LeftLion #19: Scream If You Want To Go Faster, Girls

Students in Nottingham - Blessing or Curse?
The Coral
Nottingham RFC
DJ Looch Mentalism
Justin Moorhouse
Vinyl Abort
Nuclear Family
Athlete
Miles Hunt
Team Hughes
Matt Haig
Moot Gallery
Control

Plus Canadian In New Basford, May Contain Notts, Nottingham's meatiest listings section and all the other regular stuff - with FREE 'Proper Notts' tea-towel for every reader!

If you don't find this lying about tonight, you're obviously drinking at a shit pub. Or you've stopped in.

Oh, For Fuck's Sake

Remember the Robin Hood Marathon? It's now this;

Seriously, are there no traditions left in this fucking town that haven't been rebranded by a stifling monolithic souless corporation? I suppose Goose Fair is going to become the Capital One Festival of Getting Ripped Off And Eating Peas, next.

Soz for the lack of updates - been badly again and backed up with mither. Will try to address what a gwan at some point over the weekend. But now, I'm off to participate in the Boots Festival of Getting Cunted and Going Out For The Fanneh.

Look at this. No, just look at it.

You may have noticed that May Contain Notts has been willfully Forestcentric of late, and for that I can only apologise. But then I rummage through a box of old shit, turn up a souvenir programme of Forest's 1978 League Cup win, find the following advert, and vow to have it scanned in, blown up and framed in my living room as soon as humanly possible. Seriously, look at the quality of this;


OK, my thoughts;

1) Note how only Kenny Burns and Frank Clark seem to be paying any attention to that massively-out-of -proportion hunk of Co-Op steak in any kind of approving manner, which probably explains why the former now looks like this. John McGovern seems a bit scared by it, while everyone else seems to be attracted to something else - possibly a Black Forest Gateau the size of a shed in the corner.

2) We already know that Cloughie regularly prepared his teams for big matches by locking them in a room and getting them larruped - but did Forest really train on gargantuan slabs of red meat as well, and if so, how come the 1978 Forest squad are all still alive? Hadn't pasta reached Nottingham yet or summat? Thank Christ Channel 4 hadn't been invented yet - I couldn't have taken the sight of my beloved Forest queuing up to be harangued by Gillian McKeith, holding their own shit in Tupperware boxes.

3) I know 1978 was a long time ago, but was a hunk of Co-Op dead cow really 'the best' that was 'good enough' for the Super Reds? I know my Dad used to bring it home from work when he was a lorry driver there, but then again he brought home some mushrooms from his mate in the pub the other week that were absolutely lifting with maggots, so I wouldn't exactly rely on his culinary opinion (when me Mam had stopped screaming at him for being so fucking chatty, he pointed out that he still intended to eat them, because 'there'd be a bit o' meat in 'em'. Then she started screaming again).

4) Since when has anyone described people who shop at Co-Op as 'discerning'? Yeah, I go there every now and then, but only because Lidl don't sell hummus or pitta bread. That's not me being 'discerning' - that's me not being arsed to go up the road to Tesco Express. When I worked as a lift boy at the Co-Op taking fat Mams to the top floor, there were many descriptions that flickered across my mind. 'Disgusting' was one. 'Discerning' certainly wasn't.

5) I know Photoshop wasn't around them, but Christ on a crisp packet - look at the shoddy cutout job on Frank Clark...

6) All in all, it shows just how much things have changed. Once upon a time, 'training on beefsteak' was the sign of a successful, well-off athlete at the peak of condition. Nowadays, it sounds like an insult directed at someone's Mam on the top deck of the bus when the schools turn out.

According to a bloke in the pub who was talking to a mate...

Bulwell has more chip shops per square mile than any other estate in the whole of Britain.

(Special thanks to Joe Leivers)

They Were Bleddy Well Winning An'all

Get Well Soon, Clive Clarke.

Strelley Telly Time #4: The Hitman And Her In Ritzeh's

If you’ve ever cocked a sneer at Oceana, or are labouring under the delusion that the 80s were a golden era where everyone looked like robots in pirate costumes, you need to invest half an hour of your time in the following. This is YouTube gold.

A quick history lesson for the yout’ dem; before acting the twat on the X-Factor, and whilst in the middle of his reign as purveyor of synthetic pop-shite in the late ‘80s, Pete Waterman presented The Hitman and Her, a magnificent hunk of tat broadcast live-ish from Zanadu’s in Chesterfield or somesuch that went out on ITV early on Saturday morning, usually when you came back from a proper club and you needed cheering up when you hadn’t pulled or couldn’t get into Rock City.

The great thing about Hitman was that if afforded you the opportunity to rip the piss out of Gary and Sharon as they went about their mating ritual without running the risk of getting your head stoved in, whilst conveniently forgetting that they were happily swinging their chinos in a club while you were at your mate’s house picking at a kebab with the sound down so not to wake his Dad, who was on the post in the morning. The following clips are from the night they came to Ritzy’s – sorry, Ritzeh’s ­– in 1989.

While you're checking these clips - and if you're the same age as me, you'll be scouring them with a magnifying glass to see if you recognise anyone - look out for the following;

1) Pete Waterman relentlessly hyping his latest slab of pop- mank

2) The dance troupe led by Wiggy, a lad who usually wore a blonde wig and some kind of skimpy nappy (fact: my mate was actually approached by Wiggy and offered a slot as YTS Wiggy. He turned it down)

3) Lads wearing ties. Yes, even as late as 1989, looking like you worked in IT on Dress-Down Friday was still a mandatory look at meat markets. If you went past Zhivago’s on a Friday night (it’s now Vision Express in Viccy Centre, kids), you would see blokes going through the bins trying to find a scrap of cloth that they would fashion into a tie

4) Ritzy, although looking like the set of a Albanian version of Dr Who, winning the Discotheque Of The Year (North And Midlands) award. Which must have really fucked The Hacienda off.

5) Oh, and bear in mind that just down the road, The Garage is probably playing Voodoo Ray and Me, Myself And I, Rock City is playing Orange Crush, Love Shack (when it was a new release, and not a club night), and Keep On Moving upstairs and She Bangs The Drums downstairs, and loads of Nottinghamians are in a field somewhere, what with Acid Culture already starting a year ago.

Fact: Pete Waterman believes that the best single Motown ever produced was this.

Forest's Mega-Bog

(I wrote the following for the latest edition of When Saturday Comes. I'm sure they won't mind if I reproduce it here...)

The village of Gotham in Nottinghamshire is famed not only for inspiring an early name for New York (and Batman’s stomping ground), but for being mad. Legend has it that when the locals heard that King John was making a detour through the village (thereby forcing the creation of a Royal Highway that the villagers would have to pay for), they went on an orgy of mentalism – drowning eels in a tub, riding around on horses with sacks of corn on their shoulders to take the burden off their horses, painting green apples red, etc – in order to scare the King away.

900 years later, and the ancestors of the Wise Men of Gotham are in danger of being comprehensively out-madded by Nottingham Forest, who plunged new depths of delusion - and managed to give Notts County fans even more to laugh about this summer – when out of nowhere, they announced that they were to move out of the 30,602-capacity City Ground (their home for 109 years) to a 50,000-seater mega-stadium four and half miles away in Clifton, smack on the doorstep of Gotham.

Bearing in mind that a) Forest are still in League One, b) they’ve only just managed to scrabble their way out of debt, c) although they have the highest average attendance in the division, it’s still 10,000 or so short of capacity, and d) they never managed to pack the ground out even when they were European champions, you may be wondering what the name of God they’re gibbering on about. So am I.

“It would be fantastic for Nottingham. It would say that Nottingham is a forward-looking, dynamic city that has confidence and self-belief,” announced Forest chief executive Mark Arthur, as he waved about artist impressions of something that looked like a massive toilet bowl with a red seat at a press conference in June, pausing every now and then to submerge another eel’s head under the water. “There are many (Arsenal supporters) who didn’t want to leave Highbury, but anyone who has visited the Emirates Stadium will say ‘wow’. What a place to watch football. I would say to any fan that they should visit somewhere like that, see what it looks like, see what it feels like. And perhaps we will go for a slightly scaled-down version of that.” Well, Mark, it’d be nice to visit stadiums like that a couple of times a year, but we can’t. Because we’re in Division Three. Which is a massively scaled-down version of the Premiership.

So what’s wrong with the City Ground? You’d understand reasons for a move if the stadium was a dump, but it’s not. There were plans to expand the stadium to 46,000 in lieu of a return to the Premiership (which have now been swept under the carpet). It’s a short walk from the train station, and a stone’s throw away from the home of the oldest professional club in the world and a world-famous cricket ground, making it one of the most concentrated areas for sport in the country (and it’s conveniently located near to the only Hooters that still exists in the UK, but let’s not talk about that). According to Arthur, that’s not good enough for go-ahead, vibrant, eclectic Nottingham; “If the World Cup were to come to England in 2018 or 2022, then this would be a stadium worthy of staging the tournament’s matches.”

Ah, yes. I totally forgot that the FA – who, as you’ll recall, would be incapable of organising a piss-up in any of the 350 or so pubs in our fair city – were on the verge of claiming the World Cup. And when that absolute 100% cast-iron certainty happens, Nottingham will have a 3-1 chance (with Leicester and, Derby - who announced stadium-expansion plans on the same day) of hosting the East Midlands games. Never mind the fact that Nottingham’s participation in Euro 96 was conducted under a swathe of empty seats. The opportunity of hosting Potatovia v The Peoples Republic of Macaroon and two other less prestigious games is far too glittering a prize for Nottingham to cock its nose up at.

And if the World Cup actually does come to England, and Forest’s new MegaToilet beats out Pride Park and the Crisp Bowl, what then? How are Forest going to double their gate in a decade, when it’s obvious that the football boom is not going to get any bigger and the ladder has been pulled up on all but four clubs in England? More importantly, how can anyone predict with any certainly that Forest are going to be a Premiership club by 2018, when recent form shows that they’re just as capable of local derbies against Hucknall Town in the Conference North next decade?

It’s only when you look past the bluster and the glossy brochures that you realise what’s going on. As mentioned in a previous WSC article, Forest and Nottingham City Council have butted heads over a previous loan (for Euro 96), which the former tried to weasel out of. They appear to be on amazingly good terms now, and the Council are welcoming the move with open arms (the local councillors in Clifton, on the other hand, didn’t even know about the proposed move until it was announced to the press).

The council own the strip of land that backs onto the Trent, and they would love to make use of the City Ground for more of the same. Listen to the words of Ray Valenti of Natrass Giles chartered surveyors without wanting to put this magazine down in order to wipe the drool off your fingers; “750,000 sq ft of floor space with a value exceeding £250m….could attract a medium-sized food store operated by a premium brand such as Waitrose…this could be the location for the five-star hotel Nottingham has so far failed to attract…The demise of soccer (yes, that’s what he said) at the City Ground will be celebrated with a new Trentside landmark that even Ol’ Big ‘Ead would be proud of!” No, mate, he would have smacked you in the teeth.

Nottingham, like every other moderately-sized factory cities in England that doesn’t have factories anymore, is going through an identity crisis and reacting to it by chucking money up the wall on building projects and hoping one or two of them stick. The Forest move displays the depressingly familiar deluded logic that states that, if you build another Top Shop five minutes walk from the old one, you’ve suddenly created a Retail Mecca. And if you’ve spent the last few years building ‘executive apartments’ in the hope that there’ll eventually be industries here that actually have executives, or erecting loads of hotels in the hope that people will come here for more than stag dos, why not build a 50,000-capacity stadium out of the way in the expectation that Forest will eventually become a Big Club and sell it out every other week?

The people of Gotham had a method to their madness. The people who run Nottingham Forest seem to be just mad.

Sexy, Sexy NottsNews

Jesse Jackson is coming to the Meadows. Unless Isaac Hayes has had a pint in the Poets Corner or The Bar-Kays have mooched around the Bridgeway shopping precinct to get summat for their tea, this will be the first time anyone from WattStax has ever appeared there.

A local businessman vows to raise £1.96 million for Nottingham Rugby Club. God knows how - sponsored shitting-in-pint-glasses, or summat.

The usual Mansfieldness.

Controversial Poster Campaign Hits Nottingham

Skegness - It's So Burning

Weep, people of Nottingham - our spiritual homeland is been dealt a heavy blow. I wrote this for LeftLion #5 a couple of years ago. I throw it up here as my little tribute to the jewel of the Lincolnshire coast.

Twelve Things That Were Skill About Skeggy

1. Your Mam buying you clothes months in advance

…that you can’t wear until you go on holiday, in order to convince other people that you’re not fleabags. How twisted was that? I remember when I was six, and I had to spend three whole months staring at an absolutely mint Kung Fu vest and pants set in the drawer that I was not allowed to wear. It was agonising. Naturally, as soon as you get to Skeg, every youth from Notts is wearing the same clothes, making it look like there’s only one shop in the whole of town.

Honestly, you tell people in the South about things like this and they’re convinced you’re taking the piss.

2. The journey there

…which was a yearly novelty in itself. Remember, in those days Dads never drove you to school, and Mams weren’t allowed to drive. Ever. Sadly, there were no Playstations and tellies attached to the seats, your Dad won’t let you open the window, he hasn’t got one of them things that hang off the back bumper to stop car sickness, you’re wedged up between a suitcase and your sister on the back seat, Dad’s put on his Elvis tape and you’re sitting there knowing he’s going to start roaring when Old Shep comes on (because he always does), and you’re starting to get that familiar catch down the back of your throat that means in about three minutes, you’re going to be puking your ring into a Co-Op bag while your Dad mutters “Fucking kids…you can stay at your bastard Nana’s next year”.

On the upside, there is nothing more cosmopolitan than hearing Radio Trent fade out and Radio Lincolnshire fade in. That’s when you know you’re on your holiday.

3. The caravan

This is how fucked up Nottingham Mams and Dads are; they spend the whole year moaning about ‘gyppos’ diddling them at Goose Fair and parking up on nearby wasteground, and how do they spend their time off work? Exactly – by living like them. I bet proper Romanies don’t decorate their caravans with mank won off the prize bingo, though. And I’m pretty convinced they have better sanitary facilities than a piss-bucket shared by three generations in the middle of the night, an’all.

Still, when you’re a kid, caravans are ace, and miles better than B&Bs, which only posh people from West Bridgford ever stayed in. You wonder why houses don’t have fold-up beds too. And it’s always so dignified, how the people who have just moved out have left enough tea bags in the pot for a proper mash.

4. Childrens rooms in pubs

This must be the best thing about Skeggy by far. Normally, going to the pub with your family meant sitting in the car for two hours with the occasional bag of crisps and a Coke with a straw in it, playing Mastermind with your sister, and seeing if there were any wank mags in your Dad’s toolbox. Not in Skeg, though – you had a whole room to yourself, which usually contained a bust Air Hockey table, some kind of animal ride with an ‘Out Of Order’ sign on it, and a Space Invader cabinet with some other game in it. That was broke.

Still, it was an invaluable introduction to pub etiquette, as you sat on your Dad’s knee while he said “Quick, while landlord’s not looking’ and tipped half a pint of Shippos down the front of your best shirt. Obviously, the spirit of the Children’s Room lives on in all inner-city Nottingham pubs, especially the ones in Bulwell.

5. Meeting people from Sheffield

This was a rather special thrill on its own. Skegness wasn’t only occupied by Nottinghamians during the summer (even though you were bound to see at least two kids from your school while you were there); Mansfield, Derby and Leicester also represented, but it seemed like every steel mill in Sheffield had decamped to the coast. You couldn’t understand a word they were saying, they all had basin cuts, they were built like brick shithouses, and they always wanted to give you bone-crushing handshakes. Even the women. Especially the women.

6. The beach

The innocent time when you were proud to say you got crabs while you were on holiday. Finding the spot where you buried 10p last year, only to find there’s a JCB digger there. Sitting on a manky donkey for a bit. Going in the sea. Once. Never doing it again. Your dog going mental and drinking gallons of seawater, only for him to piss it out his arse while you’re trying to chat some girl up.

7. Eating fish and chips twice a day for a week

I’m sorry, but I’ve been to Blackpool and the chips there were rubbish. Skegness has the best chippies in the world, and I’ll fight anyone who dares say otherwise*. That street in Skeg known as Chip Shop Alley – I could just stand there all day and inhale its delightfully pungent aromas. If you don’t put on at least two stone while you’re there, you’ve had a shit holiday.

*unless they come from Whitby

8. Amusement arcades

Once upon a time, before even the Atari 2600 came out and Nottingham didn’t have dens of iniquity where hard lads from The Meadows nicked your 10p that was on the glass – the kind of place where Zammo first got into scag, you’ll remember – Skeggy was the only place to get your low-tech interactive jollies. The absolute highlight of the week for me was legging it into an arcade and seeing what I was going to spunk the contents of my piggy bank on that year. I bet I still have my name on a Sheriff Nintendo cabinet in the storeroom of a chip shop near the prom. Your Mam would always moan about how you should be getting some fresh air, but seeing as she lived in the Prize Bingo next door ramming in 10p after 10p, she was talking out her arse.

9. Going to Butlins for the day

We went to Skeggy Butlins one year. It was bob. The only thing about it I can remember is being able to stick my hand through the hole in the wall under my bad and shake hands with the lad next door. Much better to go in for the day, have a go on everything (which you could do in a day, in any case), and piss off out again.

10. The Cockle Man

The bloke in the white coat who used to go round the pubs and clubs at night with a big basket of things in Mr Kipling trays, who used to get your grandparents all excited while they were watching someone who came in 4th during an episode of New Faces murdering the oeuvre of Neil Diamond. You look at these things now and think, fucking hell – 20 Chinese lads died for something that looks like a tumour and you have to put loads of vinegar on so you can eat ‘em without retching. Obviously, big respect to the Fish Man of Mansfield Road, who keeps the flame alive in a piscine style and fashion.

11. Finding some suitable tat for your Nana

Now it’s getting near the end of the week, you’ve got to make sure your Nana gets some return on the investment she rammed into your cakey little hand, or she’ll have a face like a smacked arse until Christmas. And what bounty there was! Hunks of rock artfully moulded to look like a full English breakfast! Coasters with photos of people in ‘Frankie Say’ T-Shirts playing crazy golf! Something with the Big Gay Fisherman on it! A tea tray of the clock, which was a bit like the one in Blackpool, but not quite! Postcards that gave you an erection even though you didn’t quite know why!

Sadly, the numerous tack shops in Skeg have moved with the times and the grandparent market has been completely marginalised. Last time I went, one could purchase a set of Rasta garden gnomes sucking on enormous spliffs, an indoor skull fountain, a garden ornament of two fists adorned with sovereign rings, giving the finger, and a dildo on sale for a quid. If I had bought any of those items, I would have been cut out of her will.

12. Going home

A bit like getting there, only with more vomiting.

What The Fuck Is This Rammell?

The new football season (which started approximately two minutes after the last one) saw Forest and Notts scraping draws with Bournemouth and Grimsby respectively, but we're not going to talk about that. Oh no. We're going to talk about Nottingham Forest's decision to nob off Sherwood the Bear as their mascot and replace it with that gimp up there. Over to Mark Arthur, who has already appeared in this blog as the bell-end who wants to move Forest to a big toilet in Clifton;

Reds chief executive Mark Arthur said: "When people think of Nottingham they think of Nottingham Forest, they think of Brian Clough, they think of Trent Bridge - and they think of Robin Hood.

...and they also think about guns, and knifings, and people shoving glasses in each other's faces, Mark. Why not have a big fluffy gun on legs that shot out footballs?

"Sherwood Bear was a popular character, but in all honesty, some children were a little bit scared of him. He was a bear after all."

Eh? Was he going round biting people's faces off and diving on Forest supporters snap tins? Or was he a bear in the NG1 sense of the word? Actually, Sherwood the Terrifying Predatory Homosexual Bear Who Wants To Have Bum-Sex With Your Kids looks like this;

...and the only thing young Forest supporters are scared of is being stuck with following a shit club in Division Three and getting laughed at in the playground by kids with Man United and Chelsea pencil cases.

If you're that arsed about it, there's a campaign to save Sherwood, and you can read about it here. I wouldn't normally get wound up about things like this, but the idea of Robin Hood being sponsored by Capital One makes me want to puke my ring until my entire digestive system hangs round my neck like a chain.

If Only He'd Come From Nottingham

The death of Tony Wilson has really fucked me off, even though I'm not arsed in the least about Joy Division or the Happy Mondays.

I met him once, at an In The City in Manchester, when I gave a speech about how the smut industry was coining it in on the internet while the music business was scared of it (which shows how long ago it was). I felt absolutely out of my depth, and he could tell - so he went out of his way to thank me for coming and how he'd been waiting for ages for someone to talk about it, and was as proper, charming and intelligent as everyone is saying he was. He was stood at the back right the way through, and I directed the entire speech at him, staggered that someone that influential was actually interested in what I had to say.

Afterwards, and completely out of the blue, he put me on a round table with some scarily influential people. I shat another breeze block, but he calmed me down, talked me up, and sorted me out. Then he absolutely skewered me in an argument onstage, and we had a drink and a laugh about it afterwards. I walked away wishing I had a gaffer as cool as that, and feeling extremely lucky to have met him.

The thing that I admired most about him was that he was fiercely proud of where he came from and didn't give a fuck about what anyone else thought. Back in the day, Manchester was seen as one of the shittiest ratholes in the country. Now it's the true capital city of England, it's the only place in the country that I'd leave Nottingham to work in (fuck Brighton - it's a ponce's Skegness) and they have to come here to shoot a film about how grim it used to be there. Tony Wilson had a lot to do with that.

The problem with Nottingham, you see, is that it's never had someone like Tony Wilson - someone in a position of power who thought "You know what? Fuck everywhere else - this city is great, and we can do great things". Look at the people who run Nottingham at the moment - the professional student-rinsers, carpetbagger politicians, and the shower of bastards who think that having one TK Maxx ten minutes walk from the other one makes your city 'vibrant' and 'eclectic' - and tell me they give a fraction of a toss about our city and its people that he gave about his. Actually, that's a stupid question, seeing as most of them don't even come from round here, but you know what I mean.

Imagine what Nottingham would have been like today if he'd have come from here. And take inspiration.

Nottingham: It's NEWSTASTIC

• The Assets Recovery Agency announce that they're going to get their hands right down the back of Colin Gunn's sofa
  
  
• People in Daybrook get the arse about a homeless hostel about to be built on Mansfield Road. Could have been worse, chaps - makes a change from more student flats
  
  
• The Council show off their new A-Team van, which uses battlefield technology to repel local yout's. They'll be getting a tank, next
  
  
• Another local lad dies in Iraq
  

LeftLion Pub Quiz - It's Tonight, Duck

The Golden Fleece, Mansfield Road, 9pm. Click this for more details.

News Flange, August 8

• Eric Irons died at the weekend, and by reading this link, you can see that he was proper. I went to school with one of his lads, but I never met him, which was a shame. One of the great things about Nottingham is that it's not prone to the usual racist rammell that other cities I could mention are bogged down with - and we have people like Eric Irons to thank for that.
  
  
• Looks like the old Cuba Libre venue will be under new management very soon, and I'm looking forward immensely to another bar opening in town that will be either vibrant, or eclectic, or possibly both. Oh, hang on, it'll be around the Square, so it's bound to be wank.
  
  
• Don't you hate it when you realise that somewhere decent in town is actually part of a faceless corporate chain? Turns out that there's loads of Loch Fynes around the country, and they've been bought up by Greene King. You'll be telling me the Fish Man who goes up Mansfield Road has franchises across the world, next.

Strelley Telly Time #3: Nottingham Is Vibrant And Eclectic

Strelley Telly Time #2: He Wouldn't Do What They Told Him

Drop In The Ocean raised enough money to build an orphanage for tsunami victims in South India and kids who were rescued from sex tourism in Cambodia. Almost as importantly, it gave us this incredible footage.

Coward Of The County

We've not had a footballer-gets pissed-and-acts-like-a-twat story for a while, have we? Say hello to Mick Vinter - who played for Notts in the first Sirrel era - who copped a suspended sentence for knocking a female friend about after his usual 10 pints a night. According to the victim, she suffered 'nasal problems' after the assault. Judging by the picture, it looks like Mick has been suffering those all his life.

In other news;

It appears that Gordon Ramsay is in town to shoot an episode of his TV show, I'm An Aryan-Looking Cunt Who Treats People Like Shit In Order To Hide The Fact That I Do A Ponces Job

Some poor cow from Highbury Vale gets slapped with a £522 fine for dropping a nub-end in the Not As New As It Was A Month Ago Old Market Square. Fucking hell, how big was it? Was it blocking the tramlines or summat?

Oh, and our genitals are getting more scabbier than this time last year.

In other news...

• Some window-licker from Darwin's waiting room tries to hold up a paper shop by pulling his t-shirt over his face, but gets told to fuck off wi' hissen. Don't they have balaclavas or tights in Mansfield, then? I could never do that. I hate people looking at me beer gut.
  
  
• It is announced that Nottingham is the UK's most expensive place for students to live. Fucking hell, who would have thought that living in a ponce-box in the Lace Market and having £8 salads in the Orange Tree on your dinner hour would be so costly?
  
  
• That smackhead from St Anns who left an old bloke to rot in his bed for a year and a half while she cashed in his pension to buy drugs and duddus gets a suspended sentence. Nice of the Post to point out that although they lived together, the relationship was only platonic. I'd have puked me ring otherwise.
  

Look at this bell-end

Some nob from Langley Mill thinks he's been caught by a speed camera, so goes home, channels the spirit of Jeremy fucking Clarkson, gets his power saw out, cuts the fucker down and puts it in his back garden. When the coppers do him, it turns out that the camera hadn't even caught him.

Cue loads of whining in the Post from the usual shower of bastards who equate not being allowed to do 80mph past a school with Apartheid. Yawn. Shurrup bleddy moaning and get on the bus, you twats.