Round up of the last two months in Notts featuring: the BNP, Big Brother, Yates's re-opening, BBC Robin Hood, World-Cup hosting, Ragga Puffin, Notts County
May 27
Nottingham’s pubs are filled with the usual shower of plastic Man United ‘fans’ who despise Nottingham and themselves, crying like women on Jeremy Kyle at the sight of ‘their’ team getting humiliated by Barcelona and - disgustingly - trying to start on proper Nottinghamians who, quite reasonably, laugh at them and do that snappy thing with their forefingers. When I am Lord Mayor of Nottingham, I’m going to pass a law that everyone born in Notts who doesn’t support a local team will be forced to go to the city of their adopted club whenever they want heathcare, dole, and maybe supermarket provisions an’all.
May 29
A farmer from Sutton Bonington is forced to spray-paint her hens pink in an attempt to deter thieves, and it’s worked a treat. I’ve certainly been put off from my Friday night treat of having sex with chickens in the Square and waving through the window of Wetherspoons. I can’t have people thinking I was gay, can I?
June 1
A man from Clifton gets his bus pass taken off him after sending a consistent torrent of complaining letters to NCT about miserable drivers not saying ‘ta, duckeh’ and things like that. He’s got a point; when I chucked a boulder at the 16 to Top Valley the other night whilst making masturbatory gestures with the other hand, you should have seen the look I got off the driver. He never waved back, or owt.
June 3
Notts County, the Broadmarsh Centre of Nottingham football, announces that Munto Finance - who sound like the sort of company who advertise during the commercial breaks on Television X - have agreed to take the club over. Peter Trembling - best known in his previous job at Everton for introducing a prepay credit card with an astronomical APR aimed at one of the most underprivileged areas in the country - becomes the new Chief Executive. Amazingly, the Supporters Trust automatically yank their black-and-white knickers to one side and assume the position known by animal experts as ‘presenting’, despite knowing next to arse-all about the company, what guarantees they’re offering, who is funding them, why they don’t even have an internet presence bar news stories about the takeover, or anything bar ‘We’ll be better than Forest in five years, honest’.
June 4
Saffia Cordon, a beauty consultant from Hucknall, leaves a seven months-old babby with her Mam and enters the Big Brother house, in order to, quote, ‘find some direction in her life’ - which is like me entering NG1 in order the find, quote, ‘the fanneh’. Don’t ask me how she gets on, as I’d sooner watch me Dad in a scat film than that rammell.
June 8
The BNP get absolutely nowt off Nottingham and the East Midlands in the European elections, but pick up seats in Yorkshire and the North West - meaning that for the first time since the Miners’ Strike, we can finally look down our right-on noses at our clog-wearing, perm-sporting, mouth-breathing compatriots in the North. Hey, Yorkshire - if we’re ‘scabs’, you must be weeping, pus-filled anal sores.
June 15
Four coppers pin down and taser some bloke off Upper Parliament Street like American soldiers during a lunch break at Guantanamo Bay, while a cabbie records it on his mobile and a group of lads holding a vigil for their mate who died outside Halo wander over and have a look. A very rum do indeed, but if anyone out there wants to complain about police brutality, let’s try this experiment; if you have been on Parliament Street on a Saturday night and have not wished to taser the buggery out of everyone, put this magazine down now.
June 16
Thought so.
June 18
Yates, the city’s oldest mong-barn, reopens after the spending of six hundred thousand pounds on industrial-strength turd-polish. Sadly, the event is not marked by The Queen launching a bottle of Lambrini against some other woman’s face (‘because the slag wor
lookin’ at meh’) and going off to have the names of her children tattooed on her breasts. In GangstaFont.
June 30
A less-than-satisfactory month for the police ends when two of their own dogs die in a cop car during a heatwave. Maybe they could have used some of their new gear as a makeshift defibrillator.
July 1
The BBC axes its latest series of Robin Hood due to falling ratings. About time too, say I - Jonas Armstrong couldn’t be arsed to have a shave, Little John had one of those rammell Joy Of Sex beards that students try to grow the minute they leave their Mam’s house, and Keith Allen is, was and always will be a bell-end.
July 2
Nottingham launches its bid to be a World Cup host city, which is backed to the hilt by the Evening Post. Imagine the look on their faces if we get it and our group contains Poland, Nigeria, Iraq and Singlemothervania.
July 6
The police raise objections to plans by Rock City to stage boxing, wrestling and cage fighting events, stating that they don’t want ‘highly-intoxicated and adrenalin-fuelled’ punters mashing each other’s faces in. Obviously, that sort of thing should be kept at rough dives like, er, the Nottingham Arena.
July 7
The disgustingly blatant West Midlands media bias extends all the way to the Michael Jackson memorial service, when Queen Latifah says; “In Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England, we are missing Michael” without once mentioning the time in 1983 when Detroit (the clothes shop done out like an American petrol station, with pumps and everything, next to WH Smith) showed a taped copy of the Thriller video taped off Channel
4 the night before, and 300 people blocked the gangway in Viccy Centre to goz at it. All I want to say, people, is that they don’t really care about us.
July 13
Punters at the Grosvenor take advantage of a blocked drain and a torrential downpour by swimming in the car park, before the fire brigade inform them that they’re having a wallow in their own excrement and they’d better get over to the city hospital.
July 19
Over 200 people get all kickery-offery outside Templars, after being driven to a punch-crazy frenzy at a night hosted by Ragga Puffin, who automatically usurps Arse Full Of Chips as best local music name ever and sounds like a cartoon series populated by Jamaican music-themed animals. Like, I dunno, Swan Gorgon. And Jackal Demus.
July 21
Notts County - the club mainly supported by sulky middle-class youths who want to feel sorry for themselves but haven’t got the courage to be Emos - start acting like your mad uncle on his 50th birthday by getting a weave and a sports car. Not only do they unveil a new badge (which is best described as ‘Pound Shop Barcelona’), they also reveal that everyone’s favourite Scandinavian shag-rat, Sven Goran Eriksson, will be their new Director of Football. Great news for everyone in Notts: County fans get to dream about capturing the Johnson’s Paint Trophy, while Forest fans finally have a legitimate reason to hate their gloryhunting rivals for a couple of years or so before it all goes horribly wrong.
July 23
The Nottingham Riviera opens, to the general delight of everyone bar the most miserable mard-arse, exposing the absolute hypocrisy of the Nottingham public. The last time the Square was full of sand - for nearly three years, mark you - everyone moaned about it. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.
July 25
Nottingham Pride - the yearly celebration of diversity and tolerance - takes place during the day in the Arboretum. Nottingham Shame - the weekly ritual of vomiting regurgitated WKD from one’s nose whilst attempting to get your hand up a shopgirl in the manner of Rod Hull and Emu up against the wall of Flares (while she texts some other bloke behind your back) takes place during the evening. As usual.
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