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I Need To Win A Lot Of Money!


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I'll tell you what irritates me. These Lottery winners, who, having scooped the best part of fifty bloody million quid, emerge from their potting shed and say, 'it won't change me, these new Wellington Boots are my only extravagance and I feel greedy for splashing out on them'.

Then give me your winning bloody ticket. I'd know exactly what to do if I won the best part of fifty million quid. Why buy the bloody ticket in the first place? Bloody hell!

First thing I'd do if I suddenly became fabulously wealthy would be to send the wife on an exotic world cruise. Two years long. The sort of cruise and period of separation that gives someone like me the opportunity to do all the wicked and debauched things that someone with an imagination would like to do if they could avoid getting hit in the face with a frying pan because they've come home late and because of ale, are unable to string together a coherent sentence to avoid being hit in the face with a frying pan.

For starters, after the bloody Captain had phoned me to confirm the wife was afloat upon international waters, I'd get into that kitchen, get that bloody frying pan out and I'd say, 'you've hit me in the face for the last time' and I'd throw it in a skip. That'd be liberating. That'd be a life changing feeling for a start. Why wouldn't you be pleased to see the backend of a kitchen object that's hit you in the face as often as my bloody wife's frying pan?'

Then, completely satisfied that the Captain wasn't a bloody liar and my tormentor wasn't about to pop through the door shouting, 'where have you collapsed my darling?', I'd race into Town and buy an expensive suit of clothes. The sort of garments that, when adorned upon some other fool, you mutter, 'goodness what a wonderful suit of clothes'.

Then, dressed in these wonderfully created garments I'd strut through High Town. Women, hitherto, happy and contented in their lives of domesticity, would suddenly gather around me chanting, 'what a lovely suit of clothes. You are irresistible. Let us become yours whenever you want us'. And, after establishing whether or not they owned a frying pan, I'd give them the nod as they joined me slavishly carrying out tasks that I couldn't be bothered to carry out. Carrying me cans of Lager, rolling me cigarettes and brushing me teeth.

There's other things I'd do with this money and when I feel more like it I'll probably revisit this normal thought process and talk further about what I'd do if I became fabulously wealthy.

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"I need to win a lot of money..."

You and me both Bobby!


And should the day arrive when I am in possession of the golden scratch card, I would commission a life sized bronze statue to be erected in High Town. It would depict an important moment in Herefords rich history - namely you firing Jarvis out of a cannon towards the Lugg!

There would be much media interest in the unveiling of this work of art, I think I'd get Liz Hurley to perform this task, but should she be unavailable, I'm sure Jim Kenyon would do the honours!

Front page of The Hereford Times, and a free colour supplement for folk to keep as a souvenir!


In years to come, my grandchildren would stand and gaze up at this statue, and say "That was the day our rightful inheritance was frittered away.....and just who is this Bobby 47?????!!!!"

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Exhausted by the attentions of all these flimsily clad wanton strumpets who, by now were getting on me bloody nerves with their constant demands of, 'be mine tonight', there was a tap, tap, tap on the barrel of my recently acquired John Slough Cannon that I'd purchased from the funds of my recently acquired fabulous wealth.

It was bloody Jarvis! 'In Gods name', he screamed, 'I look ridiculous in this costume'. 'Rubbish', I said, ' you've never looked better in those white tights, blue skimpy shorts and your tiny little yellow cape. Now put your helmet on whilst the delightful Dippy explains the safety features that don't exist within the barrel of this hugely expensive cannon. Where's he flying to Ubique?'.

Looking thoughtful, the old soldier who was busily calculating wadding, wind speed, trajectory, the weight of bloody Jarvis and of course the explosive and fuse, he confidently howled, 'bloody Bristol estuary. Mind, what with unknown variables such as a flock of migrating ducks, a lightening storm or worse, him flapping about screaming, 'I'm bloody freezing up here', he could land in South bloody Wales.'

And it was done. TwoWheels with or without an 'e', the Gridknocker, Simon Brown and Glenda Vaughan Powell who didn't want to be a party to this illicit act, shoved the squealing wretch down into the depths of this barrel, the thoughtful Dippy threw Jarvis a Twix to nibble on during his flight, the fuse was lit, a mighty explosion ensued and we all gazed in wonder has bloody Jarvis began his flight toward the horizon howling, 'me bloody chin strap is to tight'.

And that was that. He was gone.

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What an epic chapter!


That statue is going to be worth every penny - and should my grandchildren bitterly complain about their rightful inheritance being spent on it, I shall stipulate that a plaque is mounted underneath it....


    "King Bobby 47 - he may, just may, have been the saviour of Hereford!"


That should shut them up, I mean I've left them my collection of original 1950's advertising posters and a  signed copy of Donovans "Catch The Wind" what more could they possibly want???

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Yes, it is an epic chapter isn't it. I gave some consideration to tethering a couple of raptors, common buzzards to my nemesis but then I thought, why destroy two birds that have never done anything to me. So I decided he'd undergo this hazardous journey alone and Im quite comfortable with this decision.

Of course I could have got you to have thrown in a full English breakfast. Perhaps I should have. Mind, its to late. He's gone and there's no point bringing him back, feeding him his full English breakfast and firing him off again. He's gone and that's that!

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I actually thought the Twix was rather generous - there's no way he'd have been offered a Linda MacCartney vegetarian sausage and a couple of free range eggs!


Anyway, he'd have set off from his very own B and B at Kerne Bridge, so he probably wouldn't have wanted my paltry offering!

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Hey up Peeps...I don't know whether I'm the bringer of good or bad tidings.  My brother lives at Snooty Clifton in Bristol and it is his habit of a Boxing Day to take a stroll across the famous suspension bridge with his family.  He rang me in high excitement this morning to say that a large crowd of onlookers was lining one side of the bridge, gazing down onto the Avon Gorge's mud flats.  He naturally thought that it was just another suicide which was gaining the macabre attention of these sad Bristolian rubber-neckers. 


But no.  In conversation with a member of the local Ploddery ("Nothing to see here; move along please.") he learnt that the tiny upturned figure, half-buried in the brown sludge below, clad in white tights and skimpy blue shorts, was thought by the constabulary's aviary experts to be a little-known Alaskan goose, off-course for winter migration in the Azores.  He told my brother that when the tide came in they intended to collect it up in a large keep net and move it to the Sir Peter Scott Bird Sanctuary near Gloucester for the rest of the winter. 

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