Ooh, this makes me mad. The Post have started a campaign to stop fat bastards in our city from cramming more fistfuls of Cheesy Wotsits down their glutenous maws. They've even roped in Nottingham's top athlete, the lithe, muscular, er, Lee Westwood. Hey, I'm not slagging it; anyone who's been to Jumpin' Jaks on a Friday night will know that certain people in the City of Snot aren't wearing a bra top as well as they might. The author included.
But you only have to read today's issue and clock the tale of Paul Appleby, and the rank stench of humbug and cant positively fills the nostrils, rather like when you take a short cut down Hurts Yard on a Friday night and that minging chicken place at the bottom have left their doors open. This feel-good tale of a man who overcame a back injury by joining an athletics club and running in marathons not only gives you a Chariots Of Fire earworm, it also displays the kind of spirit that the Post should be championing. Yet, due to the small matter of him claiming the sick and telling benefit officers that he needed walking sticks, a frame and wheelchair, our local newspaper choose to vilify him. For shame!
(Oh, and next time, mate, better wear the rhino costume)