Paradise found

Howya

Jaysus it’s bleedin deadly here at Cheltenham, so it is. There’s always something special in the air down here — probably the farts of ten thousand paddies after a night on the black stuff but who’s caring.

Sure and I had the chance to be riding for Jamie Osbourne at Southwell today but what’s the point of having me bleedin arms pulled out trying to stop some beggar from winning when I could be down here with the lads? Told the eejit that I couldn’t make it, said it was something I ate.

Ah and it’s roaring here. The craic is deadly, the Guinness tent is jammers and the drink links are busier than a hoor on St Stephen’s Green on St Paddy’s Day.

But if it’s tips youse are wanting then youse have to realise that I can’t be taking money for them. And don’t bother pretending to be them Arabian shieks an taking me off to Dubai and plying me with hoors either, I’m not as thick as that ape Keiren.

Mind I do hear some of the lads are sweet on Shardam in the Bill Hill and me cousin Donal says it’s full steam ahead on Garde Champetre in the first. Donal says he and the lads will be on the bus home Tuesday night if the Champetre loses. Bus? Shank’s bleedin pony more likely. I tell youse, if our Donal’s missus finds out how much the gobshite stands to lose then he’d be better off doing the Riverdance afore she gets her hands on him.

One of the Cork lads asked me last night if I fancied Beef or Salmon. Jaysus, I said, I’m so hungry I could eat them both.

If it’s a tip you’re wanting then youse could do worse than Rhinestone Cowboy in the Coral. Sure it’s a fine beast and it’ll take the beating but jayus it would be home and hosed if it didn’t have that ape JP Magnier on it. He may be the big man’s boy but he’s about as much use as tits on a bull. Dense as bottled shite too. If I was riding the Rhinestone then they wouldn’t see it’s arse for dust as we roared up that hill.

See, one of the advantages of being a fat beggar like me is that I can pick up the odd ride down here and I’m still hoping to get on something in the Bumper. In fact there’s a couple of stable of stable lasses I’m hoping to get on as well but don’t be going telling Mrs F. Sure the flat’s all very well but you can’t beat a good jump for a change.

Anyways all this talk of food is putting a right mouth on me and I’m off to look for some scran. Hungry? I could eat a teacher’s arse through a blackboard.

See youse on the rails.

Tesco the Oppressor

Brothers and sisters, a great wrong has been done. I discovered today that my local “Big Issue” seller has been repeatedly moved on from his preferred patch outside Tesco by the management of the store.

I’m sure you’ll agree that this sort of harassment in unacceptable. The man is responsible for selling the only reasonably priced periodical left in the country and he is shamelessly abused by the capitalist corporate demon. Is there any harm in asking me politely if I would care to enjoy some popular literature at an affordable price as I leave the store with my lentils and nut cutlets in a reusable bag? Are we to be refused access to this enlightening collection of urban street poetry and world music reviews? I don’t think so either, my friends.

As a company that makes £1.65 billion a day, it is despicable that Tesco should target those who have made “alternative lifestyle choices”. If those include roll-ups and cans of Super Lager, then let him be free to make them.

With this in mind, sisters and brothers, Cautious and I advocate the establishment of a new movement – the Coalition Aimed at Undermining Tesco In Our Neighbourhoods (CAUTION). The time has come to rid our towns of reasonably priced produce for the masses and smash the evil, welcomingly lit, empire.

I know enough people in the collective to borrow some recycled placards and march on Tesco and demand equal rights for this man (or woman, of course). The new group lends itself to some really groovy sloganeering – “Proceed with CAUTION!” and “Down with Tesco – we urge CAUTION!”. We must also take direct action – shop at the cooperative and refuse your “Computers for Schools” vouchers – yet another tactic of the corporate oppressor.

The march will have to wait until I finish my shift on the reference desk, but smiling at idiots for that length of time should put me in a suitably bad mood for the demo. I might even leave the filing until later and leave early. Hell’s Bells! It’s all getting a bit Sheridan here, but rest assured that anyone joining us will be given organic, gluten-free, fair-trade, low-fat, vegetarian friendly snack, I’ve saved enough Clubcard points to get sufficient for both, oops, I mean all of us.

Crazy like a Fox

Howya

Jaysus it’s a terrible time to be a jockey and it’s all the fault of that feckin eejit Fallon. I’ve been telling him for years that he’d get caught eventually but did he listen? Did he feck as like.

That’s the trouble wi these top jocks, they look up at a fat git like me and think I know nowt about riding. Me arse and Katty Barry. How do they think I keep getting rides when I’ve an arse the size of Lansdowne Road? Cos I use me head.

See, when it comes to cheating I’m the puppy’s privates. I might not weigh half a bag of sugar when wet but I sure as feck wouldn’t get a nag a mile in front of the bleedin field when it wasn’t supposed to win. Jaysus, if you are gonna do it, do it right. Give the fecker a wee shot of vodka or a packet of jaffas, twist its feckin bollocks before the off or just hold on to the reins until yer bleeding arms are near popping out. There are more ways of stopping a horse than Fallon’s had trainer’s wives. Learn some of them ya caffler Keiren.

And as for that eejit Sean Fox jumping off his nag at Fontwell, what a header. Dry your arse, Foxie ya dope. I could have fallen off a horse better than that in me sleep when I was a youngfella. By the time I was ten I could do the apache roll, the broken stirrup and the slipped saddle just like me old man taught me. Foxie jumped of that beast like Dettori after seven winners. Look at me, ma, I’m on the telly. Feckin ape.

These mentallers are amateurs and they are getting the rest of us a bad name. I’ve got a horse for Jamie Osbourne tomorrow that will take a bit of stopping if youse gets my meaning and now the Jockey Club will be watching as if it was a bleedin porno. I’ll need to fall back on a trick ould Georgie Duffield tells me just to work bleedin deadly in his younger days, just before the Crimean War. It’s not one you can do in front of the ladies but let’s just say the nag will thank you for it at the time. A quick shuffle or two of the wrist and he’ll be so bleedin shagged out he won’t have a baldy. It’s a savage good bit of cheatin but it doesn’t work so well with fillies.

Sure and I might be needing a rake of new dodges what with Keiren banned for 21 days and all. There will be plenty of spare mounts going and one or two trainers might just be looking for a man who knows how to be terrible unlucky. Sure and I can do it all arseways and look no worse than a thick Paddy who just went for the wrong gap. Yeah, in me brown I did.

Anyways I’ve still got nearly a full pack of diuretics and a session booked for the sauna in the morning. That means I can eat me way through a cod and chips and still be able to wash it down with a rake of cake.

Hungry? I could eat chips fried in Shergar’s pish.

See youse at the track.

Footballers Lives

Hello sweeties

My what a terrible kerfuffle over those beastly football chaps who have been locked up in Spain. The molesters from Leicester as Hotwire Harry my driver called them this morning.

I don’t read the ghastly tabloids myself of course but Harry tells me that the molesters broke into the rooms of some unsuspecting young maidens and forced themselves upon them. Darlings I would not normally condone violent retribution of any sort but I really do think that these chaps should have their tackle banned.

Harry tells me that one of the ruffians is named Dickov and I think that is a very good idea indeed. I am led to believe that a pair of rusty shears does the job splendidly.

Now my lawyer, dear old Mr Brocket, says that I shouldn’t simply assume that they did it and that it’s terribly important I don’t say they are guilty in these little memoirs de moi. Well stopcocks to that I say. If they are like any other football players whose acquaint that I have been unfortunate enough to make then they are as guilty as Michael Jackson in a kindergarten with the curtains closed. (Mr Brocket says I can’t say Jackson is guilty either but paedophile is as paedophile does as Henny always says.)

Hang the shits from the roof of the opera house and don’t spare La Traviata.

One of the most unfortunate consequences of the modern age is that these football johnnies have all suddenly become squillionaires without the necessary background or breeding to know how to carry it off. If their families had spent a generation or two shooting peasants or stealing land from robber barons then they might have the decorum to sup lobster consommé without feeling the urge to fart the theme tune from Flipper.

It means that the likes of myself, to the manor born as it were, has to mix socially with young men whose idea of class is to sniff their charlie off a platinum credit card. Or even worse, wear Versace. Uggh.

Many a time I have attended a superior social soiree only to have it completely ruined by a selection of footballer chaps widdling in the fountain or rogering their way through the attendant posse of television weather girls. Darlings, you didn’t hear it from me but old orange-skinned Sian Lloyd has entertained more footballers than the brass band that plays before the cup final. Oh did I say that out loud?

Not so long back I was speaking to two of those nice young men from Manchester United and admittedly I was ever so slightly spongolled on account of having shipped a raft of Great Uncle Bollinger’s finest shampoo. So when they suggested that I might like a roast I naturally imagined they were inviting me for Sunday lunch. Ulrika! Was a girl ever so misled? Apparently it is quite the done thing among footballers these days but I’d never felt so violated since Richard Whitely dripped sweat over my best Via Spigas.

Now if you ask me it is quite unnatural for these young chaps to want to share a lady in this manner. I realise that they are used to performing in front of a crowd but I do have to wonder if they are not ever so slightly manosexual. Finella Funell’s cousin Jeremy used to overly enjoy team games at Harrow and he’s now singing in the chorus of Les Mis. His poor mother is quite distraught but it doesn’t stop her blagging tickets for West End shows.

So not only are the Leicester molesters guilty (sorry Mr Brocket) but they are almost certainly as gay as Christmas in Elton John’s house. Darlings this of course does not make them bad people, some of my best friends are hairdressers — I say friends, I of course mean retainers. But for them to pretend to be macho football types yet really be longing to bite the bye-line is just too much.

So throw away the key Senor Judgarista and rust up the shears. They won’t be needing their balls in prison.

Toodlepip.

Nescafe No More

Fair trade fortnight is finally here! It’s taken seven years to get off the ground but we’ll finally be able to sink the boot into Nescafe. Gold Blend? That couple would be the first against the wall if I had my way. Evil promoters of third world poverty and they obviously get sex quite often. My trigger finger’s itchy already. Or maybe it’s RSI from the bookstamping.

FFF has the full support of the Library, I can tell you. Dangerous Dave is already talking about turning a blind eye if anybody comes into the library with a coffee as long as it’s Café Direct! ( Sorry I didn’t mean blind, I meant “disabled due to inaccessible library systems resulting in visual impairment“ – sometimes forget the most basic of PC stuff when there’s a campaign on!)

There’s a whisper in the Library that Tesco’s student shelf-stackers are on board too so Gold Blend will be a bit less prominently displayed for the fortnight, shall we say. Or maybe it was that Tesco’s student shelf stackers are all bored, that’s the problem with whispers in the Library they can be hard to make out. Not that we tolerate many whispers in here right enough. Dangerous has started saying “eridan” under his breath after every time he says “Shhh” so things are kept pretty quiet here now I can tell you.

Of course we’ll both be on the Café Direct at tea breaks, and I don’t care how shaky our hands get – I’m having a second cup. Not such good news on the home front I’m afraid. Dangerous’ Mum is refusing to play ball and buy the proper stuff so he’ll have to go back to the Nescafe in the house. And I’ve got nearly a full jar of the stuff so I doubt I’ll run out in the fortnight.

We were going to distribute tons of the leaflets as well, but once we’d done a proper risk assessment we realised that it was quite likely the main entrance would get blocked as people stood to read them. And all that paper’s got to increase the risk of fire. Hell’s bells though, it’s all getting a bit Sheridan in here!

Fer feck’s sake Fallon

Howya

Oh jaysus. Poor Keiren. He’s really gone and done it this time.

The Fallon fella was only doing his job and making sure his nag didn’t win when it wasn’t supposed to so that the one of Jamie Osbourne’s got over the line first. Where was the harm in that?

But the eejit had to go and get that horse of his so far out in front that his arse would have looked like a mouse’s diddy to the rest of them. Then he had to put the anchors on so heavy that you could almost hear the beast screeching to a bleedin halt.

Fair play, the man’s a fine jockey but for a crooked fella he’s damn poor at the cheating. Me, I would have eaten me way through half a cow and weighed the beggar down so much that he didn’t have a baldy.

To make matters even worse, the eejit only had to go and tell a couple of undercover reporters that his nag wasn’t going to win. The fella’s got a gob on him like an overworked hoor. A right bollocks he is.

Now the gits at the Jocket Club are all over him like flies on shite. And that means the feckers will be after the rest of us an all. Jaysus.

Ah sure and the Jockey Club are as much use as a cigarette lighter on a motorbike. I’m sure they don’t know the end that shits from the end that eats but they sure know how to make the working man’s life a bleedin misery.

All this hassle is bad for me digestion I tell youse. Sure and it’s putting a proper appetite on me.

Hungry? I could eat chips from John McCririck’s knickers.

See youse at the track.

Sea Biscuit? See me.

Howya

Was youse watching the Oscars the other night? Blinding it was apart from that diddy bitch-bag Billy Crystal. You ever seen anyone more in need of a good kick in the bollocks? Me neither.

Anyways it minded me of that film Sea Biscuit about that ould horse that won all them races in America. Sound it was.

Mind youse, that little horse was so bleedin diddy that I’d have crushed the beggar. The only way it could have won with me on its back would be if it had a ton of rocket fuel up its jacksie. Actually that’s not as Irish as you might think. Jamie Osbourne has this stuff he calls arse ammo for the ones he wants to win. Bleedin deadly it is.

But even the ould movie nag’s name would have got me thinking of food. Sea Biscuit is it? If I see a biscuit I eat it. Ah custard creams, Kimberlys, bourbons, jammie bleedin dodgers. Lovely.

You can’t beat a pack of biccies for keeping your appetite down. A rake of choccy diggies and I can put off eating dinner for a good hour. At Wolverhampton last week I couldn’t eat lunch on account of having to ride a nag for Mr Lungo that had a bit of a baldy. Hank Marvin I was. So I got meself on the outside of a box of jaffa cakes and that fair did the trick.

Ah fair play, I had to eat. Without food in me I’m as much use as a lighthouse on a bog. Mind you I did get a right dose of the scutters just before the 3.30. A right reddener so it was. Youse can have no idea how skawly the trots can be when you’re wearing riding britches. Like an atom bomb going off in a can of beans so it is.

Still, blinding news. I’m on a winner at Lingfield on Saturday. Mr Channon tells me the only thing that can beat his nag is a bolter being ridden by Kieren. Now what Mr C doesn’t know is I was enjoying a bit of rock ‘n’ roll with a stable lass who tells me that Fallon’s nag is going to run a bit wide at the second bend and then get boxed in before heading for home. Dreadful unlucky that way some of Keiren’s horses.

So that means I’ll be due a right little wedge in a bonus from ould Channon and can get a nice little lift from Victor Swindler as well. Of course I could always tell Mrs O’Farrell about me little windfall. Yeah, in me brown I will.

Anyways I’m off to see a man about a one and one — cod and chips to you. Hungry? I’d eat a farmer’s arse through a blackthorn bush.

See youse at the track.

Top of the morning line to you

Howya

Being followers of the sport of kings as you are, you’ll have seen me name on your racecard and in your papers and here I am to write for youse every now and again. Me oul sweat Paul Pot gave me the gig and said I should tell youse all about the grand game and the twisters that run it. Well here it is.

These days I don’t really have what you would call a regular stable. One day I’m whacking the arse off a horse for Mrs Reveley then the next I’m holding one back for Jamie Osbourne. It’s the variety that makes it so bleeding deadly.

I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve had something of a problem with me weight. It’s me genes — makes me lard go up and down more often than a stable girl’s cacks. All it takes is a couples of pints of the black stuff and I end up looking like that fat fecker McCririck. The lads like to indulge in a bit of cheery banter by calling me Fat Fred O’Farrell, the Fattest Fecker in the Field. Ah the cheeky little gobshites, I hope their bollocks drop off.

Anyways I may be a couple of pints overweight but at least I can ride. Some of these midgets are as much use as tits on a bull. They may be as small as a mouse’s diddy but they can ride feck all.

Sure I’m partial to a bag of taytos and the odd swallow of Arthur’s but all it takes is a few days of starvation, pills, saunas and cocaine to get me down to the same weight as the tiddlers.

End of last summer I was on a nice two-year-old for Mr Cecil. Top nag it was as well. The sheiks had wanted Fallon on board but there was no way that Mr Cecil was standing that. Kieren has had one ride too many at that yard if youse gets me drift.

I wasn’t Mr Cecil’s first choice either but Mickey-Jo, Spencey and Darley were booked up, Frankie was getting his hair cut and oul George was in his scratcher having a nap. A right mentaller the oul fella is, still riding at 72 and all.

Anyway, nice horse this was and I’m pretty sure it would have bolted up if I hadn’t had all the strength crapped out of me trying to get down to nine stone. Those diuretic pill jobs are the business for losing weight but spending half the night on the pan sure shags the bejesus out of ye.

Oul Sheik Yermani wasn’t best pleased at his nag losing either and I don’t suppose he’ll be shouting for O’Farrell come the Guineas. Ah well, bollix to him.

Today I’m off to Lingfield and I’ve got two rides, one winner and one loser. The one that doesn’t have a baldy is up first so there’s plenty of time for me to work off that fish supper I had to meself last night before I get on one of Mr Berry’s “specially-trained” efforts in the last. I had to stop this nag winning at Southwell and it nearly pulled me feckin arms out. Today it will go through the field like an Eddie Rockets breakfast through a tourist.

Of course I’m not allowed to bet on this nag as it’s against the rules. Yeah, me arse and Katty Barry. Mrs O’Farrel and the little O’Farrell’s will be going without dinner if something goes wrong and this fecker gets banjaxed. No worries though.

Anways, I’m off down to see my accountant and invest the snapper’s college funds. And I should just have time for a bit of dinner myself before I’m off. Hungry? I could eat a baby’s arse through the bars of a cot.

See yous at the track.

Fred O’Farrell

Commons

Hello darlings

I was in the House the other night — not my house you understand, a girl has to have a life. No, I was in the Houses of Parliament for a little champagne soiree being thrown by some Tory friends of my acquaint who were celebrating Tiresome Tony about to lose some big vote about student oiks. In the bag it was apparently.

Naturally I didn’t want to hear any of the weary details so I just stuck my nose in the old trough and snuckled up enough shampoo to refloat the Titanic. Well, that’s my excuse for what happened next.

One minute I was yawning down some Bolly and the next the scrumdiddlyumptious MP for Stud Muffington-On-Wye had dragged me into the first floor lavatorials with the intention of persuading me to let him go through the yes lobby. As you know darlings I normally have little interest in the introduction of a private members bill but I was absolutely squiffled. There I was, just about to be formally introduced to the honourable member, when the door opened and someone else entered the little boy’s room. In fact there was two of them — nice David Blunkett and that sweet doggy that guides him around the place.

We were as quiet as the quietest of little church mice but I could barely conceal a girlish giggle when I saw what he was doing. Poor dear Mr Blunkett wasn’t standing in front of his urinal properly at all and was actually widdling all over the floor. And his shoes. And his poor dog Lucy. I really did hope that she was going to dry herself off by rubbing against roly-poly Prescott’s legs. Horrid man.

Now you would have thought that the presence of the Home Secretary might just have cooled the ardour of the junior minister for something not very important at all. Au contraire. The dirty beast was keener than ever and he indicated that he wanted me to post the first vote in a silent ballot. Well darlings, I did say I was tashered.

So it was that I found myself kneeling on the floor of a two-hundred-year-old toilet engaged in important dialogue with a member of Her Majesty’s Government while the Home Secretary blissfully piddled on his loafers. The poor chap never knew a thing but his poor mutt looked particularly startled. I guess she hadn’t seen the like since Mo Mowlam gave old Blunkers the elbow. Oh did I say that out loud?

Mr Blunkett eventually dragged his dripping doggy back into the chamber — which seemingly gave the junior minister some fresh ideas of his own — and we were left to finish our discussion in relative peace. I did eventually succeed in calling him to order but I did have to bang his gavel a few times to get his attention.

He suggested we gave the bill a second reading but no longer being quite so terribly trousered — it is amazing how quickly one can sober up when one spots a piece of offending residue on one’s best Via Spigas — I politely declined.

And just as well it was too. When we left the confines of the gents we found there were five other members impatiently awaiting our emergence. It seems that word had got round that Lady P was on familiar terms with New Labour and they all wanted to personally find out if it were true. Ulrika!

Darlings I implore you not mention a word of this to a soul. Think of the damage to my reputation. If people got to thinking I was friendly with the bolshies then I’d never be able to show my face at the club again.

But sweeties, imagine what. The Labourites were so busy convincing me of the merits of the single transferable vote that they quite forgot the time. All six of them were going to vote against those bally top-up fees thingies and it meant that Tiresome Tony squeaked through and won the day. Yikes. Henny Throckmorton’s brother Bill is a Tory whip and if he finds out I spiked his rebellion jape then bang goes my chances of getting their chalet in Kloisters.

Oh darlings, what is a girl to do? Pass me the bottle and throw away the cork.

Toodlepip

David Kelly RIP

Well blow me down with a gift voucher from B&Q.

I was in this house in Argyll Avenue, up to my elbow in this woman’s waste pipe, when I heard the news on the radio. Turns out Tony Blair did nothing wrong in the whole David Kelly Iraq thingy after all. He’s cleaner than a Belfast sink on the 12th of July. Blimey.

At least that’s what Lord Betty Hutton says and what with him being a proper lord and all, who are we to disagree? Here was me thinking that Tony was in as much doo-doo as I was but no. Lord Betty says he’s innocent and that’s good enough for me.

Seems old Doc Kelly didn’t know his arsenal from his elbow and he topped himself after blabbing his big mouth off to that blubberguts from the BBC. The four-eyed fat boy reporter then made up all these nonsensicals about sexing up the dossiers just to get old Tony Blameless into bother. Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does.

The leftie bean eaters at the Beeb are no better than the scumbuckets that work for The Sun or the Mirror. They both make everything up but at least the tabloids have the decency to fill their pages with pictures of Jordan getting her bazookas out in the jungle. You can just about forgive a paper full of old horse droppings if it also has photographs that help the working man pass his lunch hour.

Lord Betty says that Tony didn’t order some beneathling to beef up the weapons report — that was just a figleaf of Andrew Gilliguts’ imagination. Saddam had all these weapons alright and in 45 minutes he could have found them in the holes he buried them in 10 years ago, dug them up, brushed out the sand, found some German scientists to put them back together, do a few tests so they didn’t blow up in his moustache then point them at the west and destroy anyone within a 20 miles radius. Them’s the truth whatever way you cooks your apples.

Betty also made it perfectly bleedin clear that there was no way Blair murdered old Doc Kelly. No way. He didn’t actually rule out Blair ordering fat boy Prescott to take Kelly down the woods, dope him up and give his wrist a slice. But then he didn’t actually say he did either. Ipso quod escape routus.

You see the bottom line — and if anyone knows the importance of the bottom line it’s a plumber — is that old Saddam the Sadist needed sorting out. Tony knew it, George Dubya knew it, even Mrs McGillivray in Ronald Place knew it and she’s as mad as a cheese roll. The plonkers at the BBC knew it too but oh no, they had to play up to the vegetarians and the Save The Whale crowd. “Oooh, show us proof.” Proof? I’d give them proof till they couldn’t sit on a cushion for a month.

That blubbery traitor Gilligan should be taken out into the streets and stuffed with meat pies till he bursts on national telly. That’s the only language these people understand. You see Gilliguts is the sort of bloke who has low self-esteem on account of him being fat and four-eyed so he makes stuff up to make himself important and get on the telly. I saw it on Sky once when I was waiting for a late night artistic movie to come on. It’s called Baron Munchhorses Symphony or something. Lying towrag if you ask me.

I’ve always said if you go throwing shit around then you better make sure the wind doesn’t change or your face will stick like that. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Now I’m not saying that Blair wouldn’t go making stuff up — I’m a plumber but I’m not that bleedin dolly. But the thing is, if he did then he would have been making it up for a good cause, right? And anyways he’s too flippin clever to get caught out by a fatty like Gilligan. If Blair was a bit ecumenical with the truth then Gilligan wasn’t going to see it. Blimey he can’t even see his own feet.

No, we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight knowing that British justice is as safe as it ever was. As long as we have men like Lord Betty looking out for the better interests of the empire then we know things are all right.

Plumb on

Peter Plumb.