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The Parish News
Ladies Group
The Ladies’ Group held a tasting of ten different puddings in the village hall. They were:
treacle sponge
caramel custard
chocolate fondant
chestnut crème vacherin
apple charlotte
summer pudding
clafoutis
crème brulee
syllabub
cherry ginger crunch
Junior Football
Wayne Barnes got caught nobbing Carly Smurthwaite in the disabled bogs of a McDonald’s. Pants round his ankles, he laughed out, ‘it’s tradition.’ It turned out Carly Smurthwaite had a history of celebrating with the winning goal scorer. Coach told Carly Smurthwaite her days as chief cheerleader were well and truly over. Carly Smurthwaite said, ‘I thought you’d be happy, like.’ She pointed out since she started her incentive scheme results had improved by fifty per cent. Siddy Lunn and Dean Marley got caught nicking straws. Siddy Lunn said, ‘they’re free anyhow.’ The McDonald’s guy said, ‘not the dispenser too, dickhead.’ Two miles down the road, Grady Williams chucked up his McChicken Sandwich over the back seat. During the mop-up, Ged Blowes lamped out the fire door and went missing. Conrad Scruton said, ‘he just said he was getting out of here.’ The cops were called. The bus was three hours late home. They found Ged Blowes next day, sleeping rough at Woolley Edge services.
Aquarist Society
The Aquarist Society held its annual presentation night at the Fox and Rabbit. First prize went to Mr M Smith with an albino guppy. Second prize went to Mr G Williams with a roshai guppy. Third prize went to Mr L Seed with an albino guppy.
Classic Cars
Danny Swales skidded his souped-up Vauxhall Astra round the car park till his tyres went bald. It spat gravel, spewed techno. He hung out an arm and held on the wheel one-handed. Sometimes he missed corners and ramped over flower beds. He sent a rubbish bin spinning. A fag stuck angled from his lips. Sarah Daley sat in the passenger seat, reeking Anais-Anais and exhaust fumes. She stared forward.
Vintage Working Day
A Vintage Working Day was held at Boyes’ farm. Entertainment included motorbikes, shire horses, bouncy castle, steam engines, threshing, saw bench, tractor pulling, stalls, auction, bric-a-brac, tombola and plant stall.
Playing Fields Committee
Tammy Marsden and Kayleigh Barker sat up on the swings till after the chip shop shut. When the lights fizzed out they swigged the rest of their Lambrusco and crossed the street to the Kwik Save. Kayleigh Barker said, ‘you sure about this?’ Tammy Marsden took a spray can from her bag. She sprayed, ‘Blake Scruton is a homo’ on the front window. Kayleigh Barker took the spray can and sprayed, ‘and so is Jake Fearnley’ underneath. They were bathed in blue light. A cop said, ‘gotcha.’ Half-way back to the station Tammy Marsden said, ‘are we going to prison?’ The cop looked back over at her white thigh. He said, ‘I doubt it.’ Kayleigh Barker leaned through the seats, said, ‘we didn’t mean nothing.’ The cop studied her in the rear-view mirror. He said, ‘I know you.’ Then, ‘are you Kayleigh Barker?’ Kayleigh Barker said, ‘who’s asking?’ The cop said, ‘I went to school with your sister.’ He smiled through two bends. He pulled over in a lay-by. He said, ‘you take after your sister, huh?’ Kayleigh Barker scowled back. The cop kept watching. Kayleigh Barker said, ‘what the fuck?’ The cop clicked the doors, said, ‘get out of here.’ The girls hiked back. The cop’s radio crackled. He shook his head, whistled through his teeth.
Quiz Night
The popular monthly quiz night was held in the village hall. The answers were:
1 no
2 yes
3 gravad lax
4 Ku Klux Klan
5 woodwind
6 cygnets
7 Germaine Greer
8 smallpox
9 Snoop Doggy Dogg
10 Upper Volta
11 pizzicato
12 it cannot fly
13 rickshaw
14 ‘just like that’
15 wool
16 arachnophobia
17 Fatima Whitbread
18 dogfish
19 Windermere
20 chicken tikka masala
Rainbows
Artie Blowes stacked up his shotgun and headed out in the dark. He could hear the roaring a mile off. He brushed through the snarly grass by the edge of the lake. He aimed his gun in a copse. He said, ‘who is it?’ The voice said, ‘Jesus, help me.’ Artie Blowes said, ‘I ain’t Jesus.’ He elbowed branches and swung up his oil lamp. The lamp beamed on the youngest of the Thackeray boys. He clutched his ankle, dug in a wire loop trap. Artie Blowes said, ‘I knew it.’ His sock bled red. Next to him, rainbows rustled in a Kwik Save bag. Artie Blowes pointed with his gun. He said, ‘what you planning on doing with them?’ The Thackeray boy said, ‘get it off me.’ Artie Blowes said, ‘huh?’ The Thackeray boy said, ‘selling them.’ Artie Blowes shook his head. He said, ‘them brothers of yours.’ Then, ‘I’ve lost a fair lake-full.’ The Thackeray boy said, ‘it’s my first time, honest.’ His face lost colour. He said, ‘my leg.’ Artie Blowes said, ‘I got bigger traps than them.’ He reached and sprung it open. The Thackeray boy winced back, cried. When he tried to stand, he fell. Artie Blowes swung the lamp back to blackness. He said, ‘best you go reminding them brothers of yours.’
Gala Dog Show
Categories at the annual Gala Dog Show held at Thorpe’s Field on Sunday will be:
Dog with the waggiest tail
Dog looking most like its owner
Dog with the kindest eyes
Dog the judge would most like to take home
Most handsome dog
Most obedient dog
Camera Club
Marcia Wignall tugged off her Kwik Save coat and said, ‘is that the time?’ She took a boxed chicken bhuna from the freezer and put it in the microwave. She sparked a cigarette. She stubbed it and removed the bhuna before the ping. She forked a few mouthfuls straight from the Styrofoam. Billy Skaife came in the kitchen topless. She kissed him hello, handed him the bhuna. He ate a fork-full and tossed it aside. Marcia Wignall said, ‘best get a crack on.’ She headed in the bathroom. She stripped naked and dabbed a flannel at her privates. She smeared lipstick in the mirror and puffed her hair. She went in the bedroom and swept specks from the bed sheet. She clipped a frilly black bra and pulled on a panty and suspender set. She sprawled on the bed and shouted, ‘all set.’ Billy Skaife answered the doorbell. Barry Markham pushed past and said, ‘something smells good.’ He went in the bedroom, said, ‘well hey there, baby.’ He tugged off his coat. Billy Skaife followed in with a video camera. He said, ‘rolling.’ Barry Markham removed his trousers and pants. Marcia Wignall said, ‘someone’s all set.’ She unclasped her bra and reached for him.
Tuesday Club
Mrs N Willis was the guest speaker and she told the group about her recent trip in a convoy of trucks taking supplies to the Romanian orphans. Mrs K Ellis read a letter from the Cat Protection League, thanking the group for its donation of £128 from the recent bring and buy sale. The competition for prettiest scarf produced joint winners, Mrs V Kaye and Mrs M Fairbanks. Teas were served by Mrs K Ellis.
Ice Cream
Casey Fairbanks told the ice cream kid to give her five minutes then come meet her in the car park woods. She tugged her top button. The ice cream kid counted up slow then scooted right out the serving hatch. Casey Fairbanks sneaked round in the drivers’ seat and revved the 1964 Bedford straight up her estate. She handed out free cones and flakes before she heard the cops close in. She emptied the cash box and hitched off into town. She bribed a big kid to buy up fags and booze for the folks back home. She rolled up with a bin bag-full just as they sat down for tea. Casey’s mum said, ‘you got my Lamberts?’ Then, ‘that’s my girl.’
Ploughing Match
Results of the tractor ploughing tournament held at Th
orpe’s Field: Class 1 (open): no entries. Class 2 (open): 1 G Scruton; 2 E Lunn; 3 R Ward. Class 3 (open): 1 G Scruton; 2 C Firth. Class 4 (open): no entries. Class 5 (open): no entries. Class 6 (open): no entries. Class 7 (open): 1 L Boyes; 2 A Thackeray; 3 G Boyes; 4 R Lunn. Class 8 (open): 1 P Lunn. Class 9 (open): no entries.
Supper Club
Feargal Manby asked for pizza and chips. Scotch Gordon said the microwave was buggered. Feargal Manby said, ‘just go ahead and toss it right in.’ Scotch Gordon laughed and said, ‘think of the calories.’ Feargal Manby said, ‘what would a man like me want with calories.’ Feargal Manby said, ‘how’s business?’ Scotch Gordon said, ‘steady away.’ The pizza frothed in the fat. Scotch Gordon said, ‘good night?’ Feargal Manby said, ‘so-so. Dead.’ Two kids came in. The taller kid said, ‘give us some scraps.’ Scotch Gordon said, ‘cheeky bastards.’ The taller kid said, ‘they’re free aren’t they?’ The shorter kid said, ‘give us some.’ Scotch Gordon said, ‘not on their own, they’re not.’ The taller kid said, ‘give us some, you Scotch bastard.’ Scotch Gordon shook his head, hooked the pizza onto paper. Feargal Manby said, ‘I know your mothers.’ The taller kid said, ‘who asked you, piss-head?’ He reached for the pizza. He frisbee-d it across the shop. It glooped against the price list, slid to the floor. The kids ran off, laughing. Scotch Gordon said, ‘cheeky bastards.’ Feargal Manby said, ‘think of the calories.’
Holistic Therapy
There will be a demonstration by the local branch of the Federation of Holistic Therapists in the Village Hall next Tuesday at 6.30pm when Sue Jacques will present a hopi ear candling demonstration. This is an opportunity to find out about the many conditions hopi ear candling can help with and how the candles form a seal when placed in the ear, which enables wax and other impurities to be drawn out.
Farming News
Ernie Bulmer loaded up his wife’s bedtime milk with enough Nurofen to rid her of her supposed migraine headaches for the best part of eternity. He said, ‘night, then.’ He switched out the lights, couldn’t sleep. Next morning, when she didn’t stir, he headed out to the pig shed and told his pigs they were in for a right treat. When he got back his wife was sitting at the kitchen table. She said, ‘we’re fresh out of pills.’ She nagged him so much he took off into town for more. Half-way back, he fell asleep at the wheel. They cut him out. He broke both legs and lost his sight. His wife said, ‘I don’t know what we’ll do about them pigs.’
Wood turners
The latest meeting of the Woodturning Club was attended by 15 members and guests. Club member Geoffrey Halliday was the demonstrator. Geoffrey made a vase from two timbers. One was used to make a narrow neck with a flared rim, the body of the vase had a pattern drilled in the top so that when this was shaped the holes became elliptical. These holes were then filled with a decorative resin and the neck was fitted.
Darts & Doms
Jessie Smurthwaite checked out on a 125 finish. He got slaps on the back and his girlfriend grinned. His opponent bought him a beer and said, ‘top darts.’ His team captain said, ‘you’re too good for this league.’ Jessie smiled and slurped some more. A new guy stood next to him no-one knew. The new guy said, ‘Jessie Smurthwaite, huh?’ Jessie turned, nodded. The new guy said, ‘whole county’s heard of you.’ The new guy bought Jessie another drink. He paid with a fifty, flashed a wad. He said, ‘ton says you’re not as good as you think you are.’ Jessie smiled and threw a fifteen dart leg. He checked out on double top. The new guy gave Jessie two fifties, called another drink. Jessie fed the jukebox. The new guy said, ‘you got gear?’ Jessie smiled, shook his head. The new guy lifted his wallet. He said, ‘I’ll say it again. You got gear?’ In the car park, the new guy asked for grass and pills. He said, ‘like I say, whole county’s heard of you.’ The new guy flashed a blade. He rifled Jessie’s pockets for grass and pills and fifties. He took the lot. He said, ‘you ought to be more careful.’ In the pub, his team-mate let a match-winning double drift.
Weekly Draw
The weekly draw numbers were: 9, 13, 25, 46, 75 and 66. There were no winners.
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SWEET TOOTH: The Kola Kubes Story
Trisha dreamed of being a Playboy Bunny since the days she still had buck-teeth and fried egg boobs. She blu-tacked page threes above her bed-head and had me snap topless Polaroids till they littered the floor. She told me to imagine she had 36DDs and peroxide blonde hair. I used to wish like hell that she wasn’t my cousin.
When she was fifteen Trisha started putting out for the boys in the Kwik-Save car park for a tenner a time. She said she was an entrepreneur, not a prostitute. She started going steady with a kid called Keith. He was a fryer in the fish and chip shop. He had a future and a Ford Cortina. She got a job waitressing and she worked all the hours she could. Keith couldn’t handle me and Trisha being as close as we were. Especially the time he caught Trisha bending over me in nothing but a frilly market stall thong while I worked the angles best I could to get a dangle-shot.
Next night he took her in the car park woods and doped her up to the eyeballs. He took out a bottle of India ink and told her he would etch the love-heart she’d always wanted. Instead, he safety-pinned the word ‘inbred’ into her arse.
Trisha’s step-dad tracked the spits of blood and found her sobbing in the bathroom of their long-stay static. It didn’t take him long to slap out the truth. He went straight round to Keith’s place with a crow-bar and did enough damage to make sure he’d need more than laser treatment to put things right. Keith wasn’t rolling in spare change so Trisha’s step-dad took the Cortina as payment in lieu of her getting herself fixed up. Trisha got me to stash the Cortina up the lane at the back of Boyes’ farm. Weekend nights, I drove her out to the dual carriageway truck-stop where she found a faster way to make her fortune in the fogged-up cabs.
One night Trisha headed back out of the orange glow and told me she was hitching a ride to London with a trucker called Greg. She leaned in and kissed me on my forehead. She had nothing but a pair of jeans-shorts and a Frankie Says Relax tee-shirt. I drove home alone over the black moors. I still smelled her cheap peach scent. An anchored tanker blinked in the bay. I felt pleased for her.
She stripped for pennies-in-pint-pots in the pubs around King’s Cross and said it was a means to an end. She said Greg had a friend of a friend who was going to make things happen. It sounded like bullshit to me but around a year later she sent me a photo. She had a gleaming fluoride smile and her fried-egg boobs had been whipped up into a perfect pair of those 36DDs she dreamed of. Her hair was buffed-up and golden bright. She strained out of a snow-white wedding dress. She asked me to pin the photo up on the fish and chip shop cork-board. ‘Fair play,’ lisped Keith through splintered teeth. He figured it was good for business.
Next I heard, she’d dumped Greg and filed for divorce. She got a break on page three and started sprawling in soft-core centrefolds. She promoted herself through footballer boyfriends till she hit on one called Carl who had a big enough name to get her in the gossip columns. When that went tits-up she consoled herself with a bigger boob-job. Her 32Gs got her more media than any top footballer ever could. She changed her name, first to Trisha-Marie, then to Kola Kubes. In an interview to launch her own line of adult movies, she said she got her giant boobs from the beef dripping they put in the chip shop batter back home. She said: ‘I swear I gained a cup size with every portion. I must’ve ate a lot of portions.’
She scored three nominations for the AVN Adult Movie Awards. She flew to Las Vegas where she table-danced for a Miami Dolphins line-backer called Larry. She won best newcomer for ‘Sweet Tooth II’. Next morning she and Larry celebrated by getting married in the Doo Wop Diner Wedding Chapel. He wore a tore-open dress-shirt and designer jeans. She wore the same cocktail dress she’d had on the night before. Champagne stains stuck in her front. She slurred her lines. On a late-night Las Vegas chat show, she flashed a wedding ring with a diamond the size of a spam fritter. She pointed
her arse at the camera, hoiked up her dress and showed off her ‘inbred’ tattoo. ‘I keep it there to remind me where I come from,’ she said. Asked about her upbringing, she said: ‘It was tough. I got beat up. I ate dog biscuits. I had to get out of there.’
Larry said: ‘she’s my lover, and my soul-mate.’
Trisha’s step-dad moved himself and her mother out of their long-stay static and turned it into a sort-of tourist attraction. He stuck her early glamour shots up on the walls and strung a couple of her early A-cup bras from the curtain rail. There was a stack of pirated videos, each with a knock-off autograph. They sold at twenty pounds a time. Her step-dad told a local TV news programme: ‘Too right we’re proud of her. It takes guts to do what she did.’ He said: ‘Sure, we had our differences like any family does. But we’re more than willing to put the past behind us.’
Keith sold his story to a tabloid newspaper. His scarred face stared out from behind the chip shop counter over a two-page spread. The headline said: ‘Sweet-Talking Kola Left Me For Dead’. Greg sold his story. He said: ‘I gave her everything and she left me broke.’ Her first footballer said: ‘I scored with her six times a night.’ Three different men claimed to be her biological father. Her step-dad launched a defamation suit over the beat-up claims. He said: ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’ I was offered money for the Polaroids. I was barely scraping by. It was almost a year’s wages. As far as I knew, there were no other pictures of Trisha as a plain old buck-toothed, flat-chested kid. But there was no way.
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