bobby47

Oh it's all kicked off on my Facebook page. Harry's been on. Him and his bloody head. I wished I'd never bothered. It's getting to the stage where you've gotta bite your lip and say nothing about another's head. Folk get all precious about their head. Me? I couldn't care less about me bloody head. It's of no concern to me but Harry ain't happy. He writes, 'whilst I fully accept my eyes are to close together and my hair cut is on the tidy side, I take exception to negative comments made about my head.' I replied, 'clear off Harry. I diligently recycle my rubbish and Im entitled to an opinion about your head. I don't like what's going on inside your head, namely the intent you appear to have to destroy our heritage and for reasons beyond any rational understanding, I've taken a dislike to the outer parts of your skull, namely the head. To clarify, all I see beneath the neck I like. I'll fight any man or woman who argues otherwise. You've a lovely body and I wouldn't blame any man or woman needing to become intimate with it. It's your bloody head I've a problem with and I'll be damned if I ever say otherwise.

This is all getting out of hand. I've no problem with the body parts beneath the neck. You'd be a hard to please sort if you started complaining about Harry's lower body parts. Im with his family and loved ones on this issue. There's nothing wrong with his lower body parts and if they, his family come on here kicking up a fuss because some of you lot ain't happy with all the stuff beneath the neck, Im going to side with them. All Im saying is there is something about the head, the area above the neck that's upsetting me and that's it. Nothing else. Im not one of those odd sorts who'll find fault in anything. Not at all. As soon as I glanced at the area beneath the neck my initial thoughts were, 'lovely. You'd be a fool to find fault with that. It's a lovely body' It's the head and that's it. Why is the head bothering me? Truthfully I don't know but there's something about it and whatever it is I don't bloody like it and while we live in a free democracy, if I don't like someone's head Im going to say I don't like your head. And whatsmore, if ever Harry comes up my path, taps on my door keen to borrow a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk, Im going to say, 'Harry from hereon when you come up my path begging me for my sugar and milk you wear this bloody balaclava because I don't like your head'. And, having forced the bloody hand knitted garment upon his head and down across his face, he best not start moaning, 'I can't see a bloody thing. These eye holes are to wide apart for me eyes'.

Dippy, Use all your skills to stop the bickering. At the moment, no matter what's said, Smartiano is getting it in the neck and it ain't helping the cause. On a different note, Im looking for interesting scenario's for Harry to become the focus of fun. I ain't doing the Dogging anymore. I'll be damned if I fire him from a cannon and I ain't so keen to hear him tapping at my door late at night whilst I'm coerced into sexual relations with my wife of forty years. Any ideas?

Bloody hell! Lets keep our eye on the ball here. Lets aim our wrath in the right direction. If Harry is reading this codswallop, and I know he is, he'll only become heartened by our bickering over some vague reference to the sins of the Nazis. Lets not beat oneanother up over this. It's getting more and more difficult to express our opposition. I mean, talk on the Hereford Times is we'll be limited to 140 characters. I can't manage with 140 characters. I'll never survive. I'll be done for. Finished! Bloody Hell? That's ten straight away. Rotten stinking Council? Another twenty characters gone. That's bloody thirty gone and I ain't even got started. No! Lets not rip oneanother apart. Rather than kick our friend Smartiano, we should embrace him, say, 'lovely, welcome to the Club' and get on with the business, that is, taking the p.i.ss and lampooning. If there is one thing that I know, and I heard from Ken Livingstone, politicians hate to be laughed at. They cannot stand it. Get your teeth out of Smartiano and bite them into Harry. Please, come on. Lets pull ourselves together and push Harry into a corner. I promise you all this, he's already drafted his open letter to the Hereford Times because of Hereford Voice and the comments made upon Dippy's topic. Lets not let oneanother down and make it easy for Harry not to submit his letter that appeals to the sane and sensible to accept that Harry knows best and we don't matter. Lets all pull in the same direction and stop the bickering.

I've been looking at his photograph. You can tell an awful lot by staring at the image of a local Councillor who's about to destroy something good and of importance to the people of Hereford. For a starters, his eyes are to close together. I've never trusted a man whose got those eyes that imply, 'don't sit down and play three card brag with me because I'm a rotter, a cheat and a bloody big ninny.' Course that ain't the whole lot. Not at all! You'd be a strange fish if you went around disliking everyone simply because their eyes were not to your liking. Im sure his loved ones would say, 'well, we like his bloody eyes just the way they are and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot and shouldn't have unfettered access to a keyboard.' No! It's more than that. Much, much more than that. His head for example. Whilst its not overly huge, it ain't small and I don't like his hair cut. Where I come from you get a basin shoved on your cranium and the shears do the rest. This man takes great pride in his hair cut and that's another reason why I've come to the conclusion I wouldn't want to break bread with him. Anyone who takes that sort of pride in his hair cut instead of sitting down with a bowl on his head and getting his hair sheared off like the rest of us ain't to be trusted. And I've been speaking to folk about Harry. He's not liked. I've yet to speak to anyone who says they like spending time with him fishing for barbel on the Wye. To a man, they say he's tight. Mean! So mean and tight, he'll turn the gas off when he turns the bacon over. That's bloody tight for you! No! The facts here are speaking for themselves. This is a man with eyes set to close together, there's something about his head that I don't like, he ain't getting his hair cut like me and he's a man who's tight with his money. Then there's the personality. Good grief! This poor man must have been badly scarred by his days as a child treading the boards playing King Herod every year until he reached puberty. It couldn't have been easy sat there when the teacher shouted, 'you boy. The one with the eyes set to close together. In all my days of producing Nativity Plays you are the best Herod Ive ever seen and whatsmore, if ever we decide to stage an Easter Play, you are my Pontius Pilate. Yeah! You can tell an awful lot about someone by simply studying their photograph. And if you're reading this Harry, and you will be, unless you change course Im going to write you a part in a lurid tale about a man elected into Office who kept scurrying up my drainpipe demanding demanding something that I've yet to decide upon! Leave the Working Boys Home be, build the Firestation that we don't need in some other place and stop destroying our heritage. Then, and only then will your torment end!

According to observers the Police entered one front door of a shop, charged in not realising that the next door shop was linked. Consequently, according to the gossip, it all turned into a 'cluster f.u.ck' with a group of men and women running off. Alas, they're also getting done for selling illicit contraband which begs the question, 'how many times does it have to happen before they close the place? And also, what is it about us that encourages people to take advantage of our nature and completely disregard the laws of our Country? If it is pristitution and it is selling illicit tobacco and booze then its money laundering. More money not being taxed to aid our nations economic recovery.

Stupidfrustration, Good for you mate. You fight your corner. You are right of course. Facts, reason and sensible argument have no place on my keyboard. Everything! The whole bucket of electronic transmissions that have burst forth from my tapping have been an example to anyone on what not to do. The whole huge bucketful that I've produced has been a complete waste of time and at best in can be described as the ramblings of an idiot badly affected by ale, cigarettes, psilocybin and diazepam. At worst, everything negative that you could think of. Mind, I ain't with my dear friends. Having never been deleted, sanctioned or banned from our Hereford Times I love the paper and all it represents. As for the Editor, Fiona Phillips, she is a great Editor and if it were not for her, her staff and the proprietors we wouldn't know anything that this Council was getting up to. So, no! I have no argument with the HT. As for young Jess Phillips, she's a youngster trying to make her way in the journalistic world and we'd do we'll to get off her back. Not that anyone will take a blind bit of notice of me. Who can blame them. Im sat here beached and blind drunk on a shingled beach in East Cyprus wondering how many nautical miles I am to Syria and when will she call me to her bedroom and say, 'fatso. Get up here now. Im in need of intercourse'. Bloody wife!

Bloody Council! It makes you want to spit. And they wonder why bloody idiots like me germinate and emerge as hostile to the way in which they spoon feed us all these things that only serve to secrete their illicit activities! You don't go shredding documents that you know are of interest to the public. You simply don't do it. Unless of course you've been up to no good and the lie must be buried so that nobody ever can detect whatever it is you've been getting up to. To think, in this day and age, with twenty four hour news, the full glare of the Internet and highly educated people looking on suspiciously at what's been done in the name of democracy, still, even now, they feel able to shred the evidence, presumably shrug their shoulders and not give us a single backward glance. Bloody arrogance. Well, there will come a day when all these things that they've done will come tumbling down upon their heads. It'll happen. Im certain of it and when it does, a collar will get felt and one of their number will face a Court charged with using their position to obtain a pecuniary advantage. It'll bloody happen. And now I won't bloody sleep tonight! Bloody wound up. Shredding! Good bloody grief. That its come to this.

Sadly, all is lost. Despite my threats to roll him round in nettles Mark's not going to continue and that's very sad. I've even threatened to lampoon him unless he changes course, but he ain't concerned. Good luck for the future Mark.

No, you are walking the wrong way Colin. You'll never get covered in oil and thrashed with a wet lettuce if you go looking that way.

This is fun aint it? No, you are both wrong.

This is important!

I'm given to understand that young and vulnerable young women have been used and exploited in a Brothel in Commercial Road and the Police have raided the establishment, That's the gossip and its all over the place. Because it is 'gossip' I won't name the premises but because of the concern of growing reports of Syphilis and other STD, I thought I'd add to the tittle tattle, rumour and innuendo and let you all know.

A 'soft opening'. That's the expression the suits are now shovelling around. A bloody 'soft opening'. Bloody pointless management speak. They've infested every single tier of our social fabric. Bloody 'soft opening'!

Course, I had a bit of the usual trouble last night in the Commercial. I was holding one of my seances that bloody none of you seem bothered about when all of a sudden, whilst I was trying to help Arthur, who's eighty seven, back living with his Mam and Dad because his wife Nora died and he wanted Nora to tell him where she'd hidden his porn collection, there was an unearthly tap, tap, tap on the Ouija Board. I thought funny, this ain't Nora and then, all of a sudden, without any prior warning I began to levitate. I did, I began to rise toward the ceiling. Course, it all kicked off! 'He's floating away', they cried, 'He's trying to get out of the next round'. I said, 'I ain't no round ducker and I'll be damned if I put up with that sort of accusation. Pull me down before I float off and be gone forever'. After they'd dragged me back to my seat, strapped me into my chair, I soon discovered who'd caused me to defy the laws of gravity and modern physics. It was only John Venn, Hereford City's greatest ever benefactor. I quickly tapped out a message that read, 'clear off Venn Im trying to discover the whereabouts of Arthur's porn collection. Get off the line. Be gone. Go bother someone else'. And then it happened. With me eyes spinning like cherries in a one armed bandit, back came his reply as me hand and pointy thing whizzed around the Ouija board. The message read, 'Tell the bloody Council to leave the City be and under no circumstances should they destroy the Old Working Boys Home in Bath Street'.

This is what we do. We allow them their meeting, we even give them a little wriggle room and give them the opportunity to revisit this deluded plan and then, if it all goes belly up and they grow increasingly intent upon knocking everything down and thus increasing the depth of the bloody rubble we are required to trudge over, then we all meet. Yes, we meet. We meet at HQ, namely the Commercial, we organise ourselves, we produce some placards and we protest in a lawful way outside a Council building. That's what we do. And we do it to create publicity. We suddenly become the news rather than them and their bloody holier than thou public service which they so graciously bestow upon us. That's what we do and when I get back to the United Kingdom, unless I get deported sooner than I'd wish because of 'ale' and the impact it has upon my bewildered mind, we are going to do this. We ain't just going to talk and mutter about it. We'll do it. Me and the older members haven't got jobs, we've little or no responsibility so we'll pick up the slack and take on the burden. The others, who've got jobs and family will chip in when they can. This is what we are going to do.

I'd be more than happy to take the credit if it were mine. But it ain't. The change was brought about mainly by Councillor Chris Chappell and its him more than anybody that's saved the day. Mind, I'll not have him worshipped and turned into some living deity. He's bitten me before and there's every chance I'd roll him round in nettles given half the chance. Thank you very much Chris.

The Council have now provided this tiny business with the help they needed. The Council have provided a reasonable date to quit and they've provided them with new premises which will allow them to continue their good works. I've thanked the Council for their kindness and I'd now like to thank everyone out there who has helped this wonderful place. In particular, I'd like to offer my personal thanks to Councillor Chris Chappell, Councillor Jim Kenyon and the mighty Grid Knocker for all they did to aid their cause. Thank you all very much. My warmest regards.

There's a piece on the Hereford Times. If you all have the time, look at it and if possibly leave a comment. The leadership do read them. I promise you they do. They simply can't help themselves. They need to know. They like to read about themselves. They add these things to their personal 'scrap book' that's titled, 'Things I F.U.Cked up whilst in Office'. Please leave a comment folks.

Oh I see. I get it. None of you bothered about the consequences of Hell then. Big Time bloody Charlie's who couldn't care less about being sodomised, having your testicals kicked and being made to listen to a bunch of Confederate Soldiers slaughtering a dreadful song for the rest of eternity. Well don't come moaning to me when I hold one of my thrice monthly seances down at the Commercial. It'll be no good any of you trying to tell me via my bloody Ouija Board that the weathers s.h.i.t and complaining about being hung upside down. I'll simply shift my pointy thing around the board and tap my message back to you which will read, 'Clear Off. Get off the line. I'm having a bloody chat with my Grandmother'. You can't help some folk!

Well said Jim. Good lad. This matters a great deal and sometimes, whilst its difficult nowadays, it ain't just about the bottom line and money, its about 'us' our home and our City. So much has been given away, lost, wasted and cast to one side. The Club is one of those things. We've all lost the habit of not doing the things we used to do like watching the Club. We've stopped pottering about in High Town, we've stopped going to our local pub and we either sit in the house supping ale or we allow our kids to run around all week wearing Premier League team shirts knowing they'll only get to see 'their star players' a couple of times each year because its just to expensive to get there. We are sleep walking to a place that's being swallowed up by business, outside forces and being entertained by SKY. We no longer think because we don't have to any longer. A generation of young people will no longer know what it means to wake up on a Saturday and know your going to see your local team play. They'll not feel the excitement of being in a crowd which humankind are so responsive to, they'll not watch their Dads talking and singing with his mates who always sit or stand in the same place every single game, they won't smell the smells that are all so familiar to a working class gathering, they won't experience the roar of the crowd, the elation of victory and the cold walk home to your 'tea' that's being kept warm in the oven by your Mam. All these things, silly little things will be lost forever and once they've gone, they ain't coming back and we will all be the losers if the Club folds.

After my exchange with Steve regarding 'Hell' I've been having a look at the book, titled, 'Hell. What a Dreadful Place', and in Paragraph six, subsection three it says that anyone who is an employee of the Hereford Council and they are simply carrying out the demands placed upon them by their political masters and their senior colleagues it says, and I bloody quote, 'they ain't going to hell and anyone who says they are has never read the book, 'Hell! What a Dreadful Place'. Which of course means that Tony Featherstone is not going to hell and Deirdre was completely wrong, which, given the circumstances, makes you wonder why anyone with any sense reads the Problem Page of The Sun in the first place. Mind, Hell is a dreadful place. You'd be a fool to ever want to go there. After failing my Eleven Plus examination in the sixties, I was dispatched to an All Boys Catholic School. There, you were certain of three things. Being buggered, getting the Latin and being told a great deal about God, earthly sins, which included masturbating and Lucifer, the Incubus and the Succubus. No, you wouldn't want to go to Hell. You'd be an odd sort if that's what you wanted for yourself after your arteries became clogged up and you died in agony from a Heart Attack because your cholesterol had become sky high and you'd become more swine than human. Basically, this is what happens after the Doctor says, 'good grief, he's **** himself, I can't find a pulse so he's dead.' Obviously you then whizz off downwards. Not upwards. Definitely downwards. If you find yourself going upwards then you ain't going to Hell, which might make you mutter, 'lovely Im not going to Hell'. Once you arrive, you're met in the Reception area by Eva Braun who says in broken English, 'How nice to meet you. Welcome to Hell. Eat this custard slice and here's a tub of ointment to help your anus that'll be violated by the Succubus every fifteen minutes for the rest of eternity. After you've completed all the administrative tasks, a bunch of Lucifer's Hand Maidens all rush in wearing skimpy nighties, drag you across the room, introduce you to the dark one, Lucifer who then pulls out a bloody sledgehammer and smashes it onto your right kneecap which immediately gives you a disability for the rest of eternity. Then, still licking the cream off your lips after the custard slice, the bloody Incubus enters the room wearing one bloody boot. A huge monstrous thing constructed of the finest Portuguese Kid leather that has eighteen lace holes that secure this dreadful thing to his foot. He says, 'lads, this is the boot that'll kick your testicals every fifteen minutes of your time spent here in Hell'. And that is Hell. Every fifteen minutes, not only are you sodomised, you get your testicals kicked as well. You'd be an odd sort if that appealed to you. And worse, there's no Bank Holidays and throughout your time in Hell they pipe one song into your pit of despair, over and over and over again. 'Billy Don't Be A Hero', by Paper bloody Lace. You didn't know any if that did you? No! Because you ain't reading the right books. There, and anyone who says, 'what a load of tripe', I'd say, 'Yes, and there's plenty more where that came from'.

What can you say about Dippy? What a blogger! A loss to the diplomatic corp.

Well Silentbull my good and dear old friend. You died on your arse there mate. Given, the level of objection to you and your post, Im now minded to say, 'you are a rotter and a ninny and you ain't no ally of mine'. Actually lads, I know exactly what you mean and knowing Silentbull as I do, he didn't mean it in the way that it reads. Silentbull is a great lad and his post just reads badly that's all. Of course there's nothing boring about 'us' , this site or any of the views expressed upon these pages.

Steve, a good post my friend and I take on board your view fully. Whatsmore, Im sure you are right that those mentioned in my lampooning are good people. Despite the obvious insanity of my writing style, Im not out of control and I am mindful of what I can say and what I can get away with without being dragged before the Magistrate howling and screaming for some habeus corpus. I am very careful in what I transmit and whilst I know its got a point to its tip, I know that nothing I ever say is deflamatory. Indeed, I make sure that's it's 'me' who appears to be the fool and not the people in aiming my comments at. It's lampooning. It's a legitimate way of getting a point across and keeping Rosé Tinted Rags in the news. That's it Steve. Mind, I'll say this, because I never take anything personally, I do assume that others take things the same way as me and so, if I have hurt you or anyone else including Tony Featherstone, then I offer my sincere appology. It's never my intention to hurt another. It's not personal and I'd like to think that Tony would see me for what I am. A bloody idiot with an over active imagination. My very warmest regards to you. Mind, I'll be damned if I stop. I want Rosé Tinted Rags to be given some help.