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Neil Trotter won 108 Million on the Lottery.


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Imagine winning that! Bloody Hell! First thing I'd do if I won that sum of money would be to purchase half an acre of good land in the City. That's what I'd do. Good land that would sustain a herbaceous perennial plant.

Then I'd phone up Wilhelmina Krugg, the worlds leading expert in growing Urticar Dioica. I'd say, 'it's me, Fortyseven. I want you to come to Hereford in England and grow me a huge crop of bloody nettles. Stinging nettles. None of your mamby pamby nettles. Real stingers and I'll pay you twenty thousand pounds'. She'd say, ' Lovely. Yes. Do I have to sleep with you' and I'd say, 'No Krugg. Just grow me a field of nettles and then clear off home'. Bloody wanton strumpet!

Then, I'd phone up the local Nit Nurse. I'd say, 'it's me Fortyseven. How do you fancy diversifying. Leave behind your career treating pediculus humanus capitus and get into antihistaminics. Come work for me for twenty grand a week'. Of course,'she'd say, ' Nettle Stings! Yes, I'll take the job. Do I have to sleep with you?', to which, I'd say, 'why do folk want to sleep with me. No. Never! I'd never sleep with a woman who's entire life's work has been devoted to treating head lice. Keep your bloody hands off me'.

Then, I'd make the crucial call. I'd phone up bloody Wearside Jack. He, who decades ago made a number of hoax calls claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper. I'd say, 'Wearside its me, Fortyseven, Im guessing that since you've been in prison and have been unmasked as a hoax telephone caller that terrorised a nation, you can't get bloody work'. ' its true',he said, 'being WearsideJack tends to hold you back from gaining employment in our local Call Centres'. I'd say, 'come work for me. Ten grand a week and you get to roll people I don't like in nettles and you get a company phone to call whoever you want'.

And then, with all the integral component parts in place, it begins. A reign of terror that only visits Cabinet Councillors and senior Council members of staff.

Then they'd be a tap,tap, tap on the hut door. I'd say 'who is it?' 'Its me, Bretherton. I've got your letter and I thought I'd take advantage of your extraordinarily kind offer.' 'Yes', I'd reply, by giving yourself up you get rolled around in nettles for the ten minutes rather than the thirty. Excellent. Good man. Now take all your clothes off and Wearside here will drag you around my nettle patch for ten minutes and once its done this good lady nurse Agnes will treat your terrible injuries'.

He'd say, ' I won't waste public money again. I've learned my lesson. Now I know what the consequences are, from hereon,Im going to be careful in implementing anything that'll get me another five minutes in that patch of hell on earth'.

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I'd happily make a contribution....and you can have all the profit from the slogan T shirt business.....see Working Boys Thread, page 5!!


         "Bobby for King"


Only a fiver each! That patch of land could soon become a reality!

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And if ever I won that sort of money there'd be changes. Big changes. Sensible and progressive changes within my humble abode.

For starters her! She'd be called in to a summit meeting in the front room. I'd tell her, 'you've hit me in the face with your frying pan for the last time'.

And whatsmore I'd tell her, 'we are having curtains fitted to our windows, I demand me own front door bloody key and I ain't eating Heinz alphabet soup anymore and having to read the words, 'I hate your face. Please leave'.

And that's just the start of it. When I come home howling at the moon, full of ale and covered in Mayonaisse because me kebab has missed my mouth, they'll be no more of this, 'you ain't coming in'.

And I'd grease me drainpipe. That's a certainty. I want a decent nights sleep and I ain't having folk scurrying up it tapping on my window any longer simply because they can't show a little restraint and control their sexual desires.

And, furthermore, we'd all be gathered around the big oak table at Brockington House. All the bloggers would be there around the table deciding on this, that and the other. How did we all end up around that table? Because I bought the whole bloody place that's why!

And it'd be a 'smoking room' I ain't leaving me own house to go outside and shiver in the rain any longer. Not while Im fabulously wealthy. I'd be like Poll bloody Pot and I'd take us back to the year zero when commonsense reigned and the Council knew the true value of a quid.

Oh, it'd be lovely. We'd open the toilets, paint the place, clean it and invest in our front line public services and pay them bloody properly. All the potholes would be a thing of the past. We'd fix them and in time, the phrase 'ain't it flat' would become synonymous with our fair County and its roads.

I'd ban all these Dogging Associations as well. They'd all go. I'd say, 'Hereford is no longer a place where you can quickly catch thrush'. Be gone. Go seek gratification in some other neighbouring County. We're done with you writhing around on the bonnets of our motor vehicles as we sit there waiting to navigate the Wye Bridge.

Bloody Trotter. Lucky Barstard!

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With which, he hobbled down to Hereford Station to buy himself a single ticket back to Cleveland.  And was never seen in Hereford again!


Thanks King Bobby for ridding us of a Public Nuisance.


PS: Whatever happened to that 6000-dwelling Urban Village he told us he was going to build behind Alcatraz?  I see they're starting work on a block of 10 flats in Conningsby Street: would that be Phase I perhaps?  At that rate of progress (errr 10 units in 5 years) that means John Jarvis's great vision will be finished by errr... 5014.

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