Mark Kennedy, pe crematoriums, Operation Mansfield, lizard dragons in the loft and the ongoing saga of Broadmarsh vs Viccy Centre
1 February
A judge announces he is yet to decide what to do with the Blackberry that was seized in a raid on a load of activists that belonged to undercover fed Mark Kennedy. I’ll tell you duck –
you open it up, and you find out that God knows how much taxpayers money has been wasted on a few Levellers mp3s, a recipe for mung bean risotto, and some phone numbers of easy crustie girls in Forest Fields.
2 February
A pet crematorium owner gets eight months for being caught lobbing three dead dogs, a couple of carked-out cats and a former guinea pig in a field after taking money to have them respectfully bunged in an incinerator. I bet she drop-kicked the guinea pig an’all. Come on, we all would have. They’re just the right size.
16 February
A massive child abuse investigation in Devon is called Operation Mansfield, which – apart from sounding like a particularly violent game for kiddies (remove the syringe from the unemployed miner’s groin for £200, etc) – is a horrible slur upon our Shire. Why stop there, you bastards? Let’s not call it “9/11” anymore – let’s just call it “Sneinton”.
18 February
A family who had just moved house in Netherfield discover that the previous dickhead of an owner had shoved two bearded dragon lizards into a couple of handbags and lobbed ‘em in the loft. Amazingly, they were still alive, and are now being looked after by people who aren’t mongs. Said bell-end claimed that he’d lost interest in them when his missus had a baby. God help that poor little sod when the new Playstation comes out, then.
21 February
Sales figures released by the Audit Bureau of Circulations show that, oh dear, the Evening Post lost 10% of their readership over the second half of 2010. Let’s put that into perspective; that’s approximately 193 less adverts by people wanting to flog a pram, 4,340 less people having a check to see if any of their neighbours are in court that week, 750 less people posting mentalness in their forum claiming that it’s Nu Labour’s fault that Forest always get knocked out of the playoffs, and 3,283,827 less entries in that sucky baby contest they run.
22 February
Yes – I know I said “Evening Post”. Deal with it. I still call ITV “ATV”, an’all. And I call the trams “them big metal snakes”.
24 February
Channel 4 – that TV station that used to be dead good round about the time UB40 were – covers the Nottingham music scene in their Sounds From The Cities series. Except Mat Horne – the less fat and stabbable member of Horne and Corden – covers his home city by introducing some bird from Birmingham in the Malt Cross, as well as some gimps from Brighton. If they want to make it up to us, they can change the title of Relocation, Relocation, Relocation to Slaphead Tory Twat And His Fat Braying Horse-Missus.
25 February
If it wasn’t bad enough having Broadmarsh banging on about expansion, now Viccy Centre is going on about increasing its size by half, because Christ knows how we manage to exist in this town without another eight pound shops. Seriously, I have nightmares that both of them will suddenly expand at the same time, like massive inflatable bouncy castles, wedging the entire population of Nottingham into Clumber Street.
26 February
The University of Nottingham announces a new partnership with Virginia Tech in America. It’s that university where that lad went batchy and shot 32 people a few years ago. I’m not saying any more.
29 February
There was no such date this year, you sucky get.
08 March
‘TV Psychic’ Tony Stockwell announces that he’s had to move the date of his forthcoming gig at the Arts Centre due to the Royal Wedding. You’d have thought that Lady Di would have said summat to him, wouldn’t you? Lady Di, of course, was photographed leaving that clairvoyant in Chesterfield in tears three days before she snuffed it. She was probably told that Duran Duran was going to reform, and they’d be crap.
10 March
If it wasn’t bad enough that Radio Trent turned itself into a bag of syndicated old toss, it is revealed that the BBC are talking about nobbing off local radio across the country and rebranding it to Five Live Nottingham (or Leicester, or Derby, or whatever), and doing the same thing as Capital East Midlands, the stupid twats. This means that everything bar the morning and drivetime shows will be created in London, and anything obscure and random and local that you currently like at the moment will be replaced by Richard Bacon hiding his Mansfield accent and coverage of Forest and County could be replaced by some arsehole in Surrey banging on about Man United as if they’re his local team. Seeing as more people listen to local radio across the country than they do the current Five Live, this is a well mingy state of affairs.
12 March
The QMC are currently going round asking folk if they can have their brains after they die. One of those people happens to be May Contain Notts’ dad. God knows why – presumably so they can look into what watching every episode of Taggart sixteen
times over and sitting in a Wetherspoon’s in Arnold every day does to the cerebral cortex. He decides not to, which is great news for MCN: having already got his glass eye on a keyring, I’m looking for something to put on top of the telly when he goes.
18 March
Kids in a school at Newark get done for a new playground game which involves picking a letter of the alphabet, and then not telling anyone what it is while they try to beat it out of you. The headmaster has already gone off on one at assembly, and rightly so; this term its dead arms for letters of the alphabet, next term it’ll be waterboarding for Mam’s bank details.
Most of March
Nothing at all happens in Notts. Seriously. I’ve scoured the papers desperately looking for some rammell to fill this page with, and there’s nowt. I bet between the time this goes to press and the mag comes out some properly mental stuff happens, like the Council House being eaten by giant wasps, or a Tesco Metro in town getting caught making tiger bread with real tigers. Then you’ll think I’m a right nob for not covering it and complain. Sigh.
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