May Contain Notts: Oct-Nov 2006

£700,000 gets spent on the improvement of Canning Circus. Pathetically, they don’t spend it on trapezes, clown cars, elephants, and other things that would make the place live up to its name. They just put some paving slabs down. Sulk.  

Goose Fair opens, selling peas for a pound a pot. Let me say that again, but this time in bold; peas for a pound a pot. A pound. For a pot. Of peas.

An incredibly vital survey commissioned by Nottingham University discovers that 97% of people who won more than a million quid on the lottery were happier than they were before. What next? Maybe they ought to commission an expedition to the woods to see what that strange brown stuff that hangs out of bears' arseholes is.

Sorry, but I’m gonna have to say it one more time; a pound for a pot of peas.

RIP The Edge, which loses its licence after that shooting the other month when they forgot to turn off the metal detector. Perhaps they ought to get a few ping-pong tables in and turn it into the chatty youth club it always looked like.

Non-black cabbies hold a protest march in town over the fact that they can’t use the same routes in the city centre that the Hackney cabs use. Unsurprisingly, the march veers right off course, goes through all the back streets away from its destination, and stops to look at an A to Z with the meter still running. Twice

He’s a Record Breaker! David Wyler of Notts, that is, who gets done for growing the strongest weed ever found in the UK. Forensic scientists discover his gear – grown in a house in Ilkeston – contains a 29% THC content, enough to stun a rhinoceros and make it want to walk about in the Square and wave its cock at the window of Wetherspoons.

The Institution of Civil Engineers announce that our tram system is the bestest, acest, skillest and wicked-bad-freshest in the UK. Next time I see one in town, I’m going to touch and lick it in thanks, and I suggest you do the same too.

Just like Prince, The Airport Formerly Known As East Midlands wants to change its fucking name again, because Derby and Leicester are whining like the mardy little bitches they are. In that case, I suggest they change it to ‘Sheep-Shagging Jumper-Making Gun-Crime Airport’. Or ‘Chantelle’, because that’s the name our Tracie used when she was chatting up lads at the Ice Stadium when she was 14, and she doesn’t use it anymore.

Broadway reopens. Hm. The Paul Smith double seats are supposed to be ace, but I’m not sure about the downstairs bar. It’s a bit like a medieval banqueting suite designed by Habitat.

 

West Bridgford slips through the time-space continuum and reappears in the 1980s, as a wine bar gets smashed up by Bristol City hooligans. Sadly, Howard Jones doesn’t turn up to shake hands with folk and generally calm things down whilst singing Like To Get To Know You Well. Shame, that.

 

Bulwell, obviously a bit miffed that Bestwood is getting all the attention these days, roars back into contention with a stabbing.

The council announce that they’re spending another £650,000 on rubbish bins – which is nearly one for every Greggs and Subway in town.

Uh oh – the first jailing for Council Tax evasion goes down, with some bloke getting 40 days in the Naughty Room for running up a £2,700 debt.

 

Well, about fucking time; two new tram lines are announced, which will run through Clifton, Chilwell and Beeston. Fact: since the first one was opened two and a bit years ago, our twin city in Germany has knocked out 14 of the bastards.

 

An unbelievably fuckwitted bent copper gets sent down for passing on information about murder witnesses to crims via the manager of Limeys - the sort of clothes shop you go to when you get three numbers on the Lottery and want to look nice for your next court appearance - in exchange for a discount on chatty clobber. Yep, you read that right – innocent people with info on the Marian Bates and Stirlands murders were put at risk because some cunt wanted 50% off a minging Stone Island jumper. Funnily enough, the last time I went past there, they were having a half price sale. That’s irony, Alanis Morrisette. (Oh, some other twatty copper got done an’all, but I forget what for – offering the combination to every cashpoint in town for a trolley dash in a pound shop, probably)

 

David ‘Let’s headhunt a Pizzeria and watch a football club dive down the toilet’ Platt sues Forest for – wait for it – a £50,000 ‘performance bonus’. Yes, he’s a fish-faced cock-bucket, but consider this; what the fuck were Forest doing offering 50 grand as a reward for getting to 11^th in the Second Division?

 

Local news story of the Bi-month that sounds like a bad Irvine Welsh novel; a smackhead in St Anns leaves her dead neighbour to rot down to a skelly in his bed for six months so she can spend his pension on gear.

 

Some poor sod is shot outside a pub in Bulwell, dumped in the boot of a car and left in Papplewick. Fucking hell, why didn’t they cut his tab off to Stuck In The Middle With You while they at it?

 

Cor Blimey O’Reilly! Town is absolutely invaded by lesbians for the weekend, as Pink and the Scissor Sisters play the Arena on consecutive nights. Sadly, Prisoner: Cell Block H On Ice is cancelled due to, well, half of the cast being dead.

The last chance of a Forest-County match this season goes for a toss in the first round of the FA Cup; Forest tonk Yeading, Notts lose to Orient. Sigh.

Local police claim to find cocaine in 24 of 28 bars in the Off-Your-Face Market. They were obviously too busy chewing the sides of their mouths, talking a right load of shit, and not knowing what they were fucking gooin’ on abaaht in the other four, then.

Researchers claim that the Playhouse generates £13m a year for the local economy. Ever bought a round in there to impress the fanny? You’ll know why, then.

That shitbag who stabbed that student lad outside Brownes gets banged up. Hurrah.

Real Man of the Bi-month; the manager of Gedling Southbank, who made his missus sit with him during their vital clash against Awsworth Villa even though she had gone into labour before the match. She takes revenge by giving the poor baby a ridiculous name.

Moaning about the new tram lines starts. Already. For fuck’s sake.

Dept. Chief Constable of Notts, Howard Roberts, kicks off a huge argument when he suggests that giving heroin addicts a pure form of the drug would reduce crime substantially. Great idea, DCC Roberts, and I totally agree with you. But remember what I told you before; if you don’t give me that solid gold 18” cock that jizzes out diamonds, I will bring the stone lions to life in 2007 and make them destroy Broad Marsh and Viccy Centre. So you just think about that, while I feed my white cat another fish out the tank. 

Carl Froch wins his latest fight in the Ice Arena. Some other twats in the audience who weren’t even getting paid for it won their’s an’all, in a chair-throwing jamboree during the interval. The bell-ends.

A 16 year-old crack dealer from St Anns is caught by the police trying to swallow 22 wraps of smack and coke, despite being fitted with a pacemaker. Fucking hell, why stop there? Wasn’t there a microwave he could have rubbed against his chest while he was at it?

Did I mention that it cost a quid for a pot of peas at Goose Fair?