By Steve Pottinger
1.
Speaking to the press outside Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, Mrs Chlamydia Tonks (83) says of her good fortune “I only went in for the All You Can Hate For A Fiver afternoon tea, but then the bingo started. I’ve always loved a flutter, so I thought I’d give it a go. At first it was the usual balls – woke, windmills, our patriotic duty to huff hydrocarbons – but by the time he pulled out ‘Islamist conspiracies’ and ‘men of fighting age’, I knew I was in with a shot. Boats, cancel culture, and a final ‘you can’t say anything any more’, and that was it. HOUSE!” She beams. “I won a polyester Union Jack (used) made in China, and a can of warm Carling. I just had time to look into his dead, soulless eyes and shake his strangely clammy hand before he slapped me on the arse and told me to get back in the kitchen where I belong. I’ve never been happier.”
(this report hewn by your correspondent from the Coalface of Truth using only a Swiss Army knife and the light of a dying star)
#CrookedNigel
2.
Standing outside Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, a florid Constipation Arkwright (77) tells your humble correspondent “I’ve been enjoying two and a half pounds of bacon – pounds, mark you, none of your kilogram nonsense here – two and a half pounds of bacon fried in lard every morning since we won back the Falklands. Every last morsel eaten in stalwart defence of our noble Judaeo-Christian culture, whatever that is. The quack says my salt levels are off the scale, but danger’s nothing to me, I was a Marine.” He pauses. “Well, I lived next door to a chap who knew a bloke who snogged a Marine once, and that’s more or less the same, isn’t it? Now, call an ambulance, I beg you, I think I’ve blown a gasket.”
(this report sifted by your correspondent from the Shifting Sands of Truth with the aid of a fish slice and a pair of irretrievably salt-stained loafers)
#CrookedNigel
3.
Stumbling out into the evening gloom from Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™ after an all-day session on gin and bitter lemon, Miss Wisteria Fox (52) sobs “My therapist tells me I’ve a fixation on unattainable father figures, rogues who will only ever treat me badly, and god knows she’s right, but have you ever smelt him? I mean, really smelt him? That unmistakable aroma of entitlement, casual bigotry, and stale Bensons leaves me all of a flutter. I’m unspeakably moist, and unable to answer for my actions, but will he ever deign to look at a wretch like me? No. Never. And that’s no more than I deserve.” And with this, she smooths down her dishevelled suit jacket, adjusts her pearl necklace, and staggers off into the night.
(this report picked from the Haemhorroids of Truth by this correspondent using nothing but dexterity, bare hands, and an incomparable gag reflex)
#CrookedNigel
4.
Standing on the door of Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, Furious Bellwether (49) rolls his shoulders and holds forth. “His skill, of course, is in telling me exactly what I want to hear. Which is that all my disappointments in life – patchy employment record, brushes with the law, failures with women – are the fault of people in dinghies who I’ve never met. It’s scapegoating par excellence, and yes, it’s nonsense, of course it is, but you can see the appeal.” Something akin to a smile flickers, momentarily, across his face. “He’s also promised to rescind the restraining order my ex-wife took out, which is music to my ears. Wagner, Ride of the Valkyries, if you were wondering. Real alpha male energy there, not that you’d understand. Now I suggest you move along, sir. I feel an act of gratuitous violence coming on.”
(this report forged by your correspondent in the searing heat of the Blast Furnace of Truth from the rusted remains of an Austin Allegro, a set of brass knuckledusters, and a buggered Scalextric)
#CrookedNigel
