A SQUAW'S TALE

Yee ha, muskrats, its Rodeo Dave here.

Being a sheriff in a one horse town ain't that easy, but I like to think that little old me can bring some sunshine to the lives of the settlers that inhabit this great land of ours – ya’ll know what a mean don’t you, a bit like Doris Day in Calamity Jane, except without the songs!

That’s how I feel about “Second Hand Wife Of Firefighter”, a squaw who ain’t had an easy like to say the least. Poor old Second Hand, she was orphaned at the tender age of 2 when one of the Dixon brothers from the Kelco Ranch sold her Mar and Par to the circus (apparently people with webbed feet and gills are something of an attraction in Alabama). Anyways, after many years in the wilderness, she made a name for herself selling perms and blue rinses to beaver hunters. Seeing an opening, she joined them their hunters and headed for the hills. Man, how those hunters loved their beaver! Second Hand made a lot of money for her services during this period, and as a result she was able to open her own little old saloon (sorry, that should read salon, I get confused with the two mighty easy) on the Voko Reservation, this time servicing Indians and on occasions, buffalos.

As time progressed, Second Hand fell in love with a firefighter from a one horse town nearby. The dude in question not only owned his own bucket, but he also had his own tipi, an inheritance from his own Mar and Par who sadly passed away at the hands of a circus act who left duck shaped footprints in the sand and were last seen diving into Cactus Creek. The relationship was however doomed to failure, and pretty soon both husband and bucket disappeared to find a better life yonder of Lugano Ridge.

Undeterred by the number of deaths that were surrounding her, Second Hand shacked up with a hillbilly redneck from way down south. Going by the name of Paul the Kid, he and Second Hand set up their own little love nest in the same tipi once occupied by the man with the bucket. Things all appeared to be as sweet as ma mama’s best apple pie, until Second Hand and the Kid took a stage coach to the city and got hitched after drinking a bottle of unfiltered coyote urine. From that day onwards, the relationship collapsed and after a heavy session on the old fire water, Second Hand opened her flaps and kicked the Kid out of the tipi for good.

Shortly after this eviction, I rode into the Voko Reservation and both our lives changed for good. It was “whip crack away” from the first moment Second Hand ran her fingers through my hair (singular).

Come back soon ya’ll. This story is like a buffalo on speed – it just goes on and on!

FULL LENGTH FILMS COMING SOON TO A RANCH NEAR YOU –

“TRUE SHIT” – the story of a sheriff in a one horse town who forgot to lay the tumble weed at the memorial to commemorate those who died during “Blusters Last Stand”.

“THE MAGNIFICENT THREE” – how a sheriff and his two deputies defied all odds and got themselves re elected to office by a horse in a one vote town.

“A FIST FULL OF POUNDS” – how a sheriffs expense claims for first class stage coach travel were used to feed his coyote dung habit.

“EL DORADO” – the story of a famous restaurant frequented by sheriffs with rusty bullet holes

“THE WILD BUNCH” – Rodeo Dave, Doc Milburn and Boss Hogg McWoody take the Mayor’s stage coach out for a spin.

“LITTLE BIG MAN” – Rodeo Dave adds an extra inch to his knee high snake skin boots in an attempt to get on his horse without the aid of a stool.

“HIRED HANDS” – Paul Pinfield and Graham Rigg star as a couple of hapless red neck cowboys who are prepared to do any bodies dirty work as long as they remain anonymous. (Laurel and Hardy rejected the chance to play the leading roles).

Buffalo Itch and the Cowboy Clap

Howdy partners!

How y’all hanging in there?

I’m mighty fine, apart from a dose of buffalo itch which is proving resistant to even the best snake oil lotion.

“Second Hand Wife Of Firefighter” doesn’t have a clue how I got the cowboy clap, but I shall reveal all later.

Things will be a bit quite over the next few days. The State Governor Paul Pinfield is in town and I have to entertain him. When I say “entertain”, I mean provide him with liquor, a good cowhand and several piles of coyote dung – that critter sure can smoke some shit!

Remember rednecks, she may be your sister, but the bible don’t allow that type of thing!

Hang in there dudes!

COMING TO TOWN ON THE NEXT STAGE COACH:

How “Second Hand Wife Of Firefighter”s tipi was broken into and her horse stolen

Why the rest of the squaws in the reservation are jealous of “Second Hand Wife Of Firefighter”s relationship with a sheriff.

Marriage: Why the Dominican Republic is no place to get married.

The Voko Reservation: Part Two

After two nights living in the wilderness (I camped on the first night with the pikey’s next to the A19) I arrived at the Voko Reservation.

I wasn’t there to chew the buffalo fat.

With my best Clint Eastwood grin, I muttered “The names Dave, Rodeo Dave, and I need hair”.

I was ushered into a big tipi, removed of my beaver jacket (it was split) and purple checked shirt, and sat down in front of a mirror.

Fellow cowboys, from that moment my life changed.

Red Indian Squaw’s are internationally known for their ability to restore balding thatches, but they are not normally known for their beauty. To be frank, they normally look like Cury’s wife and smell like McWoody’s sporran. However, the vision that greeted me transgressed the standard association of a likeness to a decaying musk rat – this Indian crimper was blessed with good looks, no facial hair and yes dear reader, she had all her own teeth!

I was in love, and this time I didn’t have to pay for the privilege!

After a meagre two hair transplants (pubic buffalo hair is the best), three blue rinses and a full hour of deep root Brylcreem application, I had moved into “Second Hand Wife Of Fire-Fighter”s tipi.

Whilst our cultural differences worried me, I sought solace in my well accumulated knowledge of second hand goods (who can forget my experience with Sky Remote’s).

Whilst the love between a sheriff and his Squaw may transgress these boundaries, how would they survive against the accusations of “third hand goods”?

Like a redneck taking a leak into the sunset, all will be revealed later!

COMING SOON

WHO ACTUALLY OWNS “SECOND HAND WIFE OF FIRE FIGHTERS” TIPI – AN IN DEPTH REPORT

WHAT IS THE KELCO INDIAN DEFINITION OF THIRD HAND GOODS?

ARE BOXER SHORTS A COWBOY FASHION ACCESSORY?

The Voko Reservation: Part One

Being a sheriff in a one horse town isn’t easy, but being a sheriff in a one horse town with a reseeding hair line is worse!

Can you imagine what it is like to enter the saloon bar at the Red Lion, only to be greeted with the cries of “Howdy Rodeo Dave, have the Indians scalped you again?”

Clearly, the time had come to reverse the decline in the amount of tumble weed which has been attached to my head for the last few years.

In times of need, I have always taken the good advice administered by my old Aunt Fanny. Lately, Fanny has being having her bush trimmed at the Voko Reservation, a regular haunt of the Apache, Cheyenne and Kelco Indian tribes. She swears by their “Blue Rinse Supreme All In One Dandruff De-Druffer” offer, which is only available on every second Monday of the month.

Could this wonder wash be the solution to my thatch problems?

As I saddled my trusty beast and rode off in to the sunset, the eternal question crossed my mind – would I ever find hair, and would I ever find love?

(Everybodies going for those) Kinky Boots

Howdy dudes!

Like that other crazy cowboy Borat, I went for a road trip round the US of A. After a hard election campaign, I decided I needed a change of image and embarked on a journey to get in touch with the real “me”. I sold all my second hand Sky Remotes (batteries not included), handed the lease for the market stall to the Malcovitch Brothers (cheers Malla, you have always looked after me), packed my tartan holdall and headed off to the land of plenty.

Oh boy, what an experience. Whilst there dear reader, I had a remarkable emotional awakening. I discovered that beneath this vulnerable and caring veneer, there lurked a yearning to be a cowboy (and not the type that Pongo Khan keeps alluding to).

Whilst in Texas, I popped into a local burger bar famed for its Gordon’s Gin Burger, comprising of prime beef marinated in gin (a bit like myself really). As I tucked into this culinary splendour, who should sidle up to me but the stunt double of Daisy Duke, that fine filly from The Dukes of Hazzard. Clad top to toe in tasselled leather and smelling of pure snake oil, she represented a vision of the most beautiful rodeo angel I had ever seen in my life. Childhood dreams flooded back……being scared of Doctor Who and The Daleks, Rick Astley, wetting the bed…..but mostly the long lost desire to be a cowboy. From that moment fellow prairie dogs, I knew I had found my vocation in life. I was no longer David Posh, entrepreneur and politician, but Rodeo Dave, Bare Back Rider and Horse Whisperer!

The next few weeks were spent breaking in donkeys, drinking Jack Daniels, dancing with wolves and smelling of horseshit. At last I had found my true grit.

Sadly, like all my good holidays. I was deported back to the UK for alcohol abuses. As I flew home in chains and reflected on my transformation, I decided that things had to change. Six hours later I was back in that one horse town of Cleawood and East Bilburn. I had scores to settle and therefore kitted myself out in my new garb – Wranglers, knee high snake skin boots, a purple checked shirt and most important of all, my rusty sheriffs badge!

I entered the saloon at the Red Lion, greeted by the cheers of “There’s that cowboy Posh” and “The Cannon Ball Run must be in town”. I sauntered to the bar, the duke box in the background playing the tune to “Rawhide”. I held the barman’s stare, “Make mine a double” I growled. “Don’t you mean a treble Posh, that’s what you normally have?”

With gin in one hand and my cap gun in the other, I surveyed the saloon.

“There’s a new sheriff in town folks, and I mean to clean up the area”.

And that folks is how I got the name Rodeo Dave.

COMING SOON

“HOW I FELL IN LOVE”

“THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US”

“THE GOOD, THE BAD AND CURLY'S WIFE”

“ONCE UPON A TIME IN CLEAWOOD AND EAST BILBURN”

“THE GREAT EXPENSES ROBBERY”

“CALAMITY ANGELA”

“SEVEN BRIBES FOR TWO BROTHERS”

and

“HOW I RODE THE DIXON FAMILY OFF THE KELCO RANCH”

Whip crack away!

Pip pip, I’m back!

After a hard fought local election campaign that saw me deliver leaflets to 3 houses, yours truly felt that he deserved a little break. In true grit fashion, I booked a little sojourn to the good old US of A. I had a wonderful time and really got to discover the cowboy in me. More posts on my trip later dear readers.

I am also glad to tell you that I am in love! Yes fans, cupid has shot its arrow of love into my heart. Musings will also appear on this subject in due time, but put it this way, Mills and Boon having nothing on The Posh when it comes to romantic stories.

See you later fellow fops, I’m of for a free cut and blow job!

CRASH TEST DUMMY

Despite the fact that my father, Lord Posh of St Nicholas Villas, has crashed his Rolls Royce into a group of peasants (sorry, that should read pheasants) I have still found time to update my “other” Twitter accounts.

I have forgiven Daddykins for the crash. After all, I did in the past wreck his car after a night on the treble gins and Vimto's.

But then again, I was under age.

I wonder WHO may have a copy of THAT police report!

Don’t forget the caption competition folks!


PS - THE CRASH WAS ON WEDNESDAY, BUT IT TOOK ME TWO DAYS TO ACTUALLY FIGURE OUT THAT I SHOULD GIVE A SHIT!

SORRY POPS - I HAD THE BNP TO FIGHT.

POSTER BOY

I have decided to start my campaign for the local elections early. My first task will be to have a series of election posters printed which will then be posted above the urinals in The Red Lion.

Below are the three images that I will be using (The Red Lion has three urinals, even though I struggle to actually hit one!). I want some catchy election phrases to go with the posters, but words often fail me, especially after a raft of treble gins and Vimto. I have therefore decided to run a caption competition. The author of the best caption wins a night out with yours truly, and their comments on the poster.

Please enter Karen……..please!

CAPTION COMPETITION

CAPTION COMPETITION

CAPTION COMPETITION

BNP (But No Posh) IN PRIMROSE

POLICE REPORT CONCERNING COUNCILLOR DAVID POSH
OFFICER DIBBLE IN ATTENDANCE

1. Received an email from my Chief Inspector informing me that I had drawn the short straw and would have to speak to Councillor Posh about his email and councillors who laugh at him.
2. After plucking up the courage, I visited Margaret Thatcher Towers only to find that Councillor Posh was not in. I spoke to a neighbour who said she had no knowledge of his whereabouts, though a man wearing a wig was seen entering and leaving the premises on many occasions.
3. As I was under strict instructions to inform Councillor Posh that laughing at people is not a crime and that he should pull his socks up and stop crying, I made a series of enquiries as to his location.
4. Research revealed that he had “stood down” (Scottish for sacked) as a parliamentary candidate in Scotland in order to fight the BNP in South Tyneside.
5. I immediately visited the Primrose Ward, as the BNP were fielding a candidate at a bye election.
6. Residents informed me that despite the BNP being very active in the ward, Councillor Posh had not been seen campaigning with Conservative Party activists. Many people referred to him as a “b**l sh*tter”, a fraud, and a closet Nazi. When I mentioned the reasons for him being deselected in Scotland, the words “cock and bull story”, “smoke screen” and “wig” were frequently mentioned.
7. I have decided not to pursue this matter, nor the issue of his email, as both are a complete waste of police time.

LET THE RUMOUR MILL BURN!

The rumour mill has been at it again and I have had to take some very valuable time off from doing nothing to set the record straight on a couple of issues.

Firstly, I have not been asked to repay any of my expenses by Sir Thomas Legg. I am not an MP, and never will be thanks to those hairy marauding Scottish ginger lefties.

Secondly, I shall not be leaving the Conservative Party, crossing the political divide, and joining the Liberals, just because they used to be called “The Whigs”.

Hopefully that should clear up any rumours doing the rounds of the local pubs.

TOUPEE OR NOT TOUPEE, THAT IS THE QUESTION

HOW DO YOU MEASURE POPULARITY?

A good question dear reader, a good question.

For myself, I use the measurement of how many Freedom of Information enquiries have been lodged against you.

At the moment, I am top of the Town Hall list of the most probed councillor.

However, I do object to the latest enquiry:

“How many of Councillor Posh’s hairs on his barnet are actually his own?”

THE YOKES ON STINKER

As the national election campaign gathers pace, things in this old neck of the woods are also “hotting” up. That vixen Karen Allen (double grrr) has got her own website, and has instigated a “state of the Borough” survey. The only problem is that she hasn’t included any pictures of yours truly either on the site or in the brochure. I must speak to her about this, if I can get the banning order lifted about not phoning her in the early hours of the morning whilst having an asthma attack (Officer, I was not heavy breathing done the line!).

I did have similar plans for my campaign in Scotland, but they were kicked in the gorbals when the old haggis brigade realized that I was in fact English and not Rab C Nesbitt's long lost brother.

I have therefore decided to divert all my efforts to Stinker Milburn’s (grrr) election site. At a recent strategy meeting in The Cottage, Milber’s and I opted for a low key approach to the forthcoming vote, favouring sparsity over commitment.

I think Stinker’s site reflects my political acumen – it basically has nothing to it, it reflects our total disdain for local and national politics, and it is just an empty, moribund shell!

Pip pip punters until later, when I will reveal why I had to make a rapid exist from a certain council committee meeting!

Karen4southshields.co.uk

Jeff4jarrow.co.uk

POLITICS IS A DIRTY BUSINESS

As my old chum Cheesey Muldoon used to say, “Posh, you’re a dip stick”, but then he would say “Politics is a dirty business, people get used, but you have to play dirty to win”.

I have always stuck to that dictum and when necessary, I have played dirty.

Take for instance my latest spat with Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry!). Basically the man won’t leave me alone. All I want to do is go along my merry little way, not attending council meetings, collecting my expenses for being idle and generally make outrageous and unfounded accusations about him – but the bounder won’t let me!

Lately, the cad’s actions have really ruffled my thinning gander to such a degree that I have had to start playing “dirty”.

Step forward my good friend, fellow market trader (but not a dealer in second hand Sky remotes, batteries not included) and political stool pigeon, Paul Penfold.

Paul has always been a great fan of that great fighter of crime, “Danger Mouse”. Such is his love of the big eared rodent, that he had his surname changed by deed pole to reflect DM’s side kick.

Penfold has been a great friend of mine for……well, it must be several weeks now. Whilst we have never actually met (well, we have met on Twitter. Consider it somewhat akin to internet dating), Paul has agreed to join my gang and have a poke at Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry!). In fact that’s how we shall be known – the “Lets Poke Pongo Gang” – membership 2!

Sadly, this is where the dirty bit comes in. Penfold is totally ignorant of my political baggage. He has no idea that I have a total disrespect for my ward members, he actually thinks I go to meetings and he is ignorant of the “profit margin” that I employ when it comes to claiming expenses. He is so gullible that he even thinks I have hair as long as Curtis Stigers!

However, he is daft enough to do what I tell him. Not only that, if anything should actually hit the fan, he will get covered, not me.

In other words, I am Danger Mouse, and he is the dippy side kick, Penfold.

Politics really is a dirty business, and people do get used.

But I’m polytetrafluorethylene coated!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teflon_(nickname)

DAVID POSH: HE PLAYS HOME AND AWAY

Despite all my current trials and tribulations (and when I say trials, there possibly could be one) I have still found time to honour one of my New Years resolutions – the one concerning a good clear out.

I have shredded all my phone call records, my expenses claims receipts (1) and copies of all those love letters I sent to a certain Shields Gazette reporter* (female of course).

Yesterday I decided to spring clean my football replica shirts and ditch those that don’t have many memories attached to them.

Many of you will not be aware of the fact that The Posh is a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to Premier League football clubs, or to be more correct, the free corporate entertainment that they offer. To be honest, I cant stand the game – it’s just to rough for a man who is thinning a bit on top. However, the grub is good and they often have a free bar. That is why I have in the past often referred to “Sunderland AFC” as the “lads”, but then quite happily taken up the offer on a couple of free tickets for “Newcastle United FC”. As you well know my fellow football pundees – a prawn sandwich tastes the same regardless of whom you support!

Basically, every football shirt I owned equated to a free “booze and bait” trip to somewhere that I had managed to add my name to the team “freebie” sheet. Boy, I must have had hundreds of tops in my wardrobe!

However, one top stood out – the home strip for Hull City football club. What a year that was! The Posh has always been good at spinning plates, but this one was purely belter. I had a gal in one school, and a reserve in another school (teachers of course). Gal number 1 however, was a relative of Phil Broon, Hull City manager. In return for wining, dining and not being sick on her shoes, I managed to get numerous free tickets to the KC Stadium.

If that wasn’t good enough, the clubs nickname is “The Tigers”!

I was in love and totally hooked – not with the gal, but with the freebies.

Sadly, all free (that should read “good”) things come to an end. I don’t know if said schoolteacher found out about my extra curricula activities, or whether it was the fact that Broon was rumoured to be facing the axe, but the tickets dried up and so did the love affair (with the club, not the gal. God knows what happened to her).

I am now on the look out for a new club and a new gal.


*NOTE TO SELF – MUST CONTACT HER AGAIN. IF HER BOYFRIEND IS NO LONGER HERE, SHE MAY GO OUT WITH ME, PROVIDING SHE HAS LOST HER EYESIGHT, HER SENSE OF SMELL, HER MARBLES, HER SENSE OF DECENCY, HER JOB AND HAS NO WHERE TO LIVE. OH YES, AND HERE’S HOPING SHE LIKES A MAN WITH A SPARSE THATCH.

GIGGITY GIGGITY GOO!

HELP! HELP! HELP!

Oh my god, I have a doppelganger.

That explains a few things.

This impostor must have the wreath!

When I find out who it is, she is so dead.

I have already emailed the police, the FBI/CIA/MI5/MI6/Special Branch/The Professionals/ The Persuaders/Danger Man/The Prisoner/Thunderbirds/Frost/Inspector Morse/Rebus/Sherlock Holmes/Hong Kong Phooey/Inch High Private Eye/Scooby Doo etc etc etc.

I now have an army of detectives working for one cause – to stop people laughing at me!


http://twitter.com/cllrdavidpotts

SLAP HEAD

Achtung Himmel dear fans and constituents, sorry things have been a bit quite lately, but I have once again been forced to keep my ample head well below the rampart.

Basically, I have two very uber problems at the moment (that’s two, not to, or too).

Firstly, the left wing, lesbian, bible bashing, Doc Marten clad, hippy, vegetarian and just about female element of the Council are a bit miffed about a certain reference I supplied for a certain purveyor of domestic violence. Sometimes this equality lark real ruffles my receding hairline. Let me settle this matter once and for all. Women can be somewhat….. challenging, and as such inadvertently put themselves in the position where they need a good put down, or as with the actions of my good chum, a good cuffing in the form of a punch and a slap. Take my cleaner for example. She hasn’t washed the windowsills, she can’t put a razor sharp crease down the front of my Y fronts and she has lost my hairbrush (and probably a wreath as well). I have therefore decided to insult her via my Twitter account, firstly to let her know she is sacked and needs a good sorting, and b, so that I can let you all know that I am rich and posh enough to have a cleaner. (Some people may find my actions a little over the top, but a mans hairbrush, regardless of his thinning thatch, is his pride and joy. Plus, I have a nagging feeling she has been using it to comb her beard).

I hope this sets the record straight and that all the “oppressed” in the Town Hall are now well aware of my stance on this matter. (Please, please, please – no more burning bra’s via the internal mail!)

My second problem concerns Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry). The man must live on nitrous oxide, such is his ability to laugh. The problem is, it’s always at my expense. How dare he raise the issue of the Overview Scrutiny Coordinating and Call In Committee! Yes, I did ask at the last meeting for the matter of CAF grants to be included on the agenda, and why not? Every time I attempt to get a grant for the Cleawood Bridge Club or the Red Lion Social Circle, the Stalinist’s from Boldon Oldtown knock me back (that’s if I turn up to be knocked back). What Pongo has conveniently failed to mention however, is that whilst I did ask for the issue to be added to the agenda, I never said I would be turning up at the meeting.

Get out of that one Pongo!

Well dear reader, life must go on, and I have some rather large underpants to iron on the windowsill. I also have some very pressing Council matters to attend to, including another email to PC Dibble about people’s use of nitrous oxide and also a call to a fellow market trader in Leicester.

BETRAYED

I have a mole and he lives in a ...........................

THE POSH WAY TO TRAVEL

Following on from the success of Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry!) and his snow bound shopping service, Stinker Milburn has acquired the following free ride for the “needy” and “deprived” people living in my “constituency”:

TIMETABLE: MAYORS LIMO

1. RUNNING ON THE HOUR
THE COTTAGE – BRITANNIA INN – GREY HORSE – BLACK HORSE – RED LION

2. RETURN JOURNEY
RED LION – BLACK HORSE – GREY HORSE – BRITANNIA INN – THE COTTAGE

THERE'S A HOLE IN MY BUCKET DEAR LIZA, OR STINKER, OR MCWOODY, OR THAT VIXEN ALLEN....

Somebody, somewhere, leaks like a sieve.

Stop laughing at me – I will get you!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There's_a_Hole_in_My_Bucket

MEMO TO SELF:1

Things to chase up next week:

1. Date of reconvened CAF
2. Must find wreath
3. Contact police – they must stop people from laughing at me.
4. Contact Paul Penfold – he must review his contacts list!
5. Personal phone calls – review calls paid for by Council. Delete those made to Lalon Amin/Spice Central.
6. Personal phone calls – review calls paid for by Council. Delete those made to Samaritans when the Scot’s kicked me out.

A MAN WHO LOVES TO BE SURROUNDED BY RUBBISH

Hello followers of The Posh, my name is George Epsom, horse trainer and supporter of all things green and recyclable, including my council speeches.

A couple of weeks ago David contacted me and asked for a couple of tips for the South Tyneside Kentucky Chicken Bumper Bucket Derby (he needs the ready cash to pay for his gin and Vimto’s), together with a request to write a guest piece for his little on line diary.

To be honest, writing is a little difficult as I have a severe injury to my shoulder which was sustained in my attempts to save the planet (more on that later) but having very large webbed feet, I am also able to hold a pen between my right toes, so I was happy to oblige and send him this foot penned script.

I first met The Posh in…now where was it…..oh yes, a pub. He was with Professor Steve Harrison-Ford, though they were both in disguise. Harrison-Ford’s facade was very easy to see through (and still is) but Posh was a bit more difficult to spot – he was disguised as a Councillor, and I had never seen him like that before. It didn’t however take me long to realize who he was – it was the smell of Vimto and sick splattered shoes that gave him away.

To make a long story even longer, we all got on like a house on fire.

We all had many common features.

Harrison-Ford could fall out with himself in an empty room; I didn’t even need the room. As for Posh, he certainly liked a room, especially at The Little Haven (he prefers the linen room, they get all the dirty sheets).

Not long after this Harrison-Ford and I became a double act performing on the Council expenses circuit and earning a reputation (and a good free wage) as supporters of the main act, The Malcovitch Brothers. Potts is a very good understudy who will probably one day join our exclusive little circus.

Perhaps a little background information about myself will wet your appetite for a series of articles I have planned for this site. I am a horse trainer with a difference. When I enter my horses in a race, I don’t expect them to win. I am paid by other trainers to put any old nag in the stalls with the sole aim of “crowding” the field, either to stop the favourite from winning, or to let some other three legged pony sneak in by the back door.

2009 was a very busy time for me, my most memorable race being the Beacon and Bents Re-Run Cup. Sadly, Councillor Pongo Khan, who romped home three days before my donkey managed to pass the finish line, won the race. I have no objections to the likes of Pongo coming into the Borough, winning races and attracting all the best jockeys, but I sometimes wish he would go back to where he came from – surely Yorkshire has its own Council?

I am expecting 2010 to be equally as busy. I have already had several requests from the Malcovitch Stable of Retired Pit Pony’s for my three legged donkey to run in a couple of ward races across the Borough in May. As I told them, the old nag can only be in one ward at a time, so they will have to decide which race is important to them.

When I’m not involved in knobbling elections (sorry, that should read races) I like to concentrate my efforts on saving the planet. I first got into all things green when I realized I could get a lot of publicity out of it. However, at the time I had no idea how dangerous being an eco warrior could be. As the summer months progressed, it became apparent that I would have to give my bush a good trim. My garden is very large, and had become over grown. Being a man of the earth, I put all my foliage into my green recyclable bin. It soon became full, so I jumped in, attempting to squash the contents to the bottom. Sadly the lid fell shut, I became trapped and four days later I was still there, covered in thorns, worms and spiders. I couldn’t get a mobile phone signal, and all my cries for help were ignored, a little bit like when I speak at council meetings.

I was only rescued when the bin man came. Even then, I was still tipped into the wagon, only being saved when the lads at Millfield saw my head sticking above the compost. I am very grateful to them, but I wish they would stop calling me “Stig of the Dump”.

I did sustain some very painful injuries. I had a dislocated tongue, my shoulder was severely bruised, and my ego had a massive dent. These injuries will heal with time, but it’s the taunts and jibes which really hurt and sting; “Here he comes, it’s George Dusty Bin Laden”, “Where have you bin for the last four days George” and “How did the lads at Millfield tell you apart from the other piles of rubbish”. People can be so cruel.

Life goes on however and hopefully after a couple of years the jokes will stop.

If not, I’ll just have to give them something else to laugh at, wont I?

STOP LAUGHING AT ME

Many of you may recall that some time ago The Posh was burgled by an international gang of Ninja Turtle burglars, gaining entry via my back passage way and steeling some very sensitive material.

Despite the involvement of the local police, Interpol, the CIA and FBI, Zanetti Security Consultants, PC Dibble and Scooby Doo, the villainous culprits have not been apprehended.

I have always considered the violation of my back passage to be a political hate crime, the perpetrators seeking revenge for my success in banishing the BNP from the Borough of South Tyneside.

However, one of my neighbours informs me that they were also burgled on the same night, the “modus operandi” being very similar.

Yeah right, like they have several Mickey Mouse Rolex watches as well!

As I informed my neighbours, not only are they pheasants (sorry, that should read peasants), but the burglary of their cardboard box abodes was clearly due to the fact that the Ninjas were either on a practise run, or they got the wrong house.

Suffice to say, I suspect that the local police have not been taking my plight as seriously as they might. I have asked for visits from Victim Support and Crime Prevention Officers, yet nobody has been to see me. Perhaps they don’t have my address, but they know they can always find me in The Red Lion.

Whilst I appreciate that the police may have other less serious crimes to tackle, such as murder, rape, international terrorism, racial abuse, missing ballot box fraud, and dare I say it, domestic violence, I do feel that I have somewhat been given the cold shoulder.

I am slowly moving (as you know dear reader, I never doing anything with haste – ask my “constituents”) towards making a complaint to the PCC. Surely as a major political, cultural and economic influence within South Tyneside, I deserve special treatment?

I shall also be asking them to look into a certain tricky legal question and conundrum, and if necessary, seek a judgement from the Supreme Court of Appeal:

“Is it a crime to laugh at me?”

CHASING THE SHIRT TALES……….

Drat, double drat and triple drat, Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry!) was the first to tell everybody that the Cleawood and East Bilburn CAF had been quashed due to the bad weather.

As Yvonne Fair sang on “Bridget Jones Diary 2” (a cheesy film worthy of the attention of The Posh):

“It Should Have Been Me”.

But it wasn’t, because I couldn’t give a f**k if you go or not.

MY TOP TELLY..........

Whilst gritting the entrance to my favourite restaurant (Gregg’s, King Street) a lovely little boy came up to me and said:

“Posh, what’s your favourite telly tubby”.

I looked him in the eye (he only had one) and said:

“The Samsung 42” Flat Screen Quattro, HD ready, with multi screen complex speakers, WITH SECOND HAND Sky Remote (batteries not included). And don’t call me tubby, you little oink”.

THE GREAT ESCAPE

One of my favourite films is “The Great Escape”, and my favourite TV programme is “Call My Bluff”.

Oh boy, have I just had one, and oh girl, did I just call it!

Due to the bad weather, the Cleawood and East Bilburn CAF meeting has been cancelled. Whilst other people felt it was rather dangerous to risk the journey, I myself was prepared to forgo my own safety, risk life and limb, and take the short walk from The Britannia Inn to Cleawood Primary School – there’s nothing like a gin soaked breath to melt the snow!

Then again, I may have decided to just sit in the Red Lion and avoided all the flak. Either way, the decision was taken out of my hands.

Any road up, it’s back to the alter of the snow god for some serious praying. All I need now is another bout of bad weather for the February and March bash - that way I may return to botch up another Remembrance Sunday without to much hassle!

A SORDID LITTLE ALLIANCE

For those of you who don’t know me (especially those north of The Boldon Lad), my name is Professor Steve Harrison-Ford. I am a member of the Really Fully Truly Totally Definitely Non Aligned Independent Party, representing the ward of Fellworth and Hedgate.

I have recently received an honorary degree from The University of Splitters, and I have found myself working flat out on the lecture circuit. Talking of lecherers, I have taken time out from my busy schedule to write a short dissertation for my good friend David Posh. When it comes to dissertations, this is a first for me, but more about that next week.

My friendship with Posh goes back years, but we share a terrible secret.

We first met in a pub. In fact, we always met in a pub. David was always more relaxed when surrounded by the gentle clatter of glasses, the sound of a juke box, the rattle of dominoes, the splatter of sick in the toilets and of course the clink of a treble gin and vimto.

Our get togethers were very clandestine, and we had to meet in disguise. I was always dressed as a taxi driver, Posh always impersonated a councillor. It was like something out of “Allo Allo”; I was the resistance member, he couldn’t resist a drink.

We always had to meet in busy places where we weren’t known and wouldn’t be recognised; Posh would always suggest the Council chamber or a CAF meeting, but I preferred the busy pubs of South Shields.

As I write this little muttering I can feel the shame flooding back. The horror of my actions still sometimes over whelms me and I remember the constant feelings of fear that my family, friends and political colleagues would discover my terrible, dirty and unsavoury secret.

You see, David and I share a stigma which has been a burden and a stain on my soul since I became involved in the whole immoral mess. For some time he and I were……..god, it hurts just typing it…..we…………………… we were……….gulp…….involved in discussions as to which wards Posh would not put up a candidate for the 2009 council elections.

God, it was disgusting. When it came to his turn in 2010, Posh was prepared to leave certain wards unchallenged in 2009 in return for a free run in his own back yard.

David was very clever with his duplicity; his cohorts at Tory HQ had no idea what he was up to and his partner, Stinker Milburn, knew nothing of our dirty little meetings. Cheating on him was like a game, and he made me part of it. He swore me to secrecy, threatening to “out me” if I said anything to that vixen Allen. One day I just cracked and it all spilled out. I had felt so dirty and degraded that I couldn’t speak to anybody about it, apart from anybody who would listen.

For years I have carried this burden and I am glad to be given the opportunity to put my side of the story. I now know that I was used by The Posh – I was but a prawn in his very fishy game. Never mind not standing candidates, at the end of discussions the only thing not standing was him, he was so full gin and vimto.

I never really recovered from my actions, relationships broke down and I deserted those closest to me. When they found out what I had been up to behind their backs, I knew it was time to move on and form other alliances.

I am now in a new relationship, but I don’t think it will last. I have too many memories, and not enough votes. I have accepted that I am now on my own, with no friends and nobody to deliver leaflets for me. I am a man without a party, and pretty soon, a man without a ward.

If there is a moral to this sordid little affair, it is this: never trust a man who drinks gin and vimto, he always lets you down in the end, or should I say, he always falls down in the end.

POSH THE PIGEON

Market trading has been a little slow lately, so I have been checking up on what some of my political adversaries have been saying about me. I was therefore very, very, very, very, very, very angry to read what Pongo Khan (he makes me so angry!) had been saying about my constituents. In fact, I was so angry, I snapped my Curly Wurly in sheer temper and nearly knocked my treble gin and Vimto over!

Whilst visiting a local watering hole in the ward (that’s my job Pongo!) he referred to the punters in the pub as “mutton dressed as lamb”. What a chump he is – the phrase is “mutton dressed as kleftiko”. These heathens really do get my gander up!

Pongo (he makes me so angry!) made these comments at the back end of last year. When I say back end, I mean in November 2009. I realize that it has taken me a very long time to pick up on this, but as you well know dear gin drinkers, time stands still in drunken haze of the run up to Christmas (it clearly states in my diary entry for July 2nd “Posh, start drinking for the run up to Christmas”).

The degree of anger is not limited to my Curly Wurly. Two people in the village of Cleawood are fuming to the degree that it has taken their minds of the fact that I forgot to lay the wreath on Remembrance Sunday.

Hopefully, others will jump on the mutton bandwagon and take the pressure off me a bit. All I need is for them to behave like sheep and I’m off the hook.

I’m actually surprised Pongo (he makes me so angry!) could find Cleawood Village. I myself however, have an internal GPS which acts like a homing pigeon. The secret is I use pubs as markers. That’s how I know where Cleawood Village is; it’s next to The Cottage pub!

Must fly dear reader, I have a bird fanciers meeting at The Red Lion near…err……, now what’s that place called again?

PS – Pongo (he makes me so angry!) has pointed out to me that I should not be referring to the people of Cleawood as “constituents”. The word actually covers those who live in a parliamentary boundary area, and I accept that I should have used the term “ward members”. Sadly, due to a fall out with the entire nation of Scotland, some extremely dubious expense claims and a small matter of a missing wreath, I will never have a constituency of my own. Sob, sob, waw, waw, boo hoo!

HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD.........

I have a local CAF meeting on January 7th which I should really attend. However, news from The Red Lion and The Cottage grape vine is that the old “missing wreath” incident hasn’t gone down to well with the locals.

According to Cheesy Muldoon, a couple of serving members of the armed forces are on home leave in the ward and are not to impressed about the old “no show” on Remembrance Sunday.

Gulp, splutter, boo hoo, waw waw!

They are even going to turn up at the CAF and have their say!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS WEEKS GUEST IS........

As the gin fuelled haze of another New Year vaporizes into the ether (see pictures below, more to follow) I can’t decide who to let write the next guest post. Steve Harrison-Ford has already sent his submission in, and two serving Councillor’s have also thrown their hats into the ring, one who trains horses and another who used to be a mad monk with a religious taste for the old pint of beer!

Frankly dear reader, I’m awash with requests to write for the old Man of Honour. I’ve even had a message from beyond the grave!

Who will be next campers!

NEW YEARS EVE PHOTO:003

By the end of the night dear reader, I had terrible wind.

NEW YEARS EVE PHOTO: 002

A quick slurp of Toilet Duck to freshen up the old breath!

NEW YEARS EVE PHOTO: 001

Decided to go out with the boys on New Years Eve. Had a fab time. Happy New Year.

http://twitpic.com/w5div

THE FIRST DAY I MET THE POSH

I was over the moon when David Posh rang me with the proposition of contributing to his blog. I was further elated when it emerged that I wouldn’t have to pay him any money for the privilege. Over the years I have always used the Council’s own publication, the “OnView” magazine, as a means of trying to get my views and wishes across to the electorate. However, I soon realized that it was only rabbits that were getting the message, as the publication in most cases always ended up lining the bottom of pet hutches across the region.

For my inaugural post I would like to reflect on the first time I met David Posh. As history trots along its path, it occasionally produces people of great political acumen. Posh is clearly not one of them, though he was one of the youngest people to become an elected member. As he sauntered into my office, I thought to myself, “it must be work experience week”. My secretary informed me that this was not the case, and neither was it “bob a job day”. The mistake was a very easy one to make. Posh was exquisitely turned out: his school shorts had a razor sharp crease, his Clark’s slip on sandals were polished to perfection and his Oakleigh Garden’s school badge was worn with pride. He looked every bit the 12 year old that he was.

“Morning Mr Malcovitch” he said in that high falsetto voice of a teenager who has yet to face the problem of a fluffy chin, smelly feet and unwanted spots. “I am having trouble with my homework. My expense claims are just not adding up”. To emphasise the point, he blew a massive Hubba Bubba bubble.

“That’s a pity” I said, “is maths not one of your best subjects?”.

“My ability to add up is not the issue Mr Mal” said Posh, wiping green snot on his coat sleeve, “the problem is the figure they add up to is not enough to keep a school boy in Curly Wurly’s, Texan Bars, pencils, rulers and rubbers”.

Since that day, Posh and I have met on regular occasions in order to ensure that his expenses always meet his expectations. His desires may have become increasingly more demanding, but he is still essentially the same school boy I met all those years ago. He still has that naive obsession with trains, especially first class travel, and he still loves a burger, especially a McDonalds or a Burger King Bumper Meaty Treat Eat All You Can Special. Basically, the child is still in him and he loves a free toy.

I have always relied on David’s support when faced with difficult votes, and to date he has never let me down. He has never acknowledged the political divide that exists between us, concentrating more on the moral principal that I have the pen and the cheque book, and he has the bank account.

No doubt 2010 will be very difficult for both of us. I’ve told him I can’t help with the re-election vote in May 2010; to many ballot boxes have already gone missing, a few more would look suspicious. Nor can I reduce the voting age to 13, thereby allowing his fellow pupils to vote for him.

All I can do is offer him my support, as long as he never mentions it. He also has my assurance that when his false ID is knocked back at Booze Buster, I will always buy his Bella for him.

That is the sign of a true friend.

I look forward with great haste to contributing to this site.

Yours from The Fountain’s Toilets

Iain Malcovitch