Ere, Stop Messin' Abaht ! (1/3) By Jenny Ross

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3),

It's been a funny old week. Take yesterday, for example. I'd spent the entire afternoon trying to persuade some local scallies to star in my latest film venture Carry on Chavin', set in the exotic locations of Orchard Park, Bransholme, Britannia House and the Pound Shop. My enticements fell on deaf ears until I waved a wad of tenners about, enough to keep the crew in White Lightning for a few days, so they didn't have to resort to sucking the acid out of discarded batteries. Oh well, not bad I thought, even though my chosen Babs Windsor character did have to be not-so-gently persuaded to Pan-stick over the rather conspicuous tattoos emblazoned across her ample bosom - D and G, on each respective boob.

(No, not Dolce and Gabbana, but Darren and Gaz). Well, I thought, those guys must be two happy hoodrats...

My initial feelings of exasperation were gone, and I congratulated myself on signing up a dozen definites and a few straggling extras ( ten squid and a Maccy D per day, not a word to the Ones on High at Britannia House). This was definitely a promising follow-up to my previous films Boyz In The Hoodie and Seven Kids To Seven Fellas. So, all done and dusted, I set off home. It must have been about 6 o clock when I finally set off from Spring Bank and then on to the delightful Princes Avenue. The night was very young. The wanking tramp of ye olde Jacksons hadn't yet got a twinkle in his eye, never mind a stain on his well-worn fingerless gloves.

The poncy Pave chef hadn't even spat in the rocket salad of anyone remotely proletarian. And the staff of Gwenap were not yet in Dukes, celebrating their typical Saturday afternoon sale of one pair of non-locking handcuffs from the slight seconds box.

Casually peeping in to the previously mentioned biere/café establishmentes, I saw no-one I recognised. So, onward I went, carefully avoiding the onanistic old hobo, as I heard that I remind him of the subject of his phantasies. His sister. So, with increasingly weary feet I finally trudged upon the great Park that is Pearson. Home to a century old cottaging industry that's turned many a young local man's eye from a Patricia to a Peter. And an unofficial Sunday afternoon dating club of freshly separated single dads (easily spotted by the Beef Curry for One stuffed ever-so-slightly conspicuously in the pram beside the Pampers and Budweiser).

Eeh, I love this place. Even just to come and feed the ducks is a pleasure. I took out the remains of an old sarnie from that morning and looked around for some of the quacky creatures.

But strangely there were none to be seen. Hmm, I thought it had seemed quiet on my entry to the park. One of those sounds that you kind of take for granted, until it's not there, is birdsong. And there was a deathly silence where quacking should surely be. Well. I looked high and low but still no sign of the waggly bottomed, orange-sauce bound creatures. I say that because, as much as I love to see animals in their natural habitat, playfully trotting, bleating, swimming or chirping through their carefree lives, I love them even more when they're on my plate with a decent dressing.

Continued ...next page (2/3)

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