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ISSUE NO: 178 

‘THE CHELMSFORD FANZINE’ 

AUGUST 2011 

shaun@theedgemag.co.uk The Edge Chelmsford CM2 6XD Telephone 01245 348256 Mobile: 077 646 797 44

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Coming to a campsite near you... 

This is me and my mate J-Cloth, readers, at your editor’s 50th birthday 

celebratory weekend ‘camping’ not up a mountain, but in the middle of a 

field near the wonderful Dorset coast. To be fair, we didn’t go so far as to 

sniff each others shirts, but J-Cloth does actually own a horse and, what’s 

more, knows how to ride one.....which saved my hind quarters. 

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The Edge 077 646 797 44 Page 3

The Edge Editor’s Column 

OH BUGGER 

I tend to get a bit flustered when stuff such as 

my car not starting happens because (a) I know 

sweet bugger all about the mechanisms of cars, 

or any working or non-working machine, come 

to that. And (b) I immediately think that I need a 

new one as it must obviously be completely 

spent. 

As it turned out, it was only the battery that 

needed replacing. 

“I’ve got one on the van with me, if you’d like 

me to fit it for you, sir?” said the kindly AA man. 

“How much?” immediately replied the northerner 

deep-set within me. 

“£105,” said he. 

“Ooooh, in that case, can you just get me 

started instead, please.” I offered. 

Which he did. Only then I had to suffer the 

sheer trepidation of a new battery costing me 

more from the guys I use at round at C&C (off 

Navigation Road, readers, if you want to save 

yourselves some money getting your car fixed 

and serviced), not to mention the terror of me 

actually stalling the damn thing on my drive 

OFFER 1 

round there. Figuring I hadn’t stalled a car since 

I was 17, I decided to risk it. 

Bingo! Ended up saving myself thirty quid on the 

battery. Only then I got to wondering (and not 

for the first time) how tight that actually makes 

me? I mean, it was absolutely hissing it down 

when the AA man got me going again and the 

temptation to say to him, “Oh, go on then, stick 

it on” when he offered me his battery was 

immense, as it certainly would have saved me a 

drive out in such deplorable conditions. 

But it wouldn’t have saved me 30 quid, would it? 

No, it wouldn’t, Mr. Squeaky Pockets. 

Yep, that’s me. Tight as arseholes! 

PULA 

Did you see that ‘Three Men in a Boat’ thing 

(Rory McGrath - The Edge’s favourite, Dara 

O’Briain - too fat, and Griff Rhys Jones - doesn’t 

drink, so don’t trust him) where they went to 

Venice? 

Loved it. 

However, as soon as Rory walked into the 

Roman amphitheatre at Pula, Croatia, I was 

clenching my fist and going “Yesss!” at the TV 

screen in agreement, for this is what he said: 

“It’s better than the one in Rome, isn’t it?” 

BLOODY HELL 

What the hell’s happened to all me advertisers? 

The July Edge was such a good edition (well, I 

thought it was) then woomph, the arse has just 

fallen right out of it. 

“We’ll be back in September,” many of my 

regulars have said, “but everyone’s away in 

August, so it’s not worth bothering about.” 

Isn’t it? 

Well, it has been for the past 14 years, so 

what’s so bloody different about 2011? 

Sod it, then. I may as well get our tent out and 

bugger off camping to Cornwall with Mrs Edge! 

REFUSES TO MEND 

If there’s anyone out there who reckons they 

can fix my shoulder and receive a glowing 

report in The Edge for doing so, then please do 

get in touch. 

The problem has honestly been dragging on for 

2 - 3 months now and I’ve completely had 

enough. 

It’s times like these you wish you had BUPA, I 

can tell you, yet nor have I the spare funds to be 

knocking on the door of the Springfield Medical 

Centre either, more’s the pity. 

My shoulder is genuinely stopping me doing the 

sporting activities I like to participate in, not to 

mention restricting me in other ways too numerous 

to mention. So please, is there’s anyone out 

there, kindly get in touch. 

GIMP BOY/GIRL 

I was actually serious when I mentioned, in last 

months mag, that I needed a Gimp boy/girl or 

college leaver (whatever) to do stuff for The 

Edge on t’internet, Facecock and Twatter etc., 

so lets be hearing from anyone who believes 

themselves to be wasting far too much time on 

such sites with no real purpose in mind. 

BUS INTO TOWN 

Got the bus into town the other day (well, you’ve 

got to these days, haven’t you) and the Polish 

driver sullenly requested two pounds something 

or other to take me to the station. 

“Eh?” said I. “But it was only £1.70 a week or so 

ago.” 

“Always been this price,” he said. 

Before proceeding to take me all around the 

fecking houses just so’s I got my money’s worth. 

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Page 4 The Edge 01245 348256

That’s Not Me 

So I’m sat with the quack. Nice (youngish) lady 

and I am busy pouring my heart out to her 

over my busted shoulder. I am telling her, “It’s 

been three months now and the darn thing is 

refusing to heal.” 

So she has a little feel of it (the shoulder). It’s 

a hot morning and her hands are nice and cold 

on my skin. 

“Hmmmm,” she says, before picking up the 

telephone. When it is answered, she says, “I 

have a fifty year old man...” 

‘Tum-tee-tum’ I am musing, as I am sitting 

their, patiently waiting for her to attend to her 

other business of the day. 

“....with a continuing shoulder complaint....” 

AND THAT’S WHEN IT STRUCK ME LIKE A 

BOLT OF LIGHTENING FROM RIGHT OUT 

OF THE BLUE, readers, for she was actually 

talking about meeeeee! 

Christ, when she mentioned the word fifty 

down the blower, I thought she was on about 

some old geezer like the bloke above. Only 

she wasn’t. She had my records up on her 

screen and she was damn well talking about 

me. Bloody me? 

Well, that really was a shock, I can tell you. 

Just not used to being 50 at all, yet. 

SHITTO 

What’s the point of one totally unsuspecting 

person winning something ridiculous like 

£160million (or whatever the astronomical 

figure was) on the weekly Lotto (or Euro Lotto 

or whatever it’s bloody well called) when what 

they ought be doing in such situations - if that’s 

the amount in the kitty - is guaranteeing sixteen 

separate winners a one million knicker cash 

bonanza each. 

Why give just one person far too much and an 

amount they clearly wouldn’t be suitably capable 

of handling, no matter how much they might 

want it, when you could make sixteen people 

literally piss their pants with happiness instead? 

For instance, The Edge spends a quid per 

week on the Lotto and has only ever won a 

tenner. What sort of a return is that? 

Just say, though, just say, that if every one of 

the 10,000 people who pick up a copy of The 

Edge every month were to put a fiver each into 

a pot and we all drew straws, then the lucky 

winner would walk away with £50,000 on a 

regular monthly basis. 

Now I am telling you straight, readers, I would 

far rather spend £60 per year with the chance 

of winning £50,000 every single month than 

shell out £52 per year and carry on winning 

sweet bugger all on the Lotto like I have been 

doing for God knows how long. What say you? 

Because if you all think the same way as The 

Edge does, hell, why don’t we JUST DO IT? 

Oh sure, no doubt there are laws against doing 

such a thing, but I’m almost certain our very 

own Kingpin could find a way around them. 

So how about it? 

I honestly think it would be BRILLIANT and I’d 

even be happy for whoever won the fifty grand 

each month....whereas I both loathe, hate and 

despise those lucky, lucky Lotto winners. 

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www.theedgemag.co.uk Page 5

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WHAT THIS PICTURE SAYS TO THE EDGE... 

“Niall Teague & The Fast Company....probably the best Irish band in the world.” 

They were certainly playing outside the best pub in the world (the Square & Compass at Worth 

Matravers, situated at the head of a valley running down to the ‘Ledges of Winspit’ on the beautiful 

jurassic coast) and it just so happened to be on the weekend of my 50th birthday celebrations, so 

how lucky a bloke was I? 

We also got wind of the fact that the weather back in Chelmsford was somewhat inclement to say 

the very least, so a double-bonus for we intrepid (eight) travellers. 

I’d even go so far as to say that this particular afternoon proved to be one of the best afternoons of 

my entire life. A great pub, great view, great people around you, lovely music and some wonderful, 

wonderful cider. Aye, life don’t get no simpler or taste no sweeter. 

Dorset might be a few counties away from Essex, but so far as I’m concerned, it might as well be 

another bloody country entirely, for every time I visit, I feel as though I’m entering an entirely 

different land and culture, particularly the bit we go to. 

When you come to think about it, the magic doesn’t 

happen very often in life, does it? And sometimes it 

really does seem to be that you’ve got to have a 

really major excuse to get the people you want all 

together, even if it’s just eight. In this particular 

instance, six months notice had to be given! 

Well worth the wait though. 

So how does this ‘old man’ feel now that his long 

weekend of celebrations are finally over? 

Gutted. Absolutely gutted. Because now I’m just 

another middle-aged fella struggling and muddling 

his way through life, yet for one afternoon at least, it 

honestly felt as though things couldn’t get any better. 

Dancing the afternoon away... 

Big venue stadiums, crap, overpriced lager and the 

music belting out to a 75,000 crowd, or something far more intimate just off the coast? 

Anyway, why don’t you check out both the Square & 

Compass and Niall Teague & The Fast Company on the 

web for a little flavour of what you missed. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I should be promoting a local pub 

and a local band, but cut me some slack, will you, readers, 

cos I’m feeling incredibly tender right about now, seeing as 

I’ve reached such a ripe old age. 

Cheers! 

Even the dogs were lapping it up. 

Mr. Charisma aka Kelvin Busher on 

the double bass - a right cheeky 

chappy if ever there was one. 

Page 6 shaun@theedgemag.co.uk


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Simply Satin 

The Tacky One 

Don’t you just love Essex, what with its sleazy 

reputation and the general consensus of it being 

the ‘tacky one’ of the Home Counties? 

Not fair, is it? 

I honestly don’t have any friends called Sharon 

or Tracy and I’ve never worn a pair of six inch 

stilettos, never mind white ones. 

I thought there might just have been a slim 

chance of the ‘Essex Girl’ stereotype becoming 

dated and fading away into obscurity, and it 

actually did seem as though there was a fighting 

chance for our beloved county to redeem itself 

at one time. But then something happened. 

That bloody TV show and its shameless typecasting, 

ruining any chance Essex ever had of 

recovering its reputation. 

I think it borders on slander. 

However, the thing that gets me is that many 

people in Essex actually seem to watch it and 

lap it up. Encourage it, even. 

If the excited Facebook status updates about 

what’s going on in the nonsensical show from 

people who I hesitate to call my friends wasn’t 

enough to convince me of it, the fact that Dukes 

recently used a ‘The Only Way Is Essex 

Reunion Party’ as a promotion finally brought it 

home to me LOUD & CLEAR. If Dukes thought 

they could market the craze, then the clamour 

surrounding ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ was clearly 

worse than I initially suspected. 

N.B. Just for the record, Dukes promotion did 

really well and I am told the night in question 

was “really good”, God help us. 

I remember first seeing the TV ad for the show 

and my eyes actually widened in disbelief before 

turning to horror. I thought, “Oh please, God, 

noooo!’ And I’d hoped with all my heart that it 

would simply crash and burn. 

Only it hasn’t. But then, it wouldn’t, would it. 

Because perhaps the sheer ridiculousness of 

the show somehow makes it (ahem) ‘compulsive 

viewing’. 

I honestly can’t see it myself. It frustrates me. 

I tried to bring myself to watch a full episode, but 

couldn’t. What’s more, I’ll never try again. 

It’s not good for me (and it shouldn’t be good for 

anyone). I could feel my brain slowly wasting 

away. In fact, its only redeeming feature appears 

to be that it’s set off a chain reaction so a whole 

host of other equally God awful ‘reality’ shows 

seem to be popping up, like ‘Geordie Shore’ and 

‘Made In Chelsea’ which, on the surface, sounds 

like a damn good reason to throw yourself out of 

the nearest window, although the way I see it is 

that hopefully people will be able to see that 

there are brainless bimbos who use far too 

much fake tan and boys with half-a-brain-cell 

who ‘go’ for said bimbos all over the country. 

In short, no, IT’S NOT JUST AN ESSEX THING! 

However, there definitely is something about 

Essex that sets it apart from other counties, 

something that makes it just that little bit..... 

crazier. And that is perhaps, just perhaps, we 

know how to have a bloody good time and TV 

show or not, other counties just can’t handle the 

fact. 

IKR 

I know I’m probably a little young to be saying 

this, but some of the stuff the youth of today 

come out with is plain ridiculous. 

Take, for instance, the word ‘awesomated’. It’s 

something my younger sister brought home from 

school. So I looked it up on Urban Dictionary, 

mostly to check the spelling, and it’s defined as: 

the state of being better than 'awesome'. 

Then there’s my brother’s favourite ‘bare hilare’ 

which is defined as: a phrase used to describe 

someone who is very funny. 

Forget the words, how about the acronyms? 

Bloody confusing! IKR (I know, right)?!?! 

But it’s not just the youth of today, is it? The 

weirdest thing of all, I think, is when I hear my 

very own father, a learned man, using such 

‘youthisms’. For instance, just the other day he 

replied to a comment left on a forum, mentioning 

in his post that he was ‘ROFL’ (rolling on floor 

laughing) at the other persons comment. 

In fact, come to think of it, it was actually my 

very own dad that introduced me to ‘LOL’. 

Bollocks To Poverty 

I’m excited! 

Want to know why? 

This month, I’m throwing a massive Pre-V, Post- 

(exam) Results Party for charity as part of the 

’Bollocks To Poverty’ tour, and it is going to be 

frigging AWESOME! 

ActionAid, an international development charity, 

works with some of the poorest people and 

communities in the world and co-ordinates the 

‘Bollocks To Poverty’ tour. By going to, or putting 

on, an event as part of the tour, anyone can help 

their vital work in Africa, Asia and the Americas, 

and play a part in the ongoing fight against global 

poverty. 

Everything’s set up. I’ve got an awesome venue, 

some awesome DJ’s and - yes, you guessed it - 

an awesome charity to support! 

Want to join me? 

We’ll be partying at The bar in Chelmsford from 

10pm ’til 2am on Thursday 18th August to the 

sounds of commercial, electro, house, breaks, 

dubstep and trance, with DJ Gary Bright plus a 

couple of Essential Clubbers DJ’s. Tickets are 

£4.50 on the door, or £3.50 prior, and at least £1 

from each ticket goes straight to ActionAid 

(registered charity no. 274467). 

In fact, it’s going to be so, erm, awesome that I 

know a couple of people from Holland who are 

thinking about coming over just for the night! 

So please have a look at the website 

www.wix.com/vipro5/partyforcharity to find out 

more about the charity, the event, and the DJ’s. 

Or simply go ahead and buy your advance 

tickets by going to www.wegottickets.com and 

searching for ‘Pre-V, Post-Results Party For 

Charity’. 

Hey, and do tell all your friends and your neighbours 

and hell, even your neighbours dog, if 

they’ve got one. In fact, why not let the whole 

world know. Yeah, let’s get up and party and say 

absolute bollocks to poverty! 

For more information about ‘Bollocks to Poverty’ 

and ActionAid, please visit... 

www.actionaid.org.uk/bollocks 

And for anything else regarding this event, 

tickets and any other enquiries, simply email 

v.i.pro@live.co.uk 

Hey, readers, I guess we’ve got to cut Satin 

some slack as she is The Edge’s youngest 

writer by some considerable margin...and we 

were young once too. Remember? E.E. 


OH NO, NOT AGAIN, MAURICE! 

Hi Shaun, 

Enclosed photo taken in Zand Square - Brugge. Had a long weekend 

there with my wife celebrating our 50th Wedding Anniversary. 

Not looking overly happy as it rained all the time and the food and drink 

was very expensive. 

Left a copy of the June Edge at the Park Hotel where we stayed. 

Best wishes, 

Maurice Crick. 

Ahhhh, Maurice lad, whatever is The Edge going to do with you, eh? 

Come on, admit it, you just like appearing in the mag, don’t you? 

I mean, whatever is this photograph? I can’t fathom it out. Looks like 

you’re on a rooftop with some chimney stacks, or perhaps somewhere in 

Beaulieu Park. Bugger, that’s it! You’re in Beaulieu Park, aren’t you, lad? 

And this is just another one of your ploys to get your picture in The Edge 

wearing those ultra-scary sunglasses of yours that make you look as if 

you’re about to morph into a bluebottle or something. 

Tell you what, Mo, let’s cut out the middleman (The Edge) and announce 

to the readers that if they want to see any more photographs of you 

holding a copy of the mag, they can always find you at Costa Coffee! E.E. 

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EDGE ROUND UP 

Paperboys Raised £3,000 

Not sure enough credit went to The Paperboys for completing the London to 

Brighton 54 mile cycle ride in aid of the British Heart Foundation, as featured 

in last months Edge, so here’s a bit more praise: “WELL DONE, LADS!” 

And the boys are (from the left): ‘Big Steve’ Yarnell, Ian Rice, Natalie Rice 

(Christ, a woman!), Mick Pitcher, Phil Antonio, Monty Montgomery, Frazer 

Wilkie and Colin Adams who all completed the route on Raleigh Choppers. 

The Fling 

Bacon & Eggs 

There’s bacon & eggs for breakfast and 

then there’s a canteen (on New London 

Road) bacon & eggs for breakfast and 

oh The Edge’s word, their grub is just 

so damn good. Look at this gorgeous 

lean bacon - done just right - poached 

eggs cooked to perfection with just the 

yellowest yolks you’ll ever see, and a 

chunky doorstep or two of toasted 

granary bread. 

Yummy, yummy, yummy. Top quality. 

“This year’s festival of assorted amusements was exactly that and we’re again 

overjoyed with its continuing success,” says Liam Rich, Cultural Events 

Manager of CBC. “Audience numbers were up on last year and there were 

more artists and performers on site than ever before. There’s far too much for 

everyone to see, but this means everyone has different stories to tell. The 

Fling currently displays the tip of the creative iceberg that exists locally and in 

future years we’ll be inviting even more people to get involved, perhaps organising 

their own space or revealing hidden talents for others to enjoy at the festival. 

Perhaps it will be bigger and last longer, although The Fling will always 

remain warm and intimate. many thanks to everyone who came, made stuff, 

dressed up and danced. We look forward to seeing you all again next time!” 

Chelmsford Beer Festival 2011 

Yet another resounding success - although the weather didn’t help - with 

cider sales amazingly up somewhere between 35% - 45%. 

And can The Edge please go on record for thanking all of the CAMRA staff 

who lay on our fantastic annual piss-up, because they’re all volunteers, 

readers, ever last and lovely one of ’em. Some even have to give up over a 

week of their annual holiday entitlement from their real jobs, and if that isn’t 

showing devotion to the cause, this mag doesn’t know what does. 


The Editor assures me that, contrary 

to what I inferred from the conversation 

detailed in the June Edge, the 

public don’t actually want to read the 

same article every month. So, it’s 

back to the grindstone, when I was 

looking forward to graceful retirement…. 

All this controversy has got me 

thinking. Whatever the tedium and 

disenchantment engendered by reading 

the same content month after 

month, year after year, there are certain 

things we expect to have a similarity 

time after time. Take, for example, 

the Dickens novel to which I 

referred (also June Edge). Obviously 

no-one would want or expect 

Dickens to write out the same novel 

every few yearsw and submit it for 

publication in the same form with the 

same title; that would be crazy and 

pointless, wouldn’t it? Suppose, 

however, you had fond, schoolday 

memories of reading one of his 

tomes and decided to buy a new edition 

of it and rediscover its prolix 

delights. You wouldn’t, in those circumstances, 

expect to find chapters 

presented out of order, new characters 

inserted and the ending 

changed, simply because the editor 

had thought it would sell more 

copies, would you? You’d clearly 

want to re-read the book you remembered. 

And so it is with beers. We all look 

forward to a certain degree of innovation 

and experimentation when 

experiencing a new beer we’ve not 

tried before, even though these days 

that often results in an excess of citric 

bitterness more suited to washing-up 

liquid than beer. But we don’t 

expect to find that someone has 

played around with a good beer 

we’ve returned to time after time, 

almost to the point of it being a new 

beer under an old name. 

Oft-times, however, that’s exactly 

what happens, particularly when an 

established brewery with a certain 

reputation gets snapped up by one 

of its competitors. Is the buyer, often 

a large multi-national company, really 

interested in the flavour of the 

beer and the heritage surrounding its 

production? Or are they actually 

interested in the reputation that goes 

with the name? 

David Sherman’s 

BEVERAGE 

REPORT 

It’s notable that many people, even 

those with some knowledge and 

experience of the world of beer, will 

‘drink the name’ instead of tasting 

the beer, rather like people who went 

to see Bob Dylan in the nineties and 

‘applauded the memory’, rather than 

booing the performances. The first 

brewery to benefit from this lack of 

objectivity amongst the ale-drinking 

public was Greene King. “I remember 

in the 70s,” one fifty-something 

drinker told me, “CAMRA members 

used to travel for miles to drink 

Greene King IPA.” He doesn’t 

remember that at all, of course, 

because there was no beer called 

Greene King IPA in the seventies; 

it’s a mid-80s re-badging of Greene 

King Bitter. “They won’t touch it now, 

but it hasn’t chnaged,” he continued. 

It has changed. Last time I saw any 

form of ingredients listing for Greene 

King IPA, it included First Gold hops, 

a new variety developed in the late- 

80s. Unless Dr. Who is one of GKs 

brewing consultants, it’s unlikely 

they were in the beer 35 years ago. 

One has to wonder if the same fate, 

or worse, will befall Sharp’s beers. 

Brewed in Cornwall by one of the 

most successful new micros, their 

beers have now been absorbed into 

the portfolio of mineral-water producers 

Molson Coors. Is this giant 

American piss-merchant really interested 

in keeping a small brewery 

churning out five or six beers in a 

remote corner of England? Or are 

they just after the flagship session 

bitter, Doom Bar? Doom Bar has 

developed, in recent years, a national 

reputation (which is, of course, 

what first brought it to the attention 

of the asset-stripping arm of the 

brewing industry), and rightly so. It’s 

a good, solid beer of reliable quality, 

striking the right balance between 

lightness of touch and fullness of 

flavour. 

Or so it was. It could just be an 

unfortunate blip, cask beer being 

naturally variable and all, but the 

other weekend at a pub of generally 

impeccable quality, my pint of 

Molson Coors Sharp’s Doom Bar 

(a name which sticks in the throat for 

reasons other than length) was 

bland, featureless and dull. 

Anyone remember Boddington’s? 

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TV presenters Neil Domoney and 

Bonnie Davies along with 

Chelmsford’s very own Chris 

Bonnet of Gardening Express. 

Gardening ON-LINE 

Have any of you readers received a copy of the chunky, glossy, highly polished 

(although can you ever really polish a turd?) So Essex magazine 

through your letterboxes recently, readers? 

In it, on pages 70 and 71, to be precise (Jesus, it’d take The Edge a few 

issues to produce that many pages), there’s an article on a local Chelmsford 

bloke called Chris Bonnett who’s built up his online internet gardening plant 

& shrub supply service from a patch of unused earth in his parent’s back 

garden into a £1million turnover business over the past 10 years, and the 

fella’s still only 29. 

Well, Chris got in touch with The Edge and invited me over for a brew and a 

chat. I say ‘a brew’, only I noticed he declined when offered one by a 

member of his staff, and when I tasted mine, bugger - it surely qualified as 

the worst cup of char anyone’s ever made me, bland and tasteless as it was. 

In fact, I was actually preparing to sod the interview and jump straight back 

into my Edgemobile when... 

“I’m going to be on the tele,” said Chris. “It’s a brand new C5 show called 

Garden ER, which also spells gardener.....get it?.” 

“Oh eye, lad, eye,” I confirmed. “There’s no flies on me.” 

“It’s a weekly show aimed at putting the fun back into gardening, and I even 

managed to wangle a brand new water feature for my own garden out of 

them as well, which was handy. The show covers real garden makeovers, 

with real prices and the time involved. And there’s some great 

ideas on how to turn a garden shed from shabby to chic...” 

“Every man loves his garden shed,” chimed I. “Someone 

even bought me a couple of books about the subject for 

my birthday, entitled ‘Shed Men’ and ‘Men & Sheds’. 

They’re about....” 

“Whoa! Edge bloke. This article is surely about me and not 

you yet again, isn’t it? So, as I was saying, Garden ER....yes, you’ll no doubt 

be interested to know that there’s a pimp my shed section, where rundown 

garden sheds are totally transformed. Then there’s a help and advice section 

as the team sorts out viewers embarrassing gardening gaffs. There’ll also be 

a bit of green-fingered gadget testing, plus a look behind the garden gate into 

some of Britain’s celebrities’ gardens. The whole aim of the shows is to 

demystify gardening and bring back the fun element that Ground Force used 

to tap into.” 

“W’hey, Ground Force,” I repeated. “The Edge should feature that on its TV 

Gold section as I honestly used to love that programme, and not just 

because of Charlie Dimmock’s hooters either.” 

Page 12 The Edge 077 646 797 44 

“Quite.” 

5 

“OK, Chris, back to you then, sir. Now, The Edge gathers that you already 

send plants out to all corners of England, Scotland and Wales, so whatever 

next? Ever considered thinking about Europe?” 

“To be honest with you,” says Chris, “I have been thinking about it. One step 

at a time though, so it’d be Germany first. In fact, your Edge might be able to 

help us recruit someone who could help us translate our website into 

German and handle all the customer calls the new site would hopefully 

produce?” 

Any budding gardeners and/or bi-linguists out there should simply log on to 

gardeningexpress.co.uk

Looking Gooooooooood! 

A lovely couple by the name of Liz & Eddie took over The Crown in 

Sandon in February and after a complete overhaul......damn, it is looking 

mighty fine, reports The Edge Editor. 

You know when you step inside somewhere that’s just right, just so? Well, 

that’s the feeling I instantly got when I first set foot inside The Crown just 

the other week and unfortunately that is such a rare feeling because most 

folk who take over pubs honestly tend to balls things up. 

But not Liz and Eddie. No way. Without a shadow of a doubt, they have 

put there mark on the place and made The Crown look, in The Edge’s 

humble opinion, exactly how it should have always looked, yet never has 

in all my infrequent visits to the place. 

Take the sign outside, above the downstairs windows. Some people taking 

over might well have decided to ‘made do’ with the old sign as technically 

there was nothing really wrong with it. Other than the fact that it 

simply wasn’t good enough and The Edge 100% appreciates such 

wonderful sentiments. 

“I even wanted uplighters,” says Liz, “but we weren’t allowed!” 

The Edge is confident that new visitors to The Crown are now going to 

enjoy this pub as at last it strives to fully achieve its potential. 

A warm 

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The Crown, The Green, Sandon, Chelmsford, CM2 7SH. Tel: 01245 477164 


Spotted at The Fling 

And it is so annoying when some people literally refuse to get into focus! 

Spotted on the floor somewhere in Chelmsford... 

how beautiful is that? 

What do you mean, “It’s rude to refer to a young damsel as that?” 

The Edge is talking about the bloody pint of beer....beautiful, it looks. In 

fact, it’s making the mag feel quite parched just looking at it. 

Tut, of course the true object of The Edge’s desire is the pretty young lady 

in question.....but what if she’s got a horrible personality, eh? 

She probably hasn’t, but with looks like that, you possibly can have and 

still get away with it (The Edge strongly suspects). As in:- 

“Hi Chloe” (wild guess). 

“Go drop dead, dog breath.” 

“But Chloe....I....I....” 

“Save it and get out of my face.” 

Like The Edge says, the young lassie in question is probably not called 

Chloe and, heaven forbid, doesn’t treat people like that. 

BUT with her looks, if she had a mind to, she probably could....and folks 

would still keep coming back for more! 

...can somebody please explain? 

Page 14 The Edge 077 646 797 44

And cheers to 

you too, sir. My 

word, what a splendid 

way to dress. 

Tut-tut, no belt tho’. 

UNFORGIVABLE! 

Craig g Hubert Hubb 

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The Edge 01245 348256 Page 15

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If you have been fruitlessly searching for a pub 

that is quintessentially English, then The Duck 

Pub & Dining is the place to visit locally. 

Nestled between the picturesque villages of 

Writtle and Roxwell, The Duck sits in the tiny 

hamlet of Newney Green and enjoys all of the 

peace and quiet of the English countryside as if 

from a bygone era. 

Now under new ownership, The Duck operates 

as a free house. 

In order to wet your palate, there are always 4 

regional real ales available on draught plus at 

least 2 on the back bar poured at gravity. Our 

first class selection of other drinks also includes 

a quality wine list and a huge selection of Malt 

Whiskies. 

On the food front, our menu reflects everything 

that is great about Great Britain and draws on 

the excellent range of food available locally, put 

together in the shape of simple, honest, hearty 

dishes. 

The Duck welcomes one and all, whether it’s to 

enjoy a traditional three course meal in our 

wooden beamed dining room, or simply to join 

the cyclists and walkers with a country platter 

sat around our fireside. 

Families are most welcome too, so why not 

make full use of our spacious garden, complete 

with children’s play area. 

the duck pub & dining 

newney green, chelmsford. 

Fantastic band playing 

live from 8.30pm. 

Since taking over the reigns, we are constantly 

striving to make The Duck better, with our 

outside grounds currently taking presedence. 

However, future plans include a kitchen garden 

and a small holding in which we will keep pigs, 

chickens and an assortment of little animals that 

will further enhance your visit to our pub. 

Birthday, anniversary and all celebrations are 

also naturally catered for, as are business 

luncheons, so please do contact us for further 

details. 

We very much hope to welcome you to The 

Duck real soon! 

Beer, food, music, wine and entertainment! 

Friday 26th August Saturday 27th 

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Kicking the weekend off 

7pm supper with the 

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Wick’s Manor bangers & 

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Sunday 28th August 

Food & craft stalls 9-4pm 

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Monday 29th 

August 

Afternoon Tea Menu 

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Watch an evening play 

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by Frank Marcus 

whilst enjoying a pie 

from 7pm 

£10 Ticket 

‘Sample Menu’ 

Soup of the Day 

Duck Liver Parfait 

Melon & Grape Cocktail 

Fisherman’s Catch 

Toad in the Hole 

Avocado & Brie Bake 

all served with potatoes and a medley of fresh veg 

Summer Fruits Bread & Butter Pudding 

served with Crème Fraiche 

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Selection of ice-cream 

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TEL: 01245 421894 

The Edge 01245 348256 Page 17

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Page 18 The Edge 077 646 797 44

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YOUR 

& 

letters 

emails 

to theedge! 

CHELMSFORD, CM2 6XD. 

shaun@theedgemag.co.uk 

Galactic Slag 

Alreet Captain, 

Enjoyed the mag this month (July). 

I noticed your bit about how you 

hate the winter months and thought 

you might like to know that (even 

though they don’t seem it) Winter 

and Autumn are shorter than 

Spring and Summer (at 89 days to 

92 days respectively). 

This is due to the Earth’s elliptical 

orbit around the Sun, meaning at 

some points it is closer to the Sun 

than at others, so it moves round it 

quicker. What is also interesting is 

that during the Winter months, the 

Earth is actually at perihelion, 

which means that’s when it’s closest 

to the Sun. You’d think it would 

be warmer then, wouldn’t you? 

I think it just goes to show that the 

very universe itself is out to ensure 

that thee and me are as miserable 

as it can possibly make us, the 

huge galactic slag. 

Kingpin. 

A ‘perihelion’ sounds like something 

you’d find in a Safari Park, 

old lad. E.E. 

Internet Rubbish 

Dear Edge Editor, 

I really cannot believe you fell for 

that internet rubbish about five 

Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays 

happening in July only once every 

823 years. That story first did the 

rounds at the start of the year, but 

referred then to January. 

In (almost) your lifetime, you will 

find the July five weekend days in 

the years 1960, 1966, 1977, 1983, 

1988, 1994, 2005 and 2011. The 

next times are 2016 and 2022. 

From this you can work out that 

they fall in a sequence of 6, 11, 6 

and 5 years in every 28 years. If 

you doubt me, check out an old 

diary with dates for 2005! 

I think you must have had the Beer 

Festival on your mind when you 

printed that story. 

Cheers, 

Gifford Harrison. 

What, doubt an undoubted Edge 

reading maths professor against 

that dimwit Lengthy Boy who 

supplied me with such ‘internet 

twaddle’ in the first place? Not 

likely, Gifford, you sex machine, 

you. E.E. 

Raleigh Choppers 

Oi, Edge bloke! 

Rayleigh is a town in Essex. They 

do not make Choppers (July Edge) 

Raleigh do. 

Tut! 

Andy Ballentyne 

You disgusting pedant, sir. E.E. 

William & Harry 

Dear Edge, 

Here's something for you to get 

into. Those two Prince’s William 

and Harry are so different, I refuse 

to believe they are of the same 

father. William's nearly bald, like 

Charlie, while Harry has a full head 

of red hair. 

Facial features don't match either. 

Their mother was known to ‘put it 

about a bit’ so I reckon Harry is the 

son of that butler, James 

something-or-other. 

Regards, 

E. Lucas. 

Blimey! Talk about an off-thewall 

email. To be fair, surely it’s 

crystal clear that the brothers 

are not of the same dad, and 

furthermore, The Edge thinks 

that you are somewhat confusing 

Messrs. Paul Burrell and the 

dashing rogue that is James 

Hewitt, sir. E.E. 

Sudbury Curry House 


Stumbled across your July issue 

whilst waiting for my take-away in a 

curry house in Sudbury, Suffolk. 

Best read in a long while. 

I would happily write to all your 

advertisers to tell them this, but I 

think that would make me as sad 

and as stupid an arse as Mark 

Kreamer (mistaken in Letters 

section), so I haven’t bothered. 

Regards, 

Gareth Evans. 

Wow! How did a copy of The 

Edge work its way up to a curry 

house in Suffolk? Which one 

amongst you was it, readers, 

eh? Come on, cough up? E.E. 

Damn Coward 


Well, you've had a go at 

Christianity, so it's time to balance 

things up by having a go at Islam, 

Judaism, Buddhism, etc. 

I suggest you start with Islam, if 

you've any 'balls', and see what 

happens. 

Islam has loads of peculiarities and 

you could have a field day going 

on about it as you've certainly the 

talent to do so. 

Go on! It's time to put the crap that 

is religion firmly in its place, especially 

as it's declared war on western 

culture. 

You say “all religion is crap”, so 

name ALL of them. 

You only pick on those that do not 

fight back, you damn coward! 

I bet you won't even publish this 

letter and I'm NOT even religious. 

Yours disgusted, 

E. Lucas. 

Nothing for 15 years and then 

two letters in the very same 

issue, eh? OK, look, it was actually 

The Grumpy Goose that said 

“all religion is crap” and you can 

read all about what The Goose 

has to say on page 23. 

Personally speaking, I’m not a 

fan of religion, but then this 

whole episode was about something 

The Goose wrote to which 

‘somebody of a religious persuasion’ 

took umbrage to and it all 

spiralled from there. But as editor, 

I’ve never once thought, ‘I 

know. Let’s do an article about 

what a crock of shit religion is’, 

or have any desire to start writing 

about Islam, Judaism and 

Buddhism, as you’ve suggested 

the mag does, simply because I 

honestly feel (a) I couldn’t justify 

the sheer amount of space such 

a subject would require, and (b) I 

doubt the majority of The Edge’s 

regular readers would be interested. 

Let’s face it, you’re never 

going to turn a non-believer into 

a believer, no matter how much 

they pedal it, and vice versa. So 

what’s the point in trying? 

Perhaps religion’s really no more 

than some people needing fags 

and others needing alcohol. 

It is an emotional crutch. E.E. 

Circle of Trust 

Hi Striker, 

I wanted to respond to your recent 

father-in-law article in last months 

Edge (July issues). 

Where as your father-in-law is 

similar to Harry Enfield’s ‘Only Me’ 

character, mine’s slightly more 

‘Jack Burns’ of The Fockers fame. 

No, I'm not saying he’s ex-CIA or 

Mi5, even though that might 

explain the ‘listening device’ in his 

ear (he admits to being a bit mutton 

in the one lug-hole, but I've 

never been so sure). 

I'm also not even saying it's 

because he’s oh so often given me 

the "I'm watching you, Focker" 

treatment either (I'm sure he said 

focker???). No, it's the simple fact 

that, like Ben Stiller’s character in 

the Focker trilogy, I'm never going 

to be completely good enough for 

his ‘little girl’, or ever be included in 

his damned circle of trust. 

OK, OK, I accept it might have 

something to do with the fact that 

17 years ago, there was an incident 

of him walking into his daughter’s 

bedroom, only to find a 5'10” 

skinny (yes, that's right, I did weigh 

less than 11 stone once, you know) 

only ever so slightly ginger haired 

lad attempting to do ‘rude things’ 

with his angel. 

Or maybe it's the fact that I’ve 

already failed 10 times whilst trying 

to pass my driving test (including 

once where I got into completely 

the wrong car) and his beloved 

daughter has to drive us everywhere 

("I just don't get why that 

tosser can't pass a simple thing like 

his driving test?") 

On the other hand, it could also be 

the fact that I'm totally crap at 

D.I.Y., where as the father-in-law is 

naturally a legend in all trades and 

has to come round to ours and do 

absolutely everything (from laying 

the wooden floor to fixing the water 

tank in the loft....I hate heights), 

together with the fact that I don't 

have a ‘real man’s job’ as I work in 

fashion, as opposed to doing some 

honest work, such as any form of 

labouring. 

Or maybe it’s simply confessing, 

when drunk (more than once), that 

the mother-in-law is definitely worth 

a shag! 

And you always know that you’re 

never going to be the complete 

apple of anyone's eye when, during 

dinner parties (or at your very own 

wedding reception), your father-inlaw 

says, “I always hoped and 

prayed that one day my girl would 

meet a man good enough for 

her...and to this day, I'm still hoping 

and praying." (I think he was joking. 

I'm sure I saw him smile when 

he said it. Then again, it might 

have been a bit of windy pops from 

the volovants.) 

There have also been far too many 

occasions to mention when I've 

been pushed aside because he 

can ‘do it’ far better than ever I 

could, from cooking on the BBQ to 

simply changing a toilet roll. 

So will I ever be good enough for 

his little girl? Doubtful. Very doubtful 

indeed. 

All I know is that my own little 

angel is already 7 this year and I 

rub my hands with glee in anticipation 

of becoming a 'Jack Burns' 

type character one day myself and 

properly putting some unsuspecting 

tosser through the ringer, rather 

than writhing in the 'Gaylord 

Focker' position I currently occupy. 

And hey, that’s because I’ve learnt 

from the very best. 

Jan Attrell. 

Love it, Jan, just love it. E.E. 

P.S. Plus you’ve a girl’s name! 


LOOK 

HOW EXPERTLY 

YOUR EDITOR 

CUT OFF ‘THE 

LENGTH’ 

THERE’S ONLY ONE 

MICKEY DUNBAR 

“One Mickey Dunbar.....there’s only one Mickey Dunbar.....one Mickey 

Dunnnnnbar.....there’s only one Mick-ey Dun-bar!” 

That’s what they used to sing whenever former inside-forward Mickey 

Dunbar used to pop one of his balls out.....eh? Sorry.....slipped a ball inside 

to his centre-forward is what The Edge meant to say. 

Now some would say that Mickey used to be Mick Bolingbroke’s right hand 

man, whereas these days he’s known as ‘the man behind the glasses’. 

“It’s true,” says Mick, who sounds like a cross between former Blackpool, 

Everton and Arsenal midfielder Alan Ball and a piece of sandpaper. “Even 

when I go into my local butchers for a string of sausages for my Sunday 

breakfast, instead of just saying, ‘Hi Mick, how’re you doing?’, my butcher 

will say, ‘Backs to the wall please, ladies and gentlemen, here comes the 

man behind the glasses.’ It really can be quite embarrassing when there’s a 

shop full of people.” 

Meanwhile, Mrs Dunbar says, “He got them free....they came with the nose.” 

I’M NOT FOLLOWING YOU, MATE??? 

Brilliant snapshot! There’s always one that doesn’t get the joke, isn’t 

there? 

Whilst Kevin ‘beef jerky’ Swinney, ‘Dapper Rob’ Moules-Mariniere and 

Mod-Boy Yarnell all seemingly get the ‘egg joke’ that your editor’s just 

cracked, ‘Big Shaun’ is left pondering for a good few weeks until he 

eventually cracks on. 

I dunno tho’.....talk about being plucked from obscurity. But now look at 

’em, eh? That’s right, these ’ere Scooter Boys are now frickin’ famous. 

Take Swinney, for example. He’s only been approached to turn on 

Chelmsford Town Centre’s Christmas tree lights this year, hasn’t he? 

“H’hey, lovely job,” says Swinney. “Nice little speech, a few glasses of 

wine, perhaps a salmon and cucumber sandwich with the crust cut off and 

it’s all money in the bank, this ’ere celebrity lark, innit?” 

Yes, but Swinney, me old mate, what about The Edge’s commission....as 

you’re new found frickin’ agent??? 

“Run that by me once more???” says ‘Big Shaun’. 

? 

? ? 

The Edge Crew beat the crowds to vacate the 2011 Chelmsford Beer 

Festival. “We won’t get done for drink driving up here!” shouted The 

Kingmeister, who cannot even drive, let alone inflate a hot air balloon 

(fully all liveried up design based on Kingpin’s mum’s undercrackers). 

The Three 

Elms 

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Essex’s premier ‘cider provider’! 

19th-21st of August 2011 

Featuring ‘live band’ TRASHED 

on Saturday night 

Join us for 

REAL ALES,REAL CIDERS, 

FOOD & FUN! 

Chignal St. James, Chelmsford, CM1 4TZ. 

Tel: 01245 443151 www.the-three-elms.com 


ONLY 

JOKING! 

Cameron: Take Note 

The Irish have solved their own financial problems. 

They’ve imported 50 million tonnes of 

sand from the Arabs and are now going to start 

drilling for oil. 

Wind the Baby 

Went round to a friend’s house today. His wife 

was sat there with their newborn baby. She 

asked if I'd like to wind it. I thought that was a 

bit harsh, so I gave it a dead leg instead. 

Paddy’s Goldfish 

Paddy goes to see the vet with his goldfish. 

"I think it's got epilepsy," he tells the vet. 

Vet takes a look and says, "It seems calm 

enough to me." 

Paddy says, "Wait ’til you see what it does when 

I take it out of the bowl." 

Not Happy 

Statistically speaking, 6 out of every 7 dwarfs 

are not happy. 

No Problem 

A mate of mine recently admitted to being 

addicted to brake fluid, but when I quizzed him 

about it, he reckoned it wasn’t a problem as he 

could stop at any time. 

Sad Tale 

Three Irishmen are sitting in the pub’s window 

seat, watching the front door of the brothel over 

the road. 

The local Methodist pastor appears and quickly 

scurries inside. 

"Would you look at that!" says the first Irishman. 

"Didn't I always say what a bunch of hypocrites 

they were?" 

They carry on drinking, only shortly afterwards, 

a Rabbi turns up, furtively knocks and is quickly 

ushered inside. 

"Another one!” cries the second Irishman.”Tut. 

Trying to fool us all with their pious preaching 

and stupid hats and wotnot." 

After a short while of continued drinking and 

angered condemnation of both the Vicar and the 

Rabbi, they suddenly see their own Catholic 

priest knocking on the door opposite the pub. 

“Ah, now dat's sad," says the third Irishman. 

"One of the girls clearly must have died." 

Balance 

I was at a cashpoint yesterday when a little 

short-sighted old lady asked me if I could check 

her balance. Not being one to disappoint, I 

effortlessly pushed her over. 

Skint 

Bloke walks into a pub and asks for a pint of 

anything except VB. 

Barman asks, "What's wrong with VB?" 

Bloke says, "I had 12 pints of VB last night and 

when I came round, I was fookin’ skint." 

Barman says, "Twelve pints of anything pretty 

much costs about the same these days." 

Bloke replies, "Skint's my dog." 

Racism 

Everyone seems to be in such a hurry to play 

the racism card these days. 

Take this particular instance. A customer asks a 

store manager in what aisle could he find some 

Irish sausages? 

Retail chappy asks him, “Are you Irish, sir?” 

Well, the fella, clearly offended, confirms that 

yes, he is Irish, but counters saying, “Supposing 

I’d asked you for some Italian sausages. Would 

you have asked me if I was Italian? 

“Or if I had asked you for German Bratwurst. 

Would you asked me if I was German? 

“Or if I‘d wanted some kosher hot dogs, would 

you have assumed I was Jewish? 

“Or perhaps Mexican, if I’d asked you for some 

Taco’s?” 

Store manager scratches his head and replies, 

“To be truthful, sir, no, I probably wouldn't." 

Customer claps his hands together and says, 

“There you are then. So why did you immediately 

presume me Irish, just because I happened to 

ask you for some Irish sausages?” 

Store manager says, "Because this is Halfords." 

Spider 

My son's been asking me for a pet spider for his 

birthday, so I went to the local pet shop and was 

shocked, saddened and dismayed to discover 

they were selling for £70.00 and upwards. 

‘Bollocks to that,’ I thought. ‘I’m bound to be 

able to get him one cheaper on the web.’ 

Do Not Bend 

Paddy spies a letter lying on his doormat. It 

says on the envelope: ‘DO NOT BEND’. 

So Paddy spends the next two hours trying to 

figure out how to pick the damn thing up. 

Freshers 

Freshers at the Edinburgh Veterinary School 

were receiving their first anatomy class with a 

dead cow. 

They all gathered around the surgery table 

where the carcass was covered with a 

white sheet. 

Then the professor strode in and started the 

class by telling them, “In Veterinary Medicine, it 

is necessary to possess two important qualities 

as a Doctor. The first is that you need not be 

disgusted by anything involving the animal body. 

As an example....” he said, before pulling back 

the sheet, sticking a finger up the dead cow's 

arse and then sucking it. 

Well, his students were shocked at that. 

“Go ahead, try it for yourselves,” the Professor 

instructed them. 

After freaking out for a bit, the students eventually 

took it in turns to stick their fingers up the 

dead cow’s arse before sucking them. 

When everyone had finished, the Professor 

looked at them and said, “And the second most 

important quality is observation. I don’t know 

whether you noticed, but I stuck my middle finger 

up that cow’s backside, yet sucked on my 

index finger. Learn to pay attention.” 

New Job 

Life's tough, and it's even tougher if you're 

stupid. I start a new job in Seoul next week. 

I figured it would be a good Korea move. 

Pregnant 

Paddy shouts frantically down the ’phone, "My 

wife’s pregnant and her contractions are only 

two minutes apart." 

The nurse replies, "Is this her first child?" 

Paddy hollers, "No. This is her husband!" 

2012 Olympics 

It's 2012 and it's the Olympics in London. 

A Scotsman, an Englishman and an Irishman 

want to get in, but haven't got any tickets. 

So the Scotsman picks up a manhole cover, 

tucks it under his arm, and walks up to the gate. 

"McTavish, Scotland, discus." he announces, 

and walks straight in. 

So the Englishman, impressed at the 

Scotsman’s ingenuity, picks up a length of 

scaffold, slings it over his shoulder, walks up to 

the gate and announces, “Waddington-Smythe, 

England, pole-vault," and in he walks. 

Well, the Irishman is majorly impressed and not 

to be outdone looks around and picks up a roll 

of barbed wire and tucks it under his arm. 

"O'Malley, Ireland....." he proudly announces at 

the gate. "Fencing." 

Drunk as a Skunk 

Paddy is driving home, drunk as a skunk. 

Suddenly, he has to swerve to avoid a tree. 

Then another. And then another. 

Cop car eventually pulls him over as he’s 

veering about all over the road. 

Paddy tells the cop about all the trees in the 

road. 

Cop says, "For God’s sake, Paddy, that's your 

air freshener swingin' about." 

New Aftershave 

I tried some new aftershave that smells like 

breadcrumbs. The birds absolutely love it. 

Sex 

Wife says to her husband, "You only ever want 

sex when you're drunk.” 

Husband replies, "Hey, that's not fair and that’s 

not true. (Thinks for a moment.) Sometimes I 

want a kebab." 

Memory Stick 

Bought the wife a Memory Stick. 

It's great. She hasn't forgotten my beer, dinner 

or sex once since the first beating. 

Q&A 

Q. What's the difference between a boy and a 

girl in Liverpool? 

A. Girls have a higher sperm count. 

All jokes published are supplied by Edge readers. Please send your ‘egg yokes’ to shaun@theedgemag.co.uk

The Grumpy Goose! 

The Catholic Church 

There has been speculation that, as a 

result of my article about the men in 

white dressing gowns, The Edge 

Editor had suspended me, or I had 

chosen to ‘lay low’. Nonsense. I'm still 

here, and, to prove it, I'm writing this 

column. 

In reply to a letter from clearly a small 

boy (see Letters Page): In my original 

article entitled ‘Ridiculous’ (May 

Edge), I used the phrase “all religions 

are equally bogus”; note the word ‘all’ 

- it means inclusive, not exclusive. 

Let me make it plain: THERE IS NO 

GOD. Whichever religion you choose, 

you are deluding yourselves. It’s just 

us. We are responsible for all of the 

good and all of the evil in the world. 

I have no problem with people who 

believe in a god; go ahead, delude 

yourselves, deceive your children. 

However, I do have a problem with 

the Catholic Church. 

Why, I hear you ask? (But only the 

Catholics are asking - everyone else 

knows.) 

The Edge Editor is a 

regular visitor to Blissful Soul in order 

to unwind from the stresses and strains 

of his complicated life in their Floatation Tank 

Definitely not The Edge 

Editor’s feet, readers....but I 

was brave enough (just) to have 

my toes nibbled and it genuinely 

is a feeling like no other 

The Catholic Church is the main religion 

in Europe and affects our daily 

lives. It preaches to Catholics and non 

Catholics alike. Catholics are entitled 

to their beliefs, as are Muslims. 

However, Islam does not affect our 

daily lives. Muslims do not abuse 

children in care homes, their leaders 

do not live in a golden palace full of 

treasure, they are not hypocrites. In 

fact, I'm not sure any other religion is 

as hypocritical as the Catholic 

Church. 

As I write this, I'm watching the BBC 

news at 6; yet another incident of 

abuse and cover-up by the Catholic 

Church. Father John McGee, an 

adviser to the pope, has been found 

to have covered up incidents of child 

abuse by Catholic priests; after the 

pope promised it would not happen 

again. BUT STILL IT GOES ON. 

As Catholics, you know all these news 

reports are true. ‘Something is rotten 

in the state of Denmark’ if I may quote 

Shakespeare. 

Aren't you ashamed of your church? 

You should be. The Catholic Church is 

truly morally bankrupt, but you'll 

defend it, won't you, because you are 

morally bankrupt as well. So for once, 

do the right thing and condemn the 

systematic abuse perpetrated within 

your religion. 

But wait, I think I have a solution to 

the problem. 

I propose you live your lives by a different 

book. You've used the bible for 

2000 years; it’s time for a change. I 

suggest you use a book(s) that is 

more widely read than the bible; 

something more relevant - Harry 

Potter. It’s got a man with long hair 

and a beard, there are spirits and 

demons and spells and magic (miracles 

even). 

Lord Hanningfield 

He’s an unashamed arrogant common 

thief; it’s official. 

He stole from the hard working and 

over burdened tax payers of Chelmsford. 

His supporters claim that his imprisonment 

is a travesty; he did a great deal 

for the county, he spoke very highly of 

it. Is that it? He spoke? What else did 

he do for the county? Did he collect 

refuse? Did he drive a bus? Did he 

work in a hospital? 

No, but he stole from the tax payers 

who did. 

The people who defend him are 

equally corrupt and morally bankrupt. 

At least his incarceration is not all bad 

news for him; I believe his ‘preference’ 

is quite prevalent in prison. 

Debenhams 

I walked through Debenhams the 

other day. As I passed the cosmetics 

counters, I wondered how the female 

staff managed to get their skin to look 

so orange and waxy? 

Race for Life 

A (female) friend entered Race for 

Life; her boyfriend wanted to participate 

too. 

However, he was rejected, on the 

grounds that he is not female. 

What an idiot. Doesn't he know only 

women get cancer? 

Men don't get it, do they? They can't 

do, or Race for Life would include 

men. The women who organise this 

event aren't stupid, or selfish, are 

they? So it’s time us men admitted 

Fishy Goings On 

that we only get ‘man cancer’; you 

know, a bit like ‘man flu’, not real. 

Only women get real flu and real cancer. 

So come on, all you men, get out 

of that hospice bed, there’s nothing 

wrong with you; stop malingering. 

Those beds are needed for women. 

Government Advice 

Employ British workers over foreigners; 

it’s the only way to ensure full 

employment. ‘They come over here 

(even though they are entitled to do 

so) and take our jobs.’ We British 

want our traditional jobs back: cleaning 

cars and picking fruit & veg etc. 

Even I, The Grumpy Goose, have 

first-hand experience of this thorny 

employment issue. 

On three occasions last year, as part 

of my ‘real job’, I had to interview job 

applicants. I advertised the vacancies 

through Chelmsford Job Centre. 

On all three occasions, out of approximately 

30 applicants, only 7 arrived. 

Of those 7, four were more than 30 

minutes late. I was greeted with the 

likes of: “Alright, mate. I'm ’ere about 

the job,” by people in track suits and 

hoodies; one applicant even kept his 

earphones in and listened to his i-Pod 

for the duration of the interview (true). 

Contrast this with a man from the 

Czech Republic, wearing black shoes, 

black trousers, a white shirt and a tie; 

he greeted me with, “Good morning, 

sir. I'm here about the job interview.” 

Sadly, most (not all) of the British 

apes that frequent the Job Centre 

couldn't get a job picking up dog shit. 

Ahem, readers. These are the 

exclusive views of the GG and not 

necessarily blah, blah, blah... 

Blissful Soul, run by Tony and Danielle Smith in Moulsham Street, has 

proved so successful in such a short space of time that they are about to 

open two further fishy outlets in Maldon and Harlow. 

“We combine 8 individual fish pedicure spas with massage and floatation 

therapy,” says Danni, “so we’re more than just a one stop shop. 

“Our fish are called Garra Rufa, originally from Turkey,” chips in Tony, “and 

to be honest, we haven’t seen any as big anywhere else. It’s an incredible 

feeling having them nibble away at the dead skin cells on your feet, but 

they’re hardly piranhas, so there’s really no need to worry!” 

The price is just £10 for 15 minutes (£5 for children) followed by a moisturising 

foot rub. Or alternatively £20 if you wish to follow up your treatment 

with nail filing, cuticle work and a toenail polish. 

Meanwhile, floatation therapy is perhaps the most unusual way to destress 

and allows you to float your cares away in an i-sopod tank in water that 

includes 800lb of Epsom Salts. 

Prices start at just £20 for 40 minutes, or £25 for 1 hour. 

� Gift vouchers available 

� 20% discount for students and OAP’s (proof required) 

� Private parties catered for - prices upon application 

� Check website for all package prices 

177 Moulsham Street, Chelmsford. 

Telephone 01245 690167. 

2 people for the price of 1 

@ Blissful Soul! 

Simply bring this EDGE voucher along and TWO people can 

experience a FISH PEDICURE or float in our FLOATATION 

TANK (seperately or together) for the price of ONE* 

at Blissful Soul on any day excluding Saturdays 

(might be a good idea to book in advance)! 

*Terms and conditions apply 

177 Moulsham Street, Chelmsford. Telephone 01245 690167 


Jo Williams - Partner 

The Estate Agent 

that works for 

YOU! 

I think this house is in Ilfracombe, 

North Devon....although I’m not 

completely certain as it’s a while 

since I took the shot.....but it’s 

definitely a marmite house, 

wouldn’t you say? 

Personally speaking, The Edge 

loves it as it’s got character coming 

out of its, er, funnel (oh yeah, and it 

overlooks the sea too, for good 

measure), but I can well imagine 

some of you going, “Ooh noooo.” 

I reckon it’d probably look a little 

out of place in Chelmsford, where 

as in Maldon it’d go down a treat. 

The Edge has recently been glued 

to its TV set for that Restoration 

Home series, although it’s none too 

Landlords are increasingly optimistic about 

the prospects for the buy-to-let market. 

According to a recent survey by LSL, the 

UK’s second largest estate agency group, 

some 49% of landlords think that now is the 

right time to invest in more property (only 

To quote the world’s greatest investor, 

Warren Buffet (worth £25 billion), “Always 

buy at the point of greatest pessimism.” 

Well, it seems that we have already passed 

that point. 

In the past year, some 185,600 fewer firsttime 

buyers than usual entered the sales 

market, prompting an increase in rental 

demand. Indeed, over half the landlords 

polled have seen a rise in tenant demand in 

the last three months alone. 

David Newnes, Divisional MD for LSL said: 

“Optimism among landlords is not only 

buoyant, but increasing. Soaring rents and 

climbing demand from frustrated first-time 

buyers are not only making buy-to-let an 

attractive proposition for new property 

investors, but are encouraging existing 

landlords to grow their holdings before 

property prices increase once more.” 

Rents now equal their all-time high of £692 

Dream Homes 

keen on its choice of presenter and 

also thinks it spends more time 

than necessary on the history of 

the projects rather than the actual 

restoration work itself that the programme’s 

title would seem to suggest 

it should. Thing is, why I even 

bother to put myself through it each 

week I’ll never know, because I 

always end up sick with envy. 

Kevin McCloud and Grand Designs 

is still by far The Edge’s favourite 

and the sooner that reappears onto 

our screens, the better. 

Change of subject: those six new 

semi-detached houses by Moody 

Homes on Victoria Road in Writtle. 

Are they overpriced, or what??? 

BUY-TO-LET BACK ON TRACK 

per month. 

However, one of the frustrations is that 

despite 68% of landlords expecting rental 

demand to grow during the next 12 months, 

54% are finding mortgage finance harder to 

source than a year ago. 

Interestingly, of those landlords who have 

bought in the past year, 48% were cash 

purchasers. 

Landlords with mortgage finance typically 

have an average rental ‘profit’ of £3,288 per 

year after mortgage repayments - more 

than enough to absorb even the most 

bullish forecast for interest rates. Many 

landlords are now investing this surplus into 

extending their portfolios. 

So with the Bank Base Rate once again 

remaining at it’s all time low of 0.5% (and 

forecast to remaining low for the foreseeable 

future), landlords can expect to see 

rents rise without a corresponding increase 

in mortgage payments. 

So, what would Warren do? 

Can’t you guess! 

For further advice or information on buy to 

let mortgages, please contact me, Jo 

Williams, on the number below. 

www.thehomepartnership.co.uk 

11 Duke Street, Chelmsford CM1 1HL 

Telephone: 01245 250222 


‘GOLD! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got 

the power to know, you’re indestructible....’ 

And this month, readers, it’s the turn of the Rough 

Guide series of holiday programmes on C5 hosted 

by Julia Bradbury and Toby Amies that is practically 

The Edge’s favourite spot of TV of all time. 

Why? 

Because The Edge loves its holidays and the 

Rough Guide gets to the meat and two veg of the 

destinations it covers with no mucking about. It 

was always like ‘BAM! This is what you want to be 

doing/seeing...’ 

They never used to beat about the bush and if a 

certain holiday/destination didn’t come up to 

scratch, they’d say so. Which is great. That’s what 

The Edge is after. No point shilly-shallying around, 

is there? 

What’s more, The Edge loved it’s presenters, Julia 

Bradbury (particularly Julia Bradbury and her quite 

frankly totally amazing bod) and ‘the other bloke’? 

TV GOLD - THE ROUGH TEST GUIDE 

CARD 

Ah yes, Toby Amies (only joking, Toby, lad). 

Brummy boy Amies was just as important as Ernie 

Wise to Bradbury’s Eric Morcombe and 

was very much his own man (this mag 

has particular fond memories of him in 

raptures over Cuba, somewhere The 

Edge has never been). I also used to 

love seeing him belting about the back 

streets of some far off foreign climes on 

a scooter and think, ‘What a bloody 

amazing job to have, the lucky bastard’. 

Meanwhile, Bradbury was forever getting 

her kit off and The Edge really can’t 

fault her for that, the sex kitten. 

But what this mag truly cannot understand 

is why Rough Guide is no longer 

on our screens, particularly as the 

shows proved to be so very successful? 

OK, so Bradbury’s currently up the duff, 

which hurt when I found out, I can tell 

you. Through a glossy magazine rather than a 

’phone call too, I might add, which is never nice. 

I’ve even emailed Julia’s PA, Gina Fox, so we’ll 

see whether any information transpires about a 

new series. So watch this space... 

Obviously not. 

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shaun@theedgemag.co.uk Page 25

From Russia with Love 

I’ve always had a soft spot for mother 

Russia. Throughout the ages the Russian 

people have been put through some of the 

most horrifying forms of hardship imaginable, 

but like an AK-47 toting energy bunny 

fuelled by vodka and sheer bloody mindedness, 

they just keep on going. 

History for the Russians was basically like 

a millennia long episode of ‘Endurance’, 

with history metaphorically burning their 

nipples with a magnifying glass and randomly 

kicking them in the bollocks. 

“Thanks a bunch, history!” 

One thing this proves is that you just don’t 

mess with the Russians, and if you don’t 

believe me, go and ask Napoleon and 

Hitler about their ‘Russian Front’ ideas, or 

the Russian guy that cut his own head off 

with a chainsaw during a drinking game to 

prove that he was the hardest bloke there. 

Granted, he wasn’t around to celebrate his 

victory, but you can’t deny he definitely put 

that particular argument to bed. 

It’s not even just the people in Russia that 

aren’t to be screwed with. Russian dogs 

are also in the top 10 of ‘Eastern Bloc 

things the Kingpin doesn’t want to mess 

with’ (just behind female shot putters at 

number 7). Moscow has a big problem with 

large packs of stray dogs and statistically 

you’re actually more likely to get attacked 

by a dog than mugged over there. 

These canine gangsters mainly live in the 

subway systems and have learned how to 

navigate through the city using the trains. I 

know people that still can’t figure out what 

train they have to take to get from 

Liverpool Street to Kings Cross, yet these 

are stray dogs we’re talking about here! 

Apparently, it’s not that uncommon for 

someone to be late and running for the 

train when they’re set upon by an entire 

pack of hounds, which is at the same time 

both horrifying and completely awesome. 

Being the pragmatists that the Russians 

are, they’ve adapted to this four-legged 

threat by carrying sausages with them to 

distract the dogs if they’re attacked. No, 

I’m not joking either. 

“Hand over the pork and apple 

and nobody gets hurt.” 

ME & MY adamantium 

skeleton 

Taking stuff like this into account, it’s not 

surprising that it was the Russians who 

came up with what is possibly the best 

idea for a game show known to human 

kind. The 90’s saw the dissolution of the 

once vast Russian empire and a whole 

host of woes came with this transition, from 

the meltdown of the economy to the meteoric 

rise of organised crime. As well as yet 

another shit and broken glass sandwich for 

the beleaguered Russian populace to chew 

on, the 90’s also gave them ‘The Intercept’. 

Like all certifiable works of genius, ‘The 

Intercept’ was based on a simple enough 

premise. A man would be approached in 

the street by the film crew and offered a 

brand new car. All he had to do was drive it 

away and keep hold of it for the next 35 

minutes. Easy, right? 

What they didn’t mention was that the car 

had been fitted with transmitters to enable 

it to be easily tracked and that they’d just 

reported the car as stolen, so the contestant 

would in fact be spending the next 35 

minutes in a high speed chase with the 

police through the streets of Moscow. 

Oh, and when the police caught them 

(which they almost invariably did), they 

could, and would, drag the contestant out 

of the car and give them a richly deserved 

roadside beating. Like I said: genius. 

Not surprisingly, ‘The Intercept’ was hugely 

popular and it’s not hard to see why. Who 

wouldn’t want to watch it every week? 

N.B. If you’re a bloke and you answered 

“no” to that question, I would suggest 

removing your testicles from your girlfriend’s 

purse and trying them on for size 

again. 

What’s also not surprising is that it’s only 

the Russians who had the brass balls to 

come up with a show. such as this. Not 

even Japan, the land of school girls 

panties in vending machines and signs on 

the train reminding men that it’s not actually 

OK to grope women on their daily commute, 

would come up with something like 

‘The Intercept’. 

In another stroke of genius, it seems the 

brains behind this game show were the 

Russian police themselves, probably thinking 

it a good bit of propaganda as well as a 

much needed image boost. 

Just think about that for a second and 

imagine the uproar if the Met came up with 

that idea, tearing through the crowded 

The Kingmeister reports 

“What’s wrong with our image 

comrade?” 

streets of London for a game show and 

then giving the ‘lucky’ contestant a jolly 

good hiding for the cameras. Then again, 

with all the budget cuts to public services, 

perhaps it’s time we all started thinking 

outside the box to generate extra revenue? 

Transplant patients could go on a ‘Deal or 

No Deal’ type show to see if they can pick 

the correct box with a kidney in it. Or perhaps 

one day, if we’re very, very lucky, 

we’ll actually get a proper ‘Running Man’ 

game show. 

Monkey Magic 

By now, I think most of you know that I 

have an ongoing love affair with our simian 

cousins, so I’m always keeping an eye on 

what my favourite species are getting up to. 

And now that we’re getting no more 

‘Monkey News’ from Karl Pilkington, I figure 

someone has to pick up the slack. 

It’s a sad state of affairs, but instances of 

human beings coming into conflict with the 

animal kingdom are lamentably common. 

Name a species that you couldn’t possibly 

believe we’d find fault with and I can find 

you at least one instance where that animal 

had the verb ‘menace’ attached to it. 

Monkeys are old hands at this now and, to 

be honest, probably sound better with ‘menace’ 

after their names anyway. 

We like to think of them as little fellas in 

funny clothes, perhaps dressed in brown 

overalls pushing a piano upstairs before 

having a well earned cuppa, or maybe 

doing that adorable thing where they tear 

your wing mirrors off and shit on your windscreen 

in a safari park. In Delhi and Kenya 

however, they’re definitely not so cute. 

Delhi is prey to gangs of monkeys that act 

much like our own native grown Chavs by 

regularly breaking into people’s houses or 

just loitering on street corners having a 

quick wank, although if reports are to be 

believed, the monkey gangs of Delhi have 

better taste in music and you can hold a 

decent conversation with them. In fact, the 

once deputy mayor of Delhi actually died 

from a monkey attack, falling off his balcony 

while trying to fight off a shrieking horde of 

the things. 

And then they sang protest 

songs against ‘The Man’. 

Exacerbating the problem is the fact that 

monkeys are revered creatures in large 

parts of India, so officials in Delhi can’t 

solve their monkey crisis by the simple 

expedient of just shooting them, so in a 

move of stunning brilliance (and stupidity) 

they have decided to fight fire with fire. 

Enter the Langur, a small ape that’s bigger 

than the troublesome monkeys and is being 

introduced to guard buildings and frighten 

the little buggers away. Now there is a 

clearly appreciable logic to this, but it’s 

sadly lacking in common sense. Monkey 

experts agree that the most likely outcome 

is of the apes and monkeys finding a way to 

live in harmony with each other, while the 

likelihood of homo sapiens living in 

harmony with pretty much anything is like 

placing a bet on a 3-legged donkey to win 

the Grand National. 

Personally speaking, I’m hoping that they 

don’t realise this when Plan-A fails and they 

just keep trying it with bigger and bigger 

apes until the problem is resolved. I’ll put 

my money on that being when the apes 

actually outnumber the humans and just 

start running the place. 

Meanwhile, in Kenya, our monkey brethren 

are making a nuisance of themselves in the 

village of Nachu by regularly stealing crops. 

This in itself isn’t that uncommon, but this 

particular tribe of monkeys are now in the 

crosshairs for sexually harassing the village 

women. The monkeys have learned that the 

men of the tribe are much more likely to 

attack them, and so they avoid the farms 

when the men are around. 

Not only do they have no fear of the women 

though, but they openly mock their attempts 

to stop their vegetable based larceny and 

they’ve also developed a tendency to mock 

the women by gesturing at their little monkey 

cocks before running off with the yams. 

The intrepid women of Nachu tried to combat 

this by going to the fields dressed as 

men, only to find that the monkeys weren’t 

fooled and simply pointed at their breasts 

before getting back to thieving. 

“Are those things real?!” 

At the time of writing, I can’t seem to find if 

the villagers of Nachu have come up with a 

solution to their randy monkey woes, but 

hopefully they’re sending someone to Delhi 

for some tips. 

Page 26 www.theedgemag.co.uk

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FIFTY...NOT OUT 

by Steve Ward 

Wimblebury 

As this edition of the Edge hits the 

newstands it will be early August 

and the damp and cold days that 

constituted June this year will be a 

far distant memory. Yeah, but. Two 

things happen every year in June, 

and although it was a couple of 

months ago, the chronology doesn’t 

really matter to the point to be 

made here. 

Mid-June sees the annual Festival 

of Middle England. No, not the 

church fete, or the family fun day 

(an oxymoron if there ever was 

one) but that gathering of the white 

and genteel class that descends on 

London SW19 every year. Or, if 

they can’t get there in person, they 

at least attend in spirit via the wonders 

of modern technology. Or in 

this case, the BBC, which isn’t necessarily 

the same thing. Yes, we’re 

talking about Wimbledon. 

This year, and with a level of wit 

that was as exceptional as it was 

unexpected, certain members of 

the crowd started shouting “C’mon 

Tim” at Andy Murray. What these 

people were doing, and you have 

to assume it’s unknowingly, is 

backing the argument made above 

that Wimblebore is a completely 

English middle classes thing. 

Murray is Scottish, and worse, a bit 

of a raggamuffin. He likes to win 

things and is prepared to be nasty 

to do it, if that’s what it takes. Sadly 

for him, he plays in an era where 

there are not one or two, but three 

exceptional players that make it 

very difficult for him to excel. But 

that’s not the point here. No, the 

point is that the crowd don’t want to 

have to cheer for a hairy rough 

boy; they want a nice, clean cut, 

mild mannered Tim Nice But Dim 

that represents them and all they 

aspire to. The sort of man they 

would want their daughters to 

marry. 

The annual Lawn Tennis 

Championships is one of the so 

called crown jewels of televised 

sport that, by law, Rupert Murdoch 

can’t buy up. Which is a huge 

shame, because the cosy 

BBC/Wimbledon relationship needs 

a damn good shake up. Years ago, 

the BBC was arrogant enough to 

assume it was the natural home for 

televised test cricket - until all of a 

sudden it lost the rights. Then Sky - 

big bad Sky - took over and all of a 

steveward2000@hotmail.com 

sudden we’re watching a totally 

different game. Hawkeye, hotspot, 

dozens of cameras, HD, super slomo. 

Do you really think we’d have 

all those innovations if it were left 

to the BBC? Of course not. We’d 

have old buffers in blazers. Or 

maybe, in what they mistakenly 

thought would be a modernising 

drive, old buffers in jumpers and 

slacks. 

The BBC’s coverage of the tennis 

is fronted by Sue Barker. Sue 

Barker, for chrissake. The most 

annoying public school jolly hockey-sticks 

head girl on the planet. It 

says it all about the BBC’s image of 

itself that it would allow such a total 

ninny anywhere near a camera. 

However, at exactly the same time, 

the complete antidote to 

Wimbledon also happens to be taking 

place. In fact, antidote is what it 

should be, but it too has succumbed 

to the white middle classes 

and is now exclusively their preserve. 

This time we’re talking about 

what the Daily Mash brilliantly 

described as “a muddy hellpit filled 

with twats”. Yup, Glastonbury. Or, 

as you’re supposed to call it to 

show how hip and on the ball you 

are, Glasto. 

So how can all that mud and 

squalor really be the same as 

those nice people in nice clothes at 

nice old Wimblebore? Well, for a 

start, it has its own rituals and air of 

good humoured camaraderie which 

are just as likely to result in the call 

for a sick bag as the tennis people’s 

behaviour is. Then there’s the 

fact that the audience is exclusively 

white. And, just like its SW London 

counterpart, Glasto will not be playing 

host to the inhabitants of sink 

estates. Food and drink at both 

venues is ridiculously overpriced - 

another means of keeping the oiks 

at bay. 

There’s one more similarity. The 

BBC. Yes, Glasto is now another of 

the BBC’s staples and one it plugs 

relentlessly. To be fair, the coverage 

is not as anodyne as that of 

the tennis, but it is very careful not 

to frighten the horses. Nobody 

sticks a camera in a tent to see 

what’s going on, because they may 

well get a nasty shock. The phrase 

‘sex and drugs and rock and roll’ is 

not a lie, but the BBC pretends it is. 

Having berated the two events for 

being a bit too middle class, we 

should balance things up a bit by 

stating that nobody begrudges people 

sticking together with others of 

their ilk if that’s what turns them on. 

Neither should it be anyone else’s 

business if being ever so slightly 

naff isn’t a matter of concern to the 

individual concerned. 

But you can’t help but wonder if the 

BBC couldn’t be a bit more adventurous 

in its coverage of major 

events. It seems stuck with a mindset 

that thinks that just because 

something’s been done a certain 

way for the last 30 years, then it’s 

the only way to do it. 

Which is why Mark Lawrenson still 

has a job. 

Sadly.

WRITTLE INTERNATIONAL SCOOTER COLLECTIVE 

‘The Collective’ congregated 

outside the recycling zone at Tesco 

- and some of ’em look as though they have been! 

The Edge got wind of this right local motley crew 

just before they scootered off for a right refreshing 

(aka boozy) long-weekend away at Camber 

Sands in Sussex (Pontins, that is). 

To be perfectly honest, it’s not often The Edge 

becomes intoxicated by anyone or anything it 

happens to interview, but the day after bumping 

into these guys of the W.I.S.C., I not so accidently 

found myself inside Newcombe’s on New 

Street in Chelmsford and almost purchased a 

‘Limited Edition’ 300cc Vespa right there and 

then, such was the spirit and camaraderie that 

these guys evoked. 

But I’ve honestly never been into scooters. Not 

as an adolescent. Not even when Jamie Oliver 

first sprang onto our screens with his scooter in 

the hallway. Never. Not until I started hiring them 

out for peanuts on Thai holidays where you drive 

all over the islands without a helmet. Marvellous. 

I think that what it was....what it was when I first 

saw the W.I.S.C.....I think I just thought, ‘What a 

cracking excuse to have a mid-life crisis.’ 

Maybe some of these guys are reliving their 

youth? Whatever. But if I get a scooter, it’ll be a 

whole new ball-game for me as I’ve never even 

owned one before. 

Ozzie (Austen Burrows - below right) is their 

leader. Their Sting (in Quadrophenia - 1979). 

Their leading man. “Took us seven hours to get 

to Camber Sands in the end,” he informed The 

Edge, “what with all the breakdowns, punctures 

and fag stops. Sometimes we’d make detours 

through towns just for the crack and it was hilarious 

when all 32 of us poured into the same rickety 

little caff for a late breakfast. Poor old dear 

running the place didn’t know what’d hit her.” 

When the guys eventually reached their cell 

blocks at Camber Sands, they immediately set 

about getting stuck into the 350 quids worth of 

beer that their Albanian back-up driver had 

couriered down from Tesco, Chelmsford. 

Then it was a case of having the three esses - a 

shit, a shave, and a shower - before 3,000 scooter 

boys/blokes all congregated together for some 

serious drinking, dancing (dancing?) and partying 

to doubtless Mod-type-tunes until the Burger 

Van took a proper pasting at 4:00am. 

“Snoring’s a real problem,” admits Oz. “Our 

group do seem to be able to make a great deal 

of noise.” (Christ, let’s be hearing from some of 

their wives and girlfriends 

then, please, 

ladies!) 

Only this is what really 

worries The Edge: 

the guys were back 

up at 8.30am for a 

scooter trip en masse 

to Hastings, and seriously, 

how many of 

’em would have 

passed a breathalyzer 

test, hmmm??? 

The Edge does take 

its hat off to ’em all 

though, because 

scootering is pootering 

and the bottom line is: 

it’s really kinda quirky, 

man! 

‘Big Shaun’ in his Harrington jacket 

Paul Weller’s 

Dad, per chance? 

The guys stock up on isotonic drinks and health food bars for their 

‘back-up vehicle’, pre their trip to Sussex. 

W.I.S.C. ‘leader of the pack’ Oz & his ‘Man From U.N.C.L.E.’ t-shirt 

Edge Ed. gets straight down to Newcombe’s to try one out 

at the Chelmsford Beer Festival 


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TOTALLY TRACIE 

Say Hello - Wave Goodbye 

Before I launch into this months tirade of 

nonsense, I want to be serious for a 

moment and whole heartedly assure 

every single Edge reader out there that 

no-one’s mobile ’phone was hacked into 

in order to produce this month’s column. 

The work you see here is purely off my 

own back after a couple of G&T’s and a 

bit of prodding to get my arse into gear 

by The Ed. 

That’s not to say I wouldn’t have hacked 

into anyone’s ’phone had I been able to 

get a signal long enough to do so. You 

see, these days, I spend my whole life 

hanging out of the front bedroom window, 

clinging onto the window sill for 

dear life, whilst trying to balance the 

’phone in my ear and press the keys in 

the vain attempt of possibly getting one 

bar up on my cell to actually make a 

call. ’Course, none of the slick sales 

people told me that there is no signal in 

my area and, indeed, it seems to be 

most areas! The cheeky so and so’s 

even called me up the other day to 

remind me that I still had 2999 minutes 

left to use up of my monthly allowance. 

Chance would be a fine thing. Oh to be 

able to hold a conversation lasting over 

10 seconds without the line cutting out 

on me. 

It’s a dead cert no ’phone hacker came 

from this county, that’s for sure. 

But I have to say the one thing that puzzles 

me more than anything in this 

whole sorry saga of ’phone hacking is 

how the heck did Ross Kemp, aka Grant 

Mitchell from Eastenders, ever manage 

to marry Rebecca Brooks, the woman 

who ran the newspaper behind the 

’phone hacking scandal, in the first 

place? 

Keep Em Peeled 

For all those of you about to fly off 

somewhere sunny for your hols, be 

assured for although we live in dangerous 

times, Neighbourhood Watch is on 

full alert. Whilst most Neighbourhood 

Watch meetings concern themselves 

with day-to-day crimes such as speeding, 

lawn mower thefts and a bit of antisocial 

behaviour, police around London 

airports and Stansted have been touring 

village halls with a rocket launcher to 

warn residents of the dangers of terrorism. 

Officers have been drafted in from the 

special aviation squad and are said to 

be particularly concerned that cheap 

surface-to-air weapons smuggled in 

from Afghanistan could be used by terrorists 

to bring down ’planes. 

Now hang on a minute. What I want to 

Tracie123@aol.com 

know is how the hell they smuggle these 

weapons onto the aircraft in the first 

place? I cannot even manage to get a 

pot of face cream on board in my hand 

luggage, let alone a rocket launcher. 

One thing’s a dead cert though; these 

so called terrorists obviously don’t fly 

with a budget airline with a restriction of 

but 18 kilos of luggage, now do they? 

Villagers near the airports are being 

urged to dial 999 if they spot anyone 

suspicious lurking in the hedgerows with 

a missile launcher. 

I ask you. 

Given that, in the past, the police in 

Essex have not been adverse to issuing 

EYE-EYE 

some Neighbourhood Watch groups with 

speed guns to keep us all in line, let’s 

just hope they don’t start letting them 

play with surface-to-air missiles, 

because put it this way, I wouldn’t want 

to be any motorist going but a few miles 

over the speed limit near Stansted in the 

near future. 

Top 5 

For anyone who has decided to holiday 

at home this year and is looking for a 

whole new experience, then look no further 

than Pevors Farm in Essex, the 

proud winners of the Essex Tourism 

Award for two consecutive years and 

Essex‘s best kept secret. You certainly 

won’t need to worry about lots of baggage 

as this is exclusively a holiday for 

naturists, set in acres of woodland and 

meadows, situated right in the very 

heart of our county. Pevors proudly 

boasts itself as being in the top 5 of 

‘bare all’ places in the UK. It is run to a 

very high standard by John and 

Margaret Lewis, who themselves love to 

sunbathe in the buff and regularly join 

their guests for cocktails. 

When asked what the best advice they 

could offer to first time guests, they said, 

“Always look the person in the eye and 

do remember to sit on a towel“ - (especially 

useful advice when sitting on the 

cream sofa‘s). So, if you fancy getting 

naked - Pevorsfarm.co.uk could be the 

holiday destination for you. 

Red Red Wine - Makes Me 

Feel So Fine 

For all of us who have struggled with fitness 

programmes and have trouble 

sticking to diets (says me eating a bar of 

dairy milk whilst typing this), finally some 

good news. Scientists have made an 

exciting breakthrough, calling it ‘exercise 

in a bottle’. (I just love the sound of this 

one already!) Research shows that 

drinking red wine every day helps fight 

the flab. It’s apparently got something to 

do with an antioxidant called ‘reseveratrol’ 

(try saying that after a few bottles of 

Merlot). 

LOVE IS IN THE AIR 

A long term study of 20,000 people 

revealed that those who drank a couple 

of glasses of red wine per day put on 

much less weight than those who stuck 

to soft drinks and water. So stick that up 

your jumper, all you health freaks who 

walk around proudly clutching a bottle of 

Evian to your lips 24/7. 

Presumably the theory must be that the 

more you drink, the more fitter you get? 

Well, after a couple of crates of Pinot 

Noir, undoubtedly I could have the arse 

of Kylie Minogue. 

Now where did I put those metallic 

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