happy he and they can't possibly catch you to carry out their crude carpentry work, stop, shout, 'Tommy you are a rotter and a stinker' and then continue your journey home. Mind, the lads don't scare me. Never have and never will. If I get a tap, tap, tap on my window and I discover that Agombar and the lads are outside holding a door, a nail and a two pound lump hammer, I'm calling the Constable. I'll be damned if I sit back and allow these East End lads to nail my head to a door. My message to Tommy and the lads is this. This is Hereford and around these parts we do not acquire wooden doors and nail heads to them. That'll make them think twice before they introduce their cultural ways to our fair City. In fact, the more I think about it, the angrier I'm getting. How dare they tip up here and think that we are happy to have our heads nailed to doors or any other piece of wooden furniture.

And I'll tell you something else, if ever they put this 'piece' on the readers section I'm going back 'home' and Im going to be telling folk exactly what I think of Hoople. I'll be damned if I sit back, open my mouth and swallow whatever it is Im required to swallow. Never! Im going to start my own Society that'll be called, 'Why The Mad Barstard Hates Hoople'. That'll upset the apple cart. That'll make them mutter, 'Good Lord. The fool means business'. I ain't having it. I know what I'll have, what I won't have and what I might have to have if ever Im forced into a corner and I'll be bloody damned if I have this. Never I say! Not while I've still got the ability to string together a coherent thought and say, 'I hate Hoople' and anyone who even dares to disagree with me has been convinced that the whole rotten package has saved you millions and they ain't no friend of mine. There! I've said it.

Bloody Hoople! If it lived, bled and drew bloody breath I'd take that entity, drag it to a lake and I'd throttle it and drown the beast of burden. What's more, I'd howl with laughter as it gurgled, squealed and wriggled as I dispatched it to a place that didn't require me to help fund its madness. My God! To think that they've got the bloody neck to ask the media to celebrate the vast haemorraging of public funds by this dog of a arrangement. If it were up to me, and lets face it, it'll be highly unlikely, I'd visit their premises, tell all the front line services to return to Plough Lane and go about their work unhindered by these fools who claim that the existence of Hoople is saving us millions. As for the suits and the many tiers of command that suck the life out of our public services, well they'd be kicked by me out of the building and onto Job Seekers Allowance. Sadly, because our entire democratic service has been undermined by them and Common Purpose, gently and quietly without any fuss the Reporting Staff at Hereford Times will do as they're told and begin to write wonderful things about this horrid Arms Length Company that's been created to divert public funds away from our critical gaze. It'll happen. Mark my words it'll happen and it'll happen sooner than any of you think. We are bloody doomed! Beggared and hamstrung by a bureaucratic beast that needs bloody feeding more than I'd like it to be fed. Bloody Hoople!!!!

Here we bloody well go again. It's the bloody British. Fool me for thinking bloody otherwise. Once again, thanks to the New Labour social engineering programme that subjected an entire nation to its doctrine of 'you are a racist if you ever mention a minority group', still, even now, Mole, our wonderful Dippy and God knows how many more, cling onto this warped view that if there is a problem then in the interests of multi cultural dogma we should blame everyone rather than the real source of the problem. We're bloody doomed. I bloody despair. Bloody New Labour. How on earth did they manage to do this to my Country. Our good friend Mole finds one establishment who perhaps have chosen to try and compete with these thieves and sell some illicit contraband and all of a sudden it's, 'hallelujah. Lord be bloody praised. We are all at it'. Good bloody grief! Heaven help me if ever you lot are right and Im wrong! If one more person comes on here and tells me that 'we are all at it' and shifts the blame away from these shops who are stealing from us on an industrial scale Im going to go up the rotten shed, get me Black & Decker drill and give myself a full frontal lobotomy.

Herefordshire Locality Engagement Toolkit!!!! If ever there's a good reason to stab yourself and them in the eye with a soft leaded pencil, its this little cutie that some blue sky thinking, operational lightweight, I love the word passionate, hub, partner, smart thinking, robust and bloody positive outcome for our service users, dreamt up whilst sat at his or her bloody 'break out space' desperately trying to come up with some more original boll.ocks that's intended to justify their pointless existence beneath the canopy of wealth. Whoever came up with this whole 'Toolkit' tripe should be woken from their slumber, dragged howling and screaming into High Town and be Taser'ed in front of the howling mob. If it were within my power I'd find this person and do it. Whatsmore, I'd enjoy seeing them ride the lightening bolt howling,' Take me Jesus Im ready'. Truly, this lot are like tics. Nothing more than sycophantic bottom feeding parasites who's only contribution toward public service is the odd management speak buzz word that takes on a life of its own and sticks around until some other fool comes up with something new and exciting for these idiots who's hands are around my neck, your job and our bloody economic prospects, throttling the bloody life out of any commonsense and straight speaking. I'd lime to take their Toolkit and hit them across their toes with whatever they've got in their bloody Toolbox!

They're thieves. Nothing more and nothing less and they bring shame and distress upon all the good and honest migrants who settle here to work hard, play by our rules and better themselves. Thieves are what they are. They take advantage of our soft underbelly and welcoming nature and they simply do not care that they are raided and lose the odd batch of hand rolled tobacco and packed cigarettes. These thieves are stealing from you, me and every single person who pay what the Government requires us to pay. This money, that's ours and should be paid into the exchequer gets money laundered, slides away from these shores and ends up providing a wealthy lifestyle to those that willingly cheat us every day and week of the year. Truthfully, and Im not trying to undermine the good work of our Trading Standards people but the profits are so huge, their targets don't care about being raided. In fact, they know its coming and they ensure that a batch of hand rolled tobacco and packed cigarettes are readily available to be seized when the Law come a calling. Essentially there are two streams of revenue for these thieves. The illicit stuff that's of poor quality and nicely packaged that gets driven over and delivered to the safe houses in our City and the mules who get in a van, take the trip to Calais, drive to Tobacco Alley in Adinquerqe, Belgium and purchase more than their personal duty allowance of two and a half kilos. And that is pretty much that. It ain't difficult. It ain't complicated. It's easy and highly profitable and that is why the thieves simply don't care about any future consequences. And once again, with the greatest of respect to Trading Standards, when they catch these thieves my guess is they'll roll over, blame some obscure minority group that's got buggar all to do with it, claim they're being hounded by violent gangsters, leave the Police Station happy that they've provided the authorities with a load of rubbish and round and round we go again. And how do I know so much? Down the pub. Everyone, including the mules talk about it. It's common knowledge and its been going on for years.

Dippy, that is seriously good old friend. Well done.

Well said the pair of you. It's bloody rubbish. My warmest regards.

My God! I've been the purveyor of some nonsensical pigswill in my time but surely, having read this back to myself, there can be no one who can argue that Im not the King of Cr.ap! Good God! Three Ton of Gold, Metal Detectors and the Triple 'H' Society. What's it got to do with Billy? Nothing! It's all rubbish. I've gotta get some help! My apologies for my previous post. I've gone far, far to far over and beyond the edge of reason and sound thinking.

And I'll tell you something else that's got buggar all to do with anything. I've no time for Strimmers, the Strimming community and their desperate need to Strim and whatsmore, I'll tell you why. Not that its worth bothering to read. Me and the lads are members of the Triple 'H' society and we meet thrice daily down at the Commercial where we discuss the business that relates directly, indirectly or not directly to the Hereford Hoard Hunters. T'other day, I stood up on the chair, ale dripping from me mouth and I said, 'Lads, for years we've been searching for the Herefordshire Hoard without any success whatsoever and so I've decided that from hereon we are not going to sweep fields that we know the Saxons never ever visited or settled in.' Course, then the lads kicked off gibbering and muttering calling me a Big Time Charlie with high cholesterol. I said, 'from hereon we are going to sweep fields that we know the Saxons travelled through'. I explained that if we could find such a field we could take our Metal Detectors out and possibly find the whereabouts of three ton of gold left by a troupe of Saxons who perhaps had decided that they couldn't be bothered to carry it anymore, buried it and continued their journey to Bath & Wells to bathe in the Spring Water and cure themselves of whatever it was ,that made them to tired to carry the aforementioned three ton of Gold. Course, the mood changed didnt it. 'Halleluzah'!, they cried, 'Fortyseven is a genius lets be gone, find this field and become rich' I said, ' Lads I've found such a field and we'll travel there right now but, under no circumstances do we turn our Metal Detectors on. I'll be damned if I sit back and repeat the mistake we've made on countless other occasions, namely, our Detectors become activated and we begin detecting precious elements before we've got halfway up Commercial Road.' And so, with our Metal Detectors set on 'Sensitive' but switched in the 'Off' position, we set off avoiding the usual mayhem of the constant bloody beeping brought about because our Metal Detectors had detected the Ford Transit Van we were travelling upon. Having arrived in this field, I gathered the lads together and said, 'lets spread out in a line, get ourselves one hundred yards apart and on my say so, we switch on our Detectors.' The lads, cognisant that I wasn't pis.sed and I had a look in my eyes that suggested I was determined to find three ton of gold, immediately carried out my instructions. Then I shouted, 'lads turn on your Metal Detectors'. Course, because of the bloody distance we were all apart, they couldn't hear me could they so I waved and beckoned the lads back to me and I said, 'For Fu.cks sakes, we are to far apart. Lets do it all over again but this bloody time make it eighty bloody yards'. Anyway, after repeating this pointless bloody process a few times we finally arrived at a distance of forty yards apart and I shouted, 'Lads, for the last fu.cking time turn on your Metal Detectors'. After telling two of the lads to buggar off because they had flat batteries, we began the sweep determined to find half a dozen Saxon Gold Death Masks and enough Gold to sate my personal vices for several lifetimes. Then, as we all staggered through the cow shi.t, mole hills and rat droppings, all of a sudden me bloody Detector went Beep, beep, bloody beep, beep. I said, 'lads Im having a reaction and it ain't my eczema'. Then, incredibly, all the lads began to experience a reaction from their Metal Detectors. I cried, 'lads, glory beckons. Three ton of Gold and we've detected it'. And so our exciting journey began following the beeping sound that became more rapid as we all hurtled across the field toward a small hillock. One of the lads yelled, 'me bloody bar is beginning to bend'. I said, 'that'll be three ton of Saxon Gold. The bar can tend to bend if you detect three ton of bloody Gold'. Then it happened! As we approached the hillock all our Metal Detectors began to give off a continuous siren, all our bars began to bend and as we hurtled up the hillock fully expecting to find three ton of Saxon Gold we suddenly stopped, turned off our devices and stared at a group of forty people commonly know as The Stretton Sugwas Strimmers. We'd detected them rather than the three ton of Saxon Gold we'd been hoping to detect and that's why I hate bloody Strimmers.

First we had the pleasure of the mightily impressive Paul Cardin who's currently celebrating his third success against Wirral Council who desperately want him branded a 'vexatious person', then Wirral Leaks, then Level80 registered with us and now, perhaps the most prolific tapper of vowels and consonants on the Wirral Globe, the incomparable Growl Tiger. Mind, I've got one problem with The Wirral. Wrong side of the tunnel. My old man used to tell me on our trips to New Brighton, 'they think there bloody it on The Wirral. They've all got curtains up against their windows'.

Course, it hasn't been my best day down at Plough Lane has it! There I was, sat in me office nibbling on a kilo of Pork Rind harvested following the slaughter and strangulation of the Council's prize winning Razorback Suckling Sow, when me secretary Agnes tapped on the door and said, 'have you finished pleasuring yourself. I've got your ten thirty here'. I said, 'bloody hell! Tell the world won't you, I can't help it if I produce an ungodly amount of semen.Is it Little Bill and has he agreed to present himself naked?'. With an odd mix of tones that could best be described as gently feminine whispers and a howling screaming yell brought about because she'd stubbed her toe on an old cast iron cooking pot whilst preparing a meat stew to feed a table of eight, Agnes cried, 'Yes, but he ain't happy with it'. 'Excellent', I responded, 'send Little Bill in and we'll begin my scrutiny of his Strimming activities'. And in he came. Naked, angry and clearly uncomfortable that I had chosen to wear my Grannies old boxing shorts, her sports bra and had consequently placed him at an immediate physchological disadvantage to me. Greeting him with a manly hug and a firm handshake, I immediately put him at ease by saying, 'your penis is flaccid, as is mine so please relax, banish any thoughts that you'll be violated in this room, help yourself to a scratching and lets deal with the issues that need to be addressed by me, the Councils new Ethics And Standards Monitoring Officer'. Cognisant that Little Bill was at his most vulnerable, I went straight for the jugular. I said, ' on dates unknown in the hamlets of Orcop, Pencoed and Saddlebow Hill, whilst engaged in Strimming the grass bloody verges, you Little Bill, the Wild Beast Buggaring scoundrel, ninny and downright stinker crept into several lush green meadows and subjected a herd of bovine beasts to acts of manly love. The games up Little Wild Billy. Lets have the truth. Admit it and clear yourself before God and Man'. Course, it didn't go well. He screamed, 'I'm no Strimmer. Im the finest legal mind in Herefordshire'. I said, 'slow down. Reverse a little. There's no need to overeact. Why get so upset. It's a perfectly reasonable question. I put it to you that you've subjected untold numbers of commercial farming animals to acts that even God would describe as 'the work of a complete rotter'. He said, 'I ain't no Strimmer. I've never Strimmed, ive no desire to ever Strim and I'll be damned if I sit back and take this'. And then the penny dropped. The realisation that I'd perhaps strayed into an area that placed me in a frightfully difficult position with someone who had the Latin. Oh he had it all. 'Habeas Corpus, Mens Rea and Affadavit. I had in fact put my beastly allegation to Herefordshire's finest legal mind Bill Norman instead of a Strimmer of overgrown grass. I said, ' Are you a Strimmer of Grass'.? 'Have you ever been a Strimmer'. Would you ever choose to Strim even if it weren't your job, and then, after perusing through my notes and realising that I was interviewing the wrong Billy, I said, 'I sincerely apologise Bill. It's all an administrative error.' Brousing through the notes, whilst the finest legal mind in Hereford tried to throttle me with Grannies bra I desperately tried to explain to Billy that I'd mixed him up with Little Bill the notorious beast Buggaring Violator of members of the Animal Kingdom. Quite simply, because the Chief Legal Officer was described on my list as ' A Beastly drain on public funds and a dodger of FOI's to establish how much money he'd been able to get from the public purse, the term 'beast' had completely thrown me, ruined me entire day and left me with a sore neck after getting throttled for perfectly understandable reasons. The moral of this pointless and nonsensical pile of rats urine? Get your facts right. Study your brief and above all, ensure that a Strimmer of overgrown grass does actually involve themselves in the Strimming of overgrown grass and, better still they own a Strimmer to cut that overgrown grass or have access to a Strimmer that would enable overgrown grass to be cut at hazardous road junctions. As for Freedom of Information requests that perhaps try to she'd some light on the wrongdoing that can lawfully take place nowadays because 'we' no longer matter, I often wonder whether or not its become a pointless excercise.

Ubique, Absolutely no problem my dear and good friend. Mind, if you stagger out of the Commercial and Nick decides to discharge his taser unleashing fifty thousand volts and makes you wish you'd never ridden the lightening bolt, don't come telling me, 'whilst he lit up every bloody blood vessel in my frail body and burnt the roof of my mouth to the bone,he was only doing his job and he was so nice doing it to me'. I'll tell you now, if Nick ever comes up to me and unleashes that vast amount of voltage upon me I'll be writing to the local Commissioner demanding Nick has his Taser taken from him. Whatsmore, if he doesn't Taser me and instead decides to spray me with CS Gas or even thrash me with his Baton Im going to be asking him why?