Please wash out all crims before recycling

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;

In mitigation, William Bennett said Baguley had been affected by his past.

He said his mother was an alcoholic and he had become involved in a gang who used him to smash windows during burglaries.

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.

One goes into town for the fanny

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.

*DMFH* *DMPH*, That's The Sound Of The Police

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)

He's not too old to get some smack off his Dad

Man, isn't it horrible when you get shamed up by your Dad? Like when he insists on wearing that manky jumper he got at Christmas 1997 and those trackie bottoms whenever you bring your girlfriend over. Or when you see him Elvis-dancing to Abba Gold at a cousin's wedding. Or when he's on the front of the News Of The World selling crack and heroin to prostitutes in 'No-Go Nottingham crime zone' (fucking hell, is there anywhere in Nottingham that's actually 'Go' anymore?) Radford, after being stung by the Fake Sheik himself (who presumably wasn't posing as a petrodollar millionaire for this particular job).

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.

"AY! Are yo' havin' a goz at me FOO-KIN' TITS, youth?"

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?')

Bulwell wobbles, but it don't fall down

I've had so many people flagging the following news story up to me and wanting me to comment on it, that I've been feeling like Dennis bleddy McCarthy. I suppose you'll be hassling me into doing Wanted Column On The Air next, or that quiz with the fucking typewriter music in the background. Actually, I've been clamming to write about it ever since I saw it, so here goes; Bulwell has taken the accolade of having the highest percentage of people in Notts who buy sportswear, and the highest percentage of people who do fuck all sporting-related activity, what with them being too busy cramming half of Iceland into their cakey maws.

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.

The Clough Statues

...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.

Village Idiots

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.

Apparently, this incredible act of ignorance in the face of truth has come from the local cricket club, for reasons that I can't understand, even after reading the Post article 27 times. "As far as we know there is no legal criteria [for becoming a village] - if we can do some of the things we have got planned, we could re-brand ourselves Sneinton Village." Said the chairperson of said cricket club, as she applied another layer of Brasso to a massive, stinking turd in the road. However, it looks like the idea of a 'village green' is a long way off;

A game was due to be held in October. Teams from a pub, local restaurant and the police were set to take part - but it was called off after health and safety problems with the proposed site, an area of land owned by Castle College.

Trans: 'Someone left a knackered fridge at silly mid-off, and a dead prostitute's needle-pocked arm was found sticking out of the crease'

Of course, there's a precedent to this; the lamentable attempt to rebrand Hockley as 'Hockley Village' (a term which is only used by juff-headed bell-ends who work for estate agents and drive around town in those stupidly-painted Mini Coopers). So why stop there? Let's have Viccy Flats Village an'all. Let's see some signposts for The Magical Fairy Kingdom of Radford, while we're at it. Fuck it, let's start to call Nottingham 'Monaco', or 'St Tropez', and have done with it.

"Er, just rub her tits, Jason. And play with her fanneh a bit"

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)

Nottingham Education #3: Place Names

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
Mapperley Park		A mental institution (which it was perennially associated with until Rampton came along)		Full of massive houses as big as God’s head
Lady Bay		Something dead rude (“I drove my cock-lorry right into her Lady Bay”)		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
Rise Park		The kind of safari park people honeymoon at		Top Valley 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
Top Valley		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.

And off we go again

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.

(PS: Here's what my LL oppo Rob Cutforth wrote a while back about the time he lived in the Lace Market. I've since forgiven him. He's Canadian. He didn't know any better)

The May Contain Notts Awards 2007

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

Local teet’-sucking mouth-breathers from the Forest end forego their usual Happy Meal to partake in the Kids For A Quid scheme and run on the pitch at the end of the game, only to be chased off by Fat Dads in the Notts end, shaking their fists like Mr The Menace after Dennis has put a ball through his greenhouse. Tsk.

Nottingham Forest, for pissing away a two-goal lead to Yeovil in the playoffs

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.

Notts County, for officially becoming the worst club in the country to support

...confirming what we all knew anyway.

and the winner is…

Neil Harris, for shitting on the floor of Muse after Forest celebrate getting battered 5-0 by Oldham by acting like nob-ends in town.

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;

The bloke who nicked an entire kitchen out of his next-door neighbours house

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

Shane Meadows’ next film virtually writes itself.

Another St Anns twat, for taking advantage of his mate getting stabbed to death at a pub in town to rob £324 out of the till

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 11^th, thinking “Skill! While everyone’s chucking themselves out the window, I can absolutely rinse the stationary cupboard!”

That bloke from Notts who grew the strongest weed ever discovered in the UK

Mmm, green heroin. Who needs mild euphoria when you could have brain haemorrhage ?

But the winner is…

Those two bent coppers, for losing their jobs and getting jailed for passing on information to crims about murder investigations

…in return for discounts on clothes from that shop in town where chavs get their suits for their next court appearance. Here’s your award, plus a £5 voucher for TK Maxx.

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;

The stripper from Arnold, for her thought-provoking performance art piece at a local school

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 Arnold Hill School 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? Nottingham Castle? 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.

The Millz Taliban, for their thought-provoking YouTube video

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.

And the winner is…

That bloke who has a massive thought-provoking Gay wizard on his back

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

Back in the day, they would have settled their differences with a banjo duel. Nowadays, it appears that our neighbours in Bandit Country like to play Human Conkers of an evening.

That nob from Broxtowe, for attacking someone on the tram with a meat cleaver

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.

That dealer in Basford, for stabbing a bloke in the eye because he wouldn’t buy any drugs off him

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!”

But the winner is…

That meathead from Bulwell who has been banned from every pub in Notts bar five

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.

Skegness, for burning down

Weep, Nottingham. Weep.

The Variety, for shutting down

This place was the 70s in aspic. It should have been a National Heritage site for the preservation of dodgy comedians and dodgier strippers. Sigh.

The Evening Post, for allowing local racists and pissy-knickered mitherers to comment on their website

Jesus, have you been on there? It’s like being trapped in a room with your least favourite uncle.

Nottingham City Transport, for axing the weekday Night Bus Service

Eejat bwoy.

And the winner is…

Nottingham Forest, for wanting to leave the City Ground and move to a 50,000-seater Mega-Bog in Clifton

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!

Happy New Year, and – as always – STAY NOTTS.

Evening Post Sinks To New Depths

I know they're worried about losing their regular revenue stream from taking small ads from local knocking shops. But do they really have to resort to advertising what appears to be a New Years Eve do for violent racists?

Right, that's it

Chuck us the Quality Street, top me up with more Malibu, and find summat decent on the telly. I'm done for a bit. Have yoursen a luvleh Xmas, and KEEP IT NOTTS.

This is what Nottingham's like

Someone offers train travel to London for £1.50. And some twat on the Post forum moans about not getting a free cup of tea.

This is how Biggie v Tupac got started, you know

Graffiti, Top Valley subway;
Graffiti, Top Valley subway, one week later;
I truly hope my Boggaz and Boggarettez in the Gheeto can somehow hold it down and increase the peace. And learn to fucking spell properly.

Oh, by the way, I hate Christmas.

I wrote this last year for LeftLion. The full version, featuring illustrations by the ridiculously gifted Rob White, can be found here. A surprising amount of it is out of date (particularly the moaning about the Square being out of bounds, so you couldn't snog a Sharon up against a lion or watch a pisshead attempt to climb the Xmas tree), so here's the abridged version...

1. YOUR SHIT OFFICE PARTY THAT ALREADY HAPPENED IN NOVEMBER
Ah, Christmas dos; the need to pretend that we’re well liked, the chance to ride the office bike. And there’s no finer indication of the status of your company than the office party. If you’re rolling about pissed out of your eyeballs in World Service or Harts the day before you break up, well done; your future is secured, and you’ll probably be doing the same thing next year. If you’ve spent your Xmas piss-up upstairs at the Peacock long before the first horrible lights went up, rest assured that your company is firmly up Arsehole Street, there’ll be no bog roll in the office lavs by January, and you’ll have to wipe your arse on your own king skins.

2. THAT BLOKE ACROSS THE ROAD WHO PUT THE ENORMOUS SANTA LIGHTS ON HIS HOUSE AS SOON AS GOOSE FAIR FINISHED

He’s not the only one on the estate doing through the same old depressing, turd-polishing motions, but Christ on a crisp packet! It’s so gargantuan that Rudolf’s head fills up his bedroom window, and he keeps it on all night. I dunno about you, but if I was his missus and all I could see at night was a massive neon reindeer head staring at me through the curtains, I’m not going to be massively up for a seeing-to.

3. SHOPPING CENTRES PUTTING UP DECORATIONS IN NOVEMBER

Bastards.

4. MEATHEADS AND SLAPPERS IN TOWN WEARING SANTA HATS

It makes that random, unprovoked kicking outside Re-Flex so much more jovial, doesn’t it? A shame the staff at A&E don’t wear the full gear, put you on their knee, and say “Ho ho ho! I know a little boy who wants a splint and some painkillers!”

5. THE ONE TIME OF THE YEAR WHERE YOU HAVE TO GO TO FUCKING ARGOS

It’s like signing on, but coming away with a Darth Vader helmet instead of a Giro.

6. THE COUNCIL HOUSE LOOKING LIKE IT WAS BOUGHT OFF QVC WHEN SOMEONE WAS REALLY PISSED, FOR A LAUGH

Ugh.

7. CLAIRE SWEENEY IN THE LOCAL PANTO EVERY BASTARD YEAR

She is, isn’t she? Has she got Poloroids of the management of the Theatre Royal going dogging or summat?

8. THE LAST FRIDAY IN TOWN BEFORE THE STUDENTS GO HOME

Carnage.

9. THE FRIDAY AFTER THAT WHEN EVERYONE ELSE KNOCKS OFF WORK

Even worse.

10. THOSE LITTLE ROBOTIC FUCKERS IN VICCY CENTRE

Don’t they get on your tits? I swear I’m gonna jump over the barrier and twat one of ‘em on the snot-box this year. Waving at me like he fucking knows meh.

11. THE INFLATABLE SNOWMAN ON THE PUB ROOF THAT HAS ALREADY DEFLATED

…so it looks like some youth has hrown the world’s biggest spent Johnny up there.

12. IN FACT, ANY PUB THAT DOES DECORATIONS APART FROM THE OLD GENERAL IN HYSON GREEN

For 11 months of the year, they have a dummy of an old bloke in military uniform in the upstairs window. In December, they chuck a Santa outfit over it. Simple. Subtle. Timeless.

13. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS BOUGHT FROM POUND SHOPS

Hey, I’ll have nowt said against pound shops, but a bloke on our estate has got these Santa poster-things that say “HO HO HO” in his window. Problem is that from the outside, it reads “OH OH OH”, which makes it sound like he’s having phone sex.

14. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, FULL STOP.

I once had the only Xmas decco worth a toss; a massive cardboard box made to look like a prezzie, full of little polystyrene balls and a vacuum attachment. You put your tree in it, clipped a little pipe to the spine, and turned it on. Result – a never-ending cascade of ‘snow’. All the others aren’t worth the steam off my, yours or anyone else’s piss.

15. HAVING TO BUY CHRISTMAS CARDS WHEN PEOPLE WHO YOU DON’T GIVE A TOSS ABOUT SEND YOU ONE

Look, this is why e-mail was invented. Stop it. Now.

16. THE FACT THAT YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO BRING YOUR GAMES IN ON THE LAST DAY OF WORK

Not fair.

17. PEOPLE WHO ARE GOING ON HOLIDAY FOR CHRISTMAS BRAGGING ON ABOUT HOW THEY’RE GOING ON HOLIDAY FOR CHRISTMAS

Stop banging on about it, you sensible, rational, cleverer-than-me bastards.

18. CHATTY YOUTHS GOING CAROL SINGING NOT FIVE MINUTES AFTER HALLOWEEN

…and all they know is ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’. Come back when it is Christmas, you nob-ended teet-sucking vermin. Better still, die..

19. SOME TWAT OFF THE X FACTOR INEVITABLY BEING THE CHRISTMAS NO.1

The battle for the Christmas No.1 used to be mint. Now it’s decided by a glorified karaoke competition. Kill Louis Walsh.

20. SHITTY CHRISTMAS MUSIC EVERYWHERE

We’ll have a Rock ‘n Roll Christmas - Christmas Rock n’ Roll…Wish I was at home for KER-RISTMASSS…And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?...Simply. Having. A wonderful Christmas time...And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom…how the fuck do people in Morrisons put up with this shit without opening a vein?

21. GOING BACK HOME TO YOUR MAM’S TO DISCOVER YOUR OLD BEDROOM IS NOW THE FREEZER ROOM

Seriously, if you’d have been run over in the street when you were seven, they would have left everything untouched. Because you didn’t, the minute you leave they chuck away the bed you lost your virginity on and replace it with a chest freezer containing half a dead cow. And where’s me back copies of 2000ADs and every single Forest programme during both European Cup runs? In a canvas bag in the shed with the leaky roof? Skill!

22. YOUR MAM HAVING HER ANNUAL NERVOUS BREAKDOWN

Obviously, Mams are skill. But why are they the only ones who give a fuck about Christmas when everyone else can’t be arsed with it? Why do they feel the need to peg it down to Tescos at five in the morning to buy more food that’ll be chucked away?

23. TAXI DRIVERS TAKING THE PISS

Rip-off merchants at the best of times – utterly larcenous at Christmas. They might as well just take your wallet, shove their cocks through the fold, and have sex with it. Their rampant greed inevitably leads to…

24.TOWN BEING ABSOLUTELY DESERTED ON CHRISTMAS EVE

Once upon a time, this was the best night of the year for getting mashed in town. No hassle, everyone in a good mood, no trouble whatsoever. Nowadays, everyone’s been on a works do, a departmental do and a go-out-with-your-mates-who-are-back-in-town do, your drinks cabinet is groaning, and the last bus home is at 10pm. Consequently, you can walk from one end of town to the other on the 24^th and you’ll see 100 people and a mile-long queue of fucked-off cabbies.

25. A GREY CHRISTMAS

I miss proper snow. Even the Meadows looked nice in the snow.

26. SELECTION BOXES

A quid’s worth of chocolate if you go to the right all-night garage, bundled up with some game that no-one ever plays, that become available at the exact moment that you’ve already eaten so much chocolate that you could easily shit a Mars bar. Still, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste…

27. HAVING TO GO TO THE LOCAL PUB TO GET OUT OF YOUR MAM’S WAY

You wouldn’t be seen dead in the place on the other 364 days of the year, because you probably would be, but on this day it’s heaving. Particularly if there was a machete attack in a nearby pub the night before. So you sit there for a couple of hours trying to squeeze a conversation out of your miserable, face-like-a-smacked-arse Dad. The only bit of entertainment on offer? Counting the new and manky market jumpers at the bar. Oh, and…

28. SEEING PEOPLE FROM SCHOOL ONCE A YEAR AND HAVING TO LIE ABOUT HOW ACE YOUR LIFE IS

We’ve all done it, haven’t we?

29. YOUR DAD IN A PAPER HAT, PISSED OUT OF HIS SKULL, BANGING ON ABOUT JESUS WHILST DUMPING HALF A POT OF PEPPER ON HIS TURKEY

An annual ritual at our house during Christmas dinner, usually just after the end of the prawn cocktail and just before the first wine glass gets broken. As he eloquently puts it, “Everyone’s forgotten about the cunt”. The way he goes on, he makes it sound like the Son of God is on his own in a bungalow in Arnold, thinking to himself “Fucking hell, I’m 2,007 years old today…and what have I done with me life?”

30. HOLIDAY ADVERTS KICKING IN THE MINUTE YOU’VE HAD YOUR CHRISTMAS DINNER

Fuck. Off.

31. THE QUEEN’S SPEECH

If you’ve still got your grandparents, it’s a traditional part of the day. If you haven’t, it’s some right old trout banging on about arse all. What’s on next? Oh, for fuck’s sake…

32. THE BOND FILM

Ever since we realised that all British spies really do is lose laptops on trains and make up excuses for America to bomb Muslim kiddies, the magic has gone.

33. ALL CHRISTMAS TELLY, IN FACT

Jesus, I can remember the days when the entire country had a collective orgasm when the Xmas TV and Radio Times came out. Nowadays you either spend Christmas night round your mates (providing they live within walking distance, or you’ve taken out a loan to pay the cab fare), in the spare room with a laptop and a tray of sausage rolls, or on the settee in an alcoholic stupor with a tin of Sensations on your rapidly expanding gut.

34. THE REALISATION, JUST BEFORE YOU GO TO BED, THAT TWO MONTHS OF RELENTLESS MARKETING, HUNDREDS OF POUNDS YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO SPEND, AND MILLIONS OF MAN-HOURS SPENT RUNNING AROUND LIKE A BLUE-ARSED FLY HAVE RESULTED IN A) AN INTERRUPTED LIE-IN, B) A SESSION IN A RUBBISH PUB, C) SOME PANTS THAT DON’T FIT YOU, D) A GLORIFIED SUNDAY DINNER, E) A ROW WITH YOUR DAD OVER RELIGION, AND F) AN UTTERLY, UTTERLY, UTTERLY FUTILE EXPERIENCE

Just like last year. And next year.

35. BOXING DAY

Ooh, let’s go shopping again, seeing as been two whole fucking days since we’ve dragged our arses through Broado.

36. ABSOLUTELY FUCK ALL TO DO FOR A WEEK APART FROM MORE SHOPPING

And eating. And drinking.

37. THE BITTERSWEET MOMENT WHEN YOU ACTUALLY REALISE YOU’RE DESPERATE TO GO BACK TO WORK

Even if you happen to work at a maggot factory, or are a prostitute on Forest Road.

38. THE EXTRA STONE YOU PUT ON OVER CHRISTMAS

Nuff said.

39. NEW YEARS EVE BEING ONLY SIX DAYS AWAY FROM CHRISTMAS

Don’t get me wrong, New Years Eve is skill – in fact, it’s the all-denomination winter solstice piss-up that is everything Christmas should be. But why does it have to be so close to the rubbish one? Let’s move it to the middle of January, or replace Valentines Day with it, when we’ve all got a bit more cash and could do with a doss off work.

40. MAKING YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS AND REALISING THAT THEY’RE THE SAME ONES AS LAST YEAR

This year, I vow to; stop going into Yates and beating people up, calm down on the ‘shagging women every night’ thing, be a bit less ostentatious about my expensive house and car, and being a compulsive liar.

41. NEW YEAR’S DAY

The dullest day of the year. Even Bono had a cob-on about it, and although I think he’s a hateful twat, I'm inclined to agree.

42. JANUARY

Five weeks before you get paid. Tax bills. Credit card bills. Everyone’s skint. No-one goes out. Rubbish.

43. MAD BASTARDS WHO LEAVE THEIR CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON UNTIL FEBRUARY

Sitting on the top deck as the bus goes through Bestwood is like being in a Sinclair Spectrum flight simulator.

44. PEOPLE WHO DO NOTHING BUT MOAN ABOUT CHRISTMAS

Miserable twats, aren’t they? Happy birthday, Jesus!