May Contain Notts' previously dormant interest has been piqued by goings-on in the charming village of Cotgrave, where a local mouth-breather has been given three years for racially harassing a local takeaway, making them deliver pizzas to his house, and generally gooin' abaaht reckoning he's summat. (There was a picture of him on the Post website, but it's gone. But then again, all these twats look the same - imagine a gibbon that's been licking lead paint off a stick all day, and then had a full-body shave). Christ on a crisp packet, it's one thing to run a shop and get robbed by the local Deliverance extra. It's another thing entirely to actually have to take the shit to the fucker's house. Deepest sympathies to the Shalimar takeaway (you can't miss it - it's in between Five Star Key-Cutters and Kid Creole Krazy Kuts).
Yeah, I've seen that sign; "WELCOME TO COTGRAVE. A BIG FAT CUNT WITH BITS OF PEPPERONI IN HIS TEETH OWNS IT. DO WHAT HE SAYSAT ALL TIMES". I bet he even waved a fist dead close to his face like Bully Beef while he was saying it, an'all.
Thankfully, there's a silver lining amongst all this racist mouth-breathery. We've all had our doubts about the standards of hygiene in certain pizza places. After reading this story, I have the comforting image in my head of a kitchen in Cotgrave, with Jeffrey Daniel and Howard Hewett lowering their leather disco trousers and masturbating furiously onto a deep-crust, while Jody Watley empties her nostrils Rugby League-style onto a garlic bread, and all of them growling "Gonna make THIS a night to remember, BITCH".
Apologies for my rubbish maintenance of this blog, but I'm currently editing LeftLion while the proper Ed is poncing off round the world. As you can see by that skill cover above, it might just have been worth it. Alas, Page 6 - featuring a bleddy mint article about Gay Nottingham by the chap who writes this blog - was mangled beyond recognition for some reason, so we've thrown it up on the website. You can - and should - read it here.
Shoving another handful of strawberries into Nottingham's chatty snout, LeftLion issue 21 is now available in all decent locations in town (but not the outskirts just yet, because our delivery van nearly blew up on Trent Bridge yesterday). A dead arty one, this, with loads of stuff about CCAN, Nottingham regeneration, interviews with Roni Size and Gallows, and all the other stuff you know and love.
Lots of talk about vermin with shotguns in town at the moment, so here's a light-hearted story about petty crime. It appears that Bulwell is piloting a new eco-friendly scheme; recycling bell-ends. Obviously, there'll be the usual moaning (another bin to look after, getting the collection dates mixed up, the stench of two-week-old crackhead attracting flies in summer, etc), but it's worth a try. And well done to the Post for exposing a new and sinister development in criminal methodology;
I dunno about you, but this is a bit scary. I don't know how I would react if I heard a noise at 3am, pulled back the curtains, and discovered a gang of youths using one of their own as a battering ram, or loading him into a massive catapult made of discarded shopping trolleys.
It only seemed like yesterday when Parliament and the military were arguing the toss over whether Harry Bastard should go to Iraq or not, so congratulations to the Royal Family for learning their lesson and keeping Prince William's even more dangerous plans to go out on the mash in VIOLENT, NO-GO DEATH CITY NOTTINGHAM a state secret. According to the Post (who are absolutely pissing their knickers with glee over the story), he spent an evening at the Pitcher and Piano before going on to Oceana (and then presumably going across the road to Food Factreh for battered swan, chips and caviar). Gawd Bless 'im, he's just like one of us, etc (Apart from having six security guards around him. And his Dad owning Cornwall. And being able to masturbate into a handful of £50 notes if he hasn't pulled that night. Even though his Nana's face is on them, so he probably wouldn't. Make that €500 notes, then. Etc).
Despite all the cooing and arse-licking, however, I remain unimpressed. When the Post's website said 'Which Nottingham bar was Prince William drinking in?' I guarantee that everyone in Notts with a brain automatically said 'The Pitcher and Piano. Because it's big, and predictable, and up its own arse, and full of twats, and shit. And I bet they went to Oceana afterwards, because that's where all the divvy out-of-towners with no imagination go" .
And anyway, if I was him, and I had six hand-picked security guards with guns and everything who've probably been instructed to take a bullet for me, I'm not gonna fuck about in Twat Church - I'm going in Yates, or Libertehs, and I'm kicking the fuck off. "OI! Your missus looks a decent bit o' fanneh - what's she knockin' abahht wi' a CUNT LIKE YO' FOR? YEAH! I SAID IT, YOUTH! And yeah, I AM wearing a Derbeh shot under these robes, ACTULEH - yo' wanna MEK SUMMAT ON IT?"
Royalty, alas, is wasted on the Royals. Still, here's hoping it starts a trend, and we see Harry Bastard going in the Thurland soon, in his Nazi uniform.
Another chapter in the storied history of the Nottingham music scene was written by the Post today, who were rather excited to discover the bassist of Hepburn working as a Detective Constable in Notts, which makes a refreshing change from dragging your guitar to The Running Horse or whatever ex-band members in Nottingham do, I suppose.
Naturally, it's only a matter of time before someone from ITV commissions a crime series involving her, the little one from B*Witched, Lolly, and all of Vanilla taking down criminals in Mansfield with GIRL POWER (with Cheryl Baker as the firm-but-fair gaffer, and maybe Billie Piper could come in for the pilot show).
(PS: according to an acquaintance in the biz, his appreciation for Hepburn dimmed somewhat when he attended their launch party in a posh London hotel, pulled back a curtain he shouldn't have while they were onstage, and discovered an all-male band playing the instruments)
That, my friends, is the quandary being forced upon 'Millionaire soccer ace' Jermaine Pennant this morning, as he riffles through the country's leading Sunday shit-rag and reads about his old man being an EVIL MUSCLE-BOUND BOSS OF A SEEDY CRACK DEN (as opposed to a nice, well-kept crack den, presumably), as well as getting information on what prostitutes in Radford are charging at the moment. And I bet his first reaction, like all of us, would be to scream; "Ah DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! PUT SOME FUCKING TROUSERS ON, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! YER ALLUS SHOWING US UP!" before stomping back to the bedroom to listen to Bullet For My Valentine at top volume.
Now I've got me Sexperty head on again, I'm absolutely delighted to find a news item that can fit into both blogs, as it features big tits and Mansfield. Next time I hear a mate in the pub trotting out the standard rammell opinion that if he had a massive set of jubblies, he'd wouldn't stop playing with them, I'll stop him mid-sentence, direct him to this news story, and say; "No, mate, you wouldn't. You'd be sat at home getting your tits out on East Midlands Today."
Yes, despite the small matter of three Notts schools being announced as some of the worst in the entire country, the BBC decided that the top news story of the day was a pair of massive Mansfeldian mams. Which must have been great news for anyone having their tea. Personally, that pic above is giving me some serious Clockwork Orange flashbacks. To use the vernacular, that lad had got some right fucking tit on him.
If you ask me, I think the bloke has every right to be fucked off about not getting a breast reduction off the NHS, his life must be hellish. There was one lad at our school who had the same ailment, and every time we were getting changed for Games, he'd be surrounded by sex-crazed youths trying to cop a feel. "Ah man...let me suck them tits, Guy...give us a soapeh tit-wank..."
Of course, my fear is that it might be some kind of virus, and by the summer Nottingham will be plagued by gangs of brick shithouses from Mansfield in bra tops and rabbit ears pushing men into corners at Jumpin' Jaks and bellowing "YOH WANNA SHOT ON ME FOO-KIN' TITTEHS, YOUTH? GET YOH FOO-KIN MAATH RAAND THESE COONTS, OR AH'LL FOO-KIN' PAN YOH!"
(and yes; I'm wondering what those market boxer shorts are saying too. 'Calvin Clark'? 'Calvin Clap'? 'Calvin Claat?')
Personally, I'm a bit shocked by this. How could an area that closes down its swimming pool and opens up a drive-through KFC across the road possibly fall into such a state? How could this happen in a place where the Greggs has the kind of queues that you used to see on the news whenever there was a bread shortage in Communist Poland? How could a part of town where the only sporting facility the locals ever use is the short-cut across the 'Golfeh' to get to Tesco and the nearest bingo hall (pausing to flick V-signs and scream abuse at anybody about to take a shot, naturally) sink so low? (he wrote, as he bit into the crisp sandwich on the side of his laptop and eyed the remains of the Quality Street tin)
Personally, however, I'm not here to talk about the collective lardiness of the people of that gentle town with its babbling brook (who will be hereafter referred as Bulweebles) - do I look like fucking Trisha or summat? The thing that interests me here is the sportswear aspect. I've been to Bulwell far too many times in my precious, precious life, and it's true; they're all absolutely batcheh for manky sportswear in that place. I'm surprised that NCT didn't add a third rail to the bit of tram network that runs through Bulwell, so it would look like there was a huge adidas stripe across the place on Google Earth.
This might be a little hard for our younger readers to take in, but once upon a time, sportswear was an absolute status symbol. I remember growing up in Top Valley in the 1970s, and being in awe of the Abbs brothers, for the simple fact that two of them wore white Admiral Man United away trackie tops. OK, so maybe they wore them all the time, and by 1978 they absolutely funked, but the fact remained; you could not buy this shit in a shop. God knows how they got hold of them. While our Mams were fobbing us off with Littlewoods long-sleeved t-shirts and claiming they were Forest tops, those two lads were undisputed kings of the street, because they were wearing the exact same thing as Joe Jordan and Gordon McQueen.
(and bear in mind that there was precisely one sports shop in town, the almighty Redmayne & Todd, which was the best shop in Nottingham ever ever EVER and had an absolutely gargantuan Subbuteo section).
I even supported Man United in the 1976 FA Cup final and cried when they lost, just because I wanted a trackie top just like that. Me mam should have disowned me.
By late 1977, I finally got hold of a Forest trackie top, with the logo and everything, and it was my turn to dominate. Nobody - and I mean, nobody - had one, and kids at junior school would beg me to let them wear it for a bit. In fact, my first contact with puberty happened because of that top; I lent it to one lad who was in goal, and when he gave it me back, it absolutely reeked of sweat (I got him back later, when he split his trousers reaching down for a ball and I silently pointed out the massive skid mark in his kecks to everyone else).
By the 80s, Casual Culture (or 'Shadies', as they were known in Notts) kicked the door right in. A gang at our school started calling themselves the Hi-Tec Crew (tsk...rubbish trainers), and people were going to obscene lengths to get hold of a £75 Tacchini trackie top or Pringle jumper (with the resultant effect being that half the kids at school either looked like Games teachers or middle-managers on a golfing weekend). From there, it was a very short jump to Bulwell creating enough static electricity to power five hospitals whenever some indoor whale in a chatty Reebok tracksuit brushes against another gutbucket in a Lonsdale top in another sport shop that doesn't sell anything you could actually play a sport with. Sigh.
...are now whittled down to a shortlist of three, and can be seen at the Council House this week. It has to be said that none of the proposed statues look much like Cloughie at the present time, and are a bit underwhelming. When you're up against something as skill as this, you have to come stronger, I'm afraid. Anyway...
Les Johnson: I like the pose, but it's totally unsuitable for a statue that will be on the streets of Nottingham. As anyone who has ever walked past the statue of Robin Hood by the Castle will know, it is almost obligatory for anyone having their photo taken with it to cup Robbo's bollocks and laugh, as if they're the first person to ever think of doing such a thing. That pose there is leaving the great man's cobbers completely unprotected. And if I ever saw some sucky bint on a hen do handling my idol's junk on King Street, I would not be responsible for my actions.
Keith Maddison: This is the most Clough-like pose, even though it's inevitable that some pisshead in the Square will assume that some metal bloke is 'fronting up' to him and will charge over to have a go. However, I'm not enamoured of the face, the Umbro logo on the sweatshirt, or the rolled-up trackie-bottoms making it look as if Cloughie is wearing the kind of boots sported by Monkey whenever he was giving some demons a kicking or trying to convince Pigsy that the woman he was trying to get his trotter over was actually a Slug-Monster.
John McKenna: Despite the more obvious Forestisms in this one, it's my least favourite. Some Notts meathead is bound to piss up against the logo and start a civil war, and it looks like Cloughie has commemorated his retirement by wrenching the Forest badge off the side of the Trent End and is pegging it for a bus. In their defence, however, the accompanying busts look a lot more lifelike facially than the statues. Both the statue fund and the Council are soliciting opinions, so get involved.
There's been some unbelievable acts of poncery committed in Nottingham over the past decade, but this takes the biscuit, if not the whole packet: Sneinton - the part of town accurately described by someone in the MCN forum as 'sounding like it's come out of someone's nose, and looks like it too' - now wants to be known as 'Sneinton Village'. Yes, there are some nice bits in Sneinton, but let's consider the facts;
This is a village. This is Sneinton. This is a village. This is Sneinton. This is a village. This is Sneinton. Are we all clear on that? Good.
Dunno if you're aware, but when I'm not representing for the NG and putting in work for the set at LeftLion, I make some sort of a living writing about sex and relationships for mags like Scarlet and Cosmo as a sexpert (which means I have sex, then I spert, tee hee).
Therefore, it gives me a not inconsiderable tingle in me loins to announce the launch of Todger Talk, a new sex blog that is put together by myself and a couple of other very eminent people. One of them is Sam Van Rood, who is GMTV's Love Doctor. This means that if Eamonn Holmes, for example, ever got worried about erectile dysfunction, or Lorraine Kelly wanted to have a go at Pony Play but was unsure about what kind of bridle to get, Sam would be the one they'd be having a discreet word with in the pub. Probably. My other compadre Dr Ayan featured in the BBC series Street Doctors, and was once filmed talking to blokes about their prostates in Viccy Centre. Which makes him absolutely ROCK in my eyes.
My first post is here, and is not advisable reading for anyone who is having their tea. Particularly if you're having a dollop of Heinz Tomato Ketchup on their fish fingers.
(PS: Fret not, my local bread-bins: the post level in MCN is not going to suffer because of it. Promise)
Thinking of moving to Nottingham? Good. Not sure about where to live? Even better, because I'm about to hip you to one of the great paradoxes of this lovely town.
You see, in most other cities in the UK, you can tell what an area of town is going to be like just by its name. For example, you could have never heard of London in your entire life, look at a map, and go "Hackney? That sounds like a right dump. Peckham? Ugh. Dulwich Village? Ooh, that sounds nice", and you'd be bang on the money.
Try that in Nottingham, on the other hand, and you'd be shagged. For some reason, either by fate or design, there's a strange maxim to the naming of areas, and it goes something this; the nicer an area is, the more horrible its name is, and vice versa. Don't believe me? Let's have a look at the top end of the market;
AREA
SOUNDS LIKE
ACTUALLY IS
The Park
…you’re sleeping on a bench, under some newspaper
The dead, dead, dead, dead, dead nice bit of town
West Bridgford
A service station, with a Wimpy and a bust House Of The Dead cabinet
The posh but quiet bit on the other side of the Trent
Wollaton
Grim Dickensian village, littered with sheep carcasses
Well nice and very green part of town
MapperleyPark
A mental institution (which it was perennially associated with until Rampton came along)
Full of massive houses as big as God’s head
LadyBay
Something dead rude (“I drove my cock-lorry right into her LadyBay”)
West Bridgford’s little sister
With me so far? Let's now move down the other end of the scale...
AREA
SOUNDS LIKE
ACTUALLY IS
RisePark
The kind of safari park people honeymoon at
TopValley with a nicer tracksuit
Forest Fields
Lush green eco-haven
Where the students live
Arnold
A cuddly jumper-wearing uncle
A big post office, and little else
TopValley
Luxury ski resort where Fergie goes
Massive Tesco, horrible pubs
Bulwell
Picturesque village in Jane Austen book
Place where Steve Austin would get started on
Hyson Green
Cricketers on the square, old maids cycling to church, etc
Youths in hoodies cycling on the pavement
Bestwood
The magical place of refuge that the rabbits in Watership Down were trying to get to
Known to media as ‘No-Go-Area Bestwood’ (even though there's a bus service, and everything)
The Meadows
Flowery glade where Bambi and his chums skippety-skip all day
Where Doom would have been set if there were PCs in the 70s
St Anns
Girls school in Enid Blyton novel
Definitely not a Girls school in Enid Blyton novel
This is precisely the reason why people around the country get confused about gun crime in Nottingham; when they read about St Anns v The Meadows, they must think it's some kind of varsity hockey match. I tell you one thing; when the council announce the building of a new estate called Knifington or Anal Dog Pustules, I'm putting me name down for a house immediately.
I had the full intention of starting the New Year in an optimistic kind of mood. And then I read this story in the Post. And it reminded me of how I spent New Year's Eve bouncing on the door of the Orange Tree for the LeftLion do. And then I remembered that instead of shutting the doors at 1oish and going off and enjoying myself, I had to stay on the doors, because their beer garden has to shut down early so as not to offend the residents (evidently, 50 people on the pavement outside fagging away and gassing on doesn't make any noise at all), which rather fucked up my New Years.
So I will say this once again: If you have decided to live in a Ponce-Box in the Lace Market and are complaining about the noise at night, you are a twat. You're no less of a twat than someone who moves to Rockall and then moans about there not being a Spar nearby, or someone in the BNP who relocates to Soweto and then complains about 'Blackies' bringing down the house prices - and that, as I'm sure is even aware to someone as fuckwitted as you, is extremely twatty indeed.
Listen up, bell-ends; why the fuck should I and the thousands of other sane people in Notts forego our birthright of getting kaylide, shouting at people of the opposite sex in the street, and generally attempting to forget that we've got shit jobs to go to in the morning just because YOU were fuckwitted enough to buy a shoebox in OUR city centre because you saw Sex In The City and all those shitty property programmes on Channel 4?
I don't usually bother to make New Year's resolutions, but here's one I'm going to keep to in 2008: whenever I'm in the Lace Market after hours, I am going to bellow "BIG! 'AIREH! FANNEH!"as loud as I can, no matter what time of the morning. And if these pissy-knickered mitherers get on your wick as much as they do mine, feel free to do the same.
Welcome, everybody, to the upstairs room at the Thurland for the inaugural May Contain Notts Awards of 2007. All of Nottingham’s movers, shakers, and knifers are in attendance, and we’ve just had a splendid three-course meal in a giant cob. Ooh look, there's the Slanty N just coming out of the bogs, and Sherwood Bear is over in the corner trying to suggest a threesome with Twiggy and Jo.
Well, the bingo's just about finished, so we can finally open those envelopes and cast an eye over another eventful year for the glittering jewel of the East Midlands. And the first category is…
***SPORTS PERSONALITY OF THE YEAR***
Yes, it’s been another great year for sport in Notts, just as long as you’re not arsed about football, and you really, really, really like ice hockey. The nominees are;
Carl Froch, for having another unbeaten year
…including a five-round mashing of former WBC champ Robin Reid in November. Anyone who can make people in Nottingham actually pay to see someone punch someone else in the face must be pretty special. Forest and Notts twats, for running about on the pitch at Meadow Lane in a preseason friendly, like bell-ends
I was there. It was like your missus trying to resurrect your beached whale of a relationship by giving you a lap-dance, only for her to leave a 12-inch skid mark on your best trousers.
Well done, Neil. Don’t move, let me just put this newspaper underneath you. Here’s your award, now fuck off back to Millwall you chatty bastard. And our next award is...
***SMALL BUSINESSPERSON OF THE YEAR***
It goes without saying that Nottingham is teeming with enterprising people with their eye on an opening in the market. Particularly Bulwell Market. So what if most of what they do is a bit, well, illegal? The runners-up are;
With a special mention to his missus, who claimed that she was bathing her kid the entire time that he re-fitted it and was surprised to find it there afterwards.
That smackhead in St Anns, for continuing to claim her next-door neighbours pension 18 months after he’d died and was found by the police in an advanced state of decomposition
You’ve got to admire anyone who can see the fiscal advantages of a bad situation. I can imagine him trapped in the World Trade Centre on September 11th, thinking “Skill! While everyone’s chucking themselves out the window, I can absolutely rinse the stationary cupboard!”
More awards later. But now, put your hands together for the one and only SU POLLARD!
Thanks Su. And talking of the great artistic bounty that Nottingham has bestowed to the world, our next award is…
***CULTURAL EVENT OF THE YEAR***
Nottingham, as we all know, could not be more vibrant and eclectic if it turned itself into a massive Aboriginal dildo, and 2007 saw many huge developments. Broadway getting some new enormous blue windows. The council erecting George Best’s old house on top of some old buildings. And some other things. And our nominees are;
When I was at school, there was always one girl who would show you her bits in exchange for a copy of Smash Hits. Obviously, now that said mag is defunct, I applaud ArnoldHillSchool for taking steps to remedy the situation.
The fountains in the Square, for thought-provokingly not working for a bit
Yoko Ono must have been right pissed off for not coming up with this one; spend a fortune on the piping, construction and planning of a new fountain that youths can’t empty a bottle of Squezy into, which then produces…nothing. Apart from a flood of mithering letters to the Post.
Unknown graffiti artist, for the thought-provoking ‘Suck Your Mum’
If you live in the South of England and are travelling to Nottingham by train, what is the first thing you see when you reach our lovely hometown? NottinghamCastle? The Inland Revenue offices that look like a Nazi POW camp? Those horrible signs that say ‘WELCOME TO NOTTINGHAM – HOME OF CAPITAL ONE’? No; you see a huge piece that says, to everyone coming to our city, ‘SUCK YOUR MUM’. Simple. Minimalist. Genius.
It’s not there anymore, but you already know what it looked like; shitty Grime music. Misspelled captions. Twats waving guns about. Obligatory shot of someone else’s pit-bull. Etc.
Obvious choice. Here’s your prize, Sir – a massive tattoo of the Village People on your face. Next award, please...
***THE LUDICROUSLY VIOLENT INCIDENT OF THE YEAR***
Naturally, this is the most fiercely-contested award tonight – so much so, that all the nominees have been strapped up to those mobile Hannibal Lecter restrainers. And the runners-up are…
The inbred cousins from Eastwood who started hitting each other with pool balls in socks in a pub in town, because they were bored
Not just any meat cleaver, though – a meat cleaver secreted inside a baby’s pram, like Shogun fucking Assassin. Still, as anyone with a babby knows, it’s a right mither remembering to take everything you need out with you. Nappies…bottle…sun hat…dummy…favourite teddy…throwing death stars…
The father and son from Broxtowe, for beating the shit out of two blokes who they thought had robbed from their house
Say what you like about Charles Bronson and the Death Wish series, but you must admit that he had a bit more class than walking about a street in Bilborough with a hammer in one hand and a golf club in another. Especially when you’ve got the wrong house.
No, mate. If you want to get on as a dealer, you offer the first one free, or you offer a discount. What you don’t do is say “Ey! Buy mah foo-kin droogs, or I’ll shank yoh!”
An outstanding achievement, as I’m sure you’ll all agree. We now go over by satellite to one of the five pubs he’s still allowed to drink in…oh…we appear to be having some technical difficulties…he appears to be…beating people to death with the camera. Oh well.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for a short break in the proceedings. Here’s….ALVIN STARDUST BEING JABBERED AT BY A DUTCHMAN!
Ta, Alvin. Without further ado, we move on to a very special award indeed…
***THE MAY CONTAIN NOTTS LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD FOR UTTER CUNTISHNESS AND TALKING ABSOLUTE MINGE ABOUT NOTTINGHAM***
So how the FUCK can Nottingham be the fourth worst place in the country to live in when FUCKING MANSFIELD is only ninth, you BELL-ENDS? Have you EVER BEEN TO FUCKING MANSFIELD, you smug, know-nothing, DRIBBLINGS OF WANK DOWN THE FACE OF AN ELDERLY PROSTITUTE? HAVE YOU? HAVE YOU? I’ll tell you the worst place to live in the UK – INSIDE YOUR SHIT-ENCRUSTED, MEDIA-WHORISH, DELICIOUSLY-PUNCHABLE CUNTY HEADS. Take your award, stick it up your fucking arses, and FUCK OFF WHILE YOU’RE DOING IT.
Ahem. And our next award is…
***THE WORST THING TO HAPPEN TO NOTTINGHAM IN 2007***
Always a favourite category, this one. And the nominees are…
The Broadmarsh Centre, for wanting to get bigger
What kind of a lead paint-licking gibbon would want to increase the Broado by three times, when it’s obvious to anyone in Nottingham that the best thing that could happen to the place is to reduce in size, preferably to the size of a matchbox. Ooh yes, let’s have another Top Shop five minutes walk from the other ones, that’s a great idea.
Come on, Mark Arthur, get up here and take this award. Go on, do that bit where you say that Forest are going to be in the Premiership in a few years time…HA HA HA! What’s that? ‘World Cup venue’? HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! Oh Mark, we’re going to have to book you for next year’s awards, you’re fucking killin’ meh.
And now, the final award of the year is…
***THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO NOTTINGHAM IN 2007***
When you think about it, 2007 was very good to Notts. Don’t believe me? Have a look at the nominees…
The Not As New As It Was Old Market Square, for finally not being a building site any more
Yeah, you can moan about the fountains not working, or the expense, or getting Toneh ‘Ahleh Aht O’ Spandaah Balleh to open it, but the fact remains; it’s so good to have it back.
The Hard Rock Café, for shutting down
No offence to it – apart from the fact that it was some rubbish touristy dive of the type beloved by Italian exchange students in pastels – but it used to grieve me sore to see that lovely building that divided King Street and Queen Street defiled with a big and horrible sign. And it’s going to be the location of the new Cloughie statue.
Steve Green, for announcing his retirement in 2008
Sorry Steve, you seem like a pretty nice bloke, but you really shouldn’t have nobbed off the Drug Squad to concentrate on burglary.
Central News East, for shutting down in 2008
Goodbye, skateboarding rabbits. Goodbye, deliberately interviewing the most toothless window-lickers you can find in the Square for vox-pops. Goodbye, pretending to be in a floating News-Pod in the middle of the Trent when you’re actually in a studio in Birmingham. Goodbye, that rubbish news-reader with the funny-shaped head.
And the winner is…
Colin Gunn, for being sent to the Naughty House
Say no more.
And that concludes the May Contain Notts Awards of 2007. Thanks for watching, and may your New Years Eve be as much of a gargantuan piss-up as ours is. See you all next year, and to see us out…BRING ON THE DANCING GIRLS!
