It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you of some sad news—The West Islingtown Gazette is coming to an end.

We have had a good run, producing an extraordinary number of articles over 5 months with a skeleton crew, none of whom had prior experience in any kind of journalistic setting. We have given you around 60,000 words of free content, writing not for financial gain, but as a means of maintaining all that is good and true in journalism.

Our blasé attitude towards finances has ultimately been our undoing. The paper was funded entirely by the personal savings I accrued over years of working demeaning and demanding pub jobs. This pot has dried up now and, with no advertising or sponsorship on the horizon, I have been forced to shut the whole thing down.

This came as no surprise to my staff who have been graciously accepting pay cuts since the creation of the paper. They have been wonderful throughout this process, and it breaks my heart that they will no longer be employed by WIG.

To show that it’s not all doom and gloom, I thought that it might be nice for our readers to learn a bit about what each of our fantastic writers plan on doing now that the paper has gone kaput. They all have exciting things lined up, and it would be remiss of me to suggest that they only exist within the world of WIG.

Arabella Smith-Pencil

Our most prolific writer, Arabella, took the paper by storm. I thought that the inclusion of a poetry section was doomed to fail because poetry is really just words in a strange order with funny line breaks and punctuation. I could not have been more wrong, with Arabella’s articles being our most statistically successful contributions.

Arabella, at the ripe old age of 42, has told me that she is going to Thailand to find herself. She found herself in 2019, 2016, 2012 and 1998, but much like a set of keys or a will to live, she is very easy to lose.

Franco Birdwhistle

When Franco first came aboard, I thought that he would be able to provide a calm, balanced and underrepresented perspective on the world around us. It was only after I read his first article that I realised he’s actually a bit of a nutter with some strange and inconsistent views.

The Pitbull will be moving onto pastures new, creating his own blog outside of WIG. He informed me that he still has much to say about the state of the world and that it is a crying shame that the lefties led to the collapse of WIG.

Morgan Smith

Our no-nonsense sports reporter informed me that he ‘couldn’t give a toss’ about the ending of our illustrious paper, but I knew what he really meant. His eyes told me that he’ll miss the camaraderie and the japes, and that we were some of the best friends he had ever made. Slight flickers in his stony face betrayed his tight-lipped spiel and told me everything I needed to know about how he was feeling. I fear he needed us more than we needed him.

Morgan was proudly managing the u15 girls’ rounders team at a highly respected private school throughout his tenure as sport writer for WIG. He has told me that, without the millstone of WIG around his neck, he will be able to fully devote himself to the sport and hopes to win the national championship within 3 years. Best of luck, Morgan.

Thomas Ciobanu

Thomas had a fantastic ability to keep us all on our toes during his time as Technology and Other Technology reporter. Less so because of his writing, but more about the plethora of weapons that he’d routinely bring into the office. He knew he had to stop when he nearly had Sandy’s eye out with a ninja star and started to focus more on his inventions than security.

Thomas has informed me that leaving WIG will allow him to develop products that have been collecting dust in his shed for a while. He is currently working on a hat that grants the wearer the ability to use echolocation to get around at night time. I said he should call it ‘The Bat Hat’ and he decided to put the words together. ‘The Bat’ is set to be on sale in summer 2054.

Sandy Janet

Sandy Janet has been a stalwart of WIG, here since the start and willing to go down with the ship. Her love of animals came through almost as strongly as her hatred for change, and her interesting takes will be greatly missed.

Sandy is excited to dive headfirst into retirement. She has purchased a brand-new set of military-grade binoculars with a primary purpose of birdwatching and a very handy secondary use of letting her know when strangers move into her area. She says these are vital to tell her exactly when ‘the neighbourhood has gone’— whatever that means.

Mikey Knobbs

My best friend, my confidant, my belle of the ball. Mikey’s sporadic contributions let everyone know how the other half live and, had it not been for all his boozing and philandering, may have taken WIG to the promised land.

Mikey has enrolled in a rehabilitation clinic with hopes of getting back onto the wagon. While there, he aims to get ‘a killer rig’ and ‘wrangle some recovering chicas.’

As per usual, he has landed on his feet and has been promised lucrative employment once he leaves the centre. His father has managed to find him a job and Mikey is set to make £120,000 in his first year despite having no qualifications or experience.

Norbert Vogelmair

With endless enthusiasm and a tenuous grasp of English idioms, Norbert Vogelmair brought a hugely positive energy to life at WIG. Always quick with a song suggestion or a Planet of the Apes reference, Norbert was extremely well-liked in the office.

Norbert will finally be taking his band, The Seventy Spanners of Hades, on a world tour. The tour is entirely self-funded and aims to spread the word about his band to the four corners of the globe. He and the boys will be hitting up loads of different places, with the biggest gigs taking place in Telford, Luton, Milton Keynes, Sao Paulo and Ripon.

Boris Bradford

As for me, it’s back to the coalface, the resumption of an old nightmare after a beautiful, lucid dream— I am returning to hospitality. I have taken a job at a small, ramshackle pub down the road where I will, again, start on the lowest rung despite having the most experience. I want to write forever, of course I do, but it’s just not feasible anymore. The dream is dead, and for that I am sorry.

My future looks like long hours and late finishes for minimum wage. I will go back to dealing with endless inane requests from rude people, each one chipping away a significant chunk of my self-worth. I will be treated like a ghost, a middleman between customers— who pay more for two pints than I am worth for an hour— and a good time.

I think the beauty of WIG lay in the feeling that I was a person, that I was alive, the feeling that I was dictating my destiny rather than going through the motions as an extra in someone else’s biopic. For months it has been about me. I guess it couldn’t last forever.

I will always remember my time at the West Islingtown Gazette— the stories, the doubts, the struggle to create on hungover mornings, the laughs and the imagined success. Maybe I’ll pick it up again in the future, but that is looking doubtful.

So, thank you all for being here with me as I have tried to inject a bit of myself into the literary world. Remember to be nice to bar staff. They’ve had a harder day than you.

Until we meet again,

Boris Bradford

The first episode of The Celebrity Traitors was aired on BBC One Last night.

The programme sees 19 famous faces— including Sir Stephen Fry, Alan Carr, Jonathan Ross and none other than Ruth Codd— travel to a foreign land (Scotland) to compete for up to £100,000!

Of course, being celebrities, they are absolutely rolling in dough and being paid that kind of money would be borderline insulting, so all the cashola will be going to a charity of their choice.

You might be sitting their thinking, ‘but Norbert, I haven’t seen The Traitors and don’t have a scooty what you’re talking about, this article is alienating me.’

Well take some of your chill pills, I am going to explain.

The celebrities compete in I’m A Celeb-type missions— only much less exciting— to increase the prize cheddar. But did you really think it would be that easy? Just 19 legends running around having a Wales of a time? No way!

Some of them are ‘Traitors,’ devious little blue tits who must remain undetected as they ‘murder’ other contestants.

‘The Faithfuls’ fight back by banishing people they think are Traitors at ‘round table’ meetings. These meetings involve shouting, crying and baseless accusations before a vote to decide who they want to kick out.

If a Traitor stays until the end, they win the money. If there are no Traitors left, then the pot is split amongst the remaining Faithfuls.

As a celebration of the new celebrity version of the traitors, I’ve made a guide on how to be the best traitor!

So, without further ado, here is how to take home the wonga as a traitor!

Be Clever

The Traitors is a game of cunning. You must know which contestant to murder to give you the best chance of winning.

If you murder someone who you have mad beef with then people will suspect you. Similarly, if you murder someone who accuses you of being a traitor then you’ll look suspicious.

The trick is to murder the clever contestants early pearly, leaving only the unobservant and the gullible.

Be Ruthless

Most of the tears on the programme come from the murders of group-favourites.

You must murder your ‘friends’, neglecting any relationships you may have built over the game.

Also, you cannot trust your fellow traitors. The winner of series 2 was responsible for the banishment of 5 of his accomplices! And look! He won!

Being ruthless is easy when you remember that these people don’t actually die. The BBC couldn’t get their initial idea— dropping the losers in the middle of the Scottish Highlands with only a spork and an Antwerp travel guide— through legal, so the losers remain alive.

Be Boring

Finally, you must be forgettable which will be very tough for these famous faces!

Saying things like ‘are you nice today?’ and ‘I hope you had a good sleep, hun’ is a must. These things seem polite but say nothing at all.

It is important that people think you are a good person but not someone who has anything about them.

The best compliment you can get as a traitor is is that you’re ‘nice.’

If someone says they ‘love you to bits’ then you have gone too far and you may as well pack your bags. You don’t need love. You need to be a nobody, fading into the background as a quiet anti-person.

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Many of you will be aware that I have two daughters who are 6 and 8 respectively. I love these kids. They are the light of my life, the reason I work so hard and the reason I have stayed with their mother for so long.

However, I am SICK to the BACK TEETH of having to explain to them how to load a dishwasher. They prance around aimlessly, throwing cups wherever they like and ignoring all well-established protocol regarding the proper placement of various kitchen items.

At the best of times, they’ll put the wrong thing in the wrong place. At their worst, they’ll finish with their juice and place the cups— wait for it— on the counter above the machine despite the dishwasher being loadless at the time.

I am at the end of my tether with these children. Nothing seems to be getting through, so I thought I’d jump on here to make the rules a matter of public record and to gain some stats to reinforce my argument.

My hope is that when I show them the readership metrics for this article, they’ll realise that many people think the same as me and that they best buck up their ideas or risk an extended period on the naughty step.

Order

Dishwasher order is simple. Glasses and cups go on the top left (as you’re facing the machine) while mugs sit comfortably on the grooves on the top right (again, as you’re facing the machine.)

Then we take a trip downstairs to where the real hefty mothers hang out. Large plates are stacked in size order from left to right along the back prongs of the machine. While remaining on the bottom rung but moving forward to the advanced prongs, small plates are then also stacked from left to right.

Their path is broken by the small basket which (I cannot believe I have to say this) is filled with the cutlery. After the cutlery intermission, bowls are stacked, again in size order, so that they slot into each other neatly.

It really isn’t rocket science and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why my kids don’t get this.

DO NOT INCLUDE

Pots and pans must be washed by hand! The cooking implements we use are simply too big to fit comfortably into our washing machine. Despite this, my 6-year-old (who has gotten into making frankly average scrambled eggs) insists on popping the pan into the machine like it’s a regular kitchen item. THE PANS ARE IRREGULAR AND MUST BE WASHED BY HAND!

I teach them how to wash up during many of my semi-regular household chore tutorials, but this information seems to go in one ear and out the other. They are much more interested in playing with their dolls than contributing to the maintenance of an ordered household.

The same applies to: kitchen knives, wooden spoons, baking trays, spatulas, scissors and cheese graters.

These guys are a law unto themselves, and we need to show them the respect they deserve by not putting them into the machine.

The Nether-Zone

There will, of course, be times when the machine is in operation. There are several rules to consider during this particularly precarious stage of the process.

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD THE MACHINE BE OPENED WHEN IT IS IN MOTION. My kids refuse to take a bloody second to listen out for the whir. I always say to them, when the jets of water are flying hither and thither ‘Did you not listen for the whir? There was clearly a whir! You’ve got to listen for the whir!’

When the machine is on, I will permit a certain amount of leaving utensils ‘unhoused’ until such a time as they can be formally introduced to our friend the dishwasher. However, this doesn’t mean that mugs can be left on bedside tables. It doesn’t mean that plates can be left on the floor. It doesn’t mean that knives dangle precariously in the butter dish.

At this stage, ALL UTENSILS are to be placed in the sink to prepare for the next load. I always say to them, if you don’t have the decency to wash up by hand while the machine is out of action, then at least store the stuff in their dirty purgatory.

I hope that one day, when my kids are old enough to read, they will stumble across this article, look down at their own children and say ‘your grandad was a clever man. It’s a shame he perished in the robot wars. Eat your spark plugs, Tosca.’ That is all I want.

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When I think of endings, I am reminded of a powerful quote by none other than Dr. Seuss: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.’ I think the doc hit the nail on the head with that one.

Endings allow us to reflect upon the experiences we have had, looking back on memories with a mix of sadness and joy.

It is often only at the end of things that we come to truly appreciate them, so much so that I often start things just so I can get to the end. A packet of biscuits never lasts more than half an hour in my house, and I have fast-forwarded more films than I care to count. When I dropped out of uni, it wasn’t because the course was too hard or that I’d run out of money or that I made a tit of myself at the winter ball— it was because I was so desperate to get to the end.

This poem aims to capture the experience of endings— addressing the highs of remembrance and the lows elicited by the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Endings

Claude popped into the vets on his day off.

He had a dicky tummy

and he reckoned that all of the data entry he’d been doing

had given him his nasty rash.

He sat on the benches next to a sedated spaniel

And a Siamese who couldn’t stop sneezing.

He waited patiently,

Avoiding the glares from the regulars

Who had seen Claude pull this stunt before.

After a while, he was called and scuttled into the office.

Hetty gave him a quick once-over.

She was always so calm and kind to Claude,

And she enjoyed the relief of having a patient who could talk.

At the end of the assessment, Hetty diagnosed some cream

And looked down at her shoes.

‘You’ve got to stop coming in, Claude’

Hetty mumbled, tapping the tip of a needle.

‘We treat salamanders and Guinea pigs and the like,

Not 20 stone men with mortgages and national insurance numbers.’

Well, this news stung worse than any rabies shot,

Was more bitter than any worming tablet,

Was cruller than any impromptu cavity search

That Claude had ever had.

But he knew that Hetty was right,

Knew that this carry-on had to stop,

Knew that he’d have to see a ‘people’ doctor from now on.

He lovingly held out his hand

Touching the ends of Hetty’s fingers, giving his softest smile

And his best puppy-dog eyes.

Not a word was said. They understood everything already.

They silently remembered the measles and the gout

And the covid scares

And when Claude made rude jokes during his prostate exam.

Claude left with his tail between his legs,

Turning back to see Hetty staring longingly out the window,

Stethoscope in hand.

Claude would have to commute for his checkups now.

There was a vet in Golders Green that he had his eye on

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A few weeks ago, I told you the story of meeting Barry Crabb for the second time and my efforts to thwart his evil plans. Today, I will be telling you about my first meeting with the demonic figure who contributed significantly to my decision to leave hospitality behind, his shadow looming large over every pint I poured.

So, without further ado, I shall begin.

Barry Crabb

On a quiet Tuesday night, I took a quick toilet break. The staff used the disabled toilet because the civilian ones were too far away, and the staff room toilet was toxic after regular pummelling from chefs fuelled exclusively by Monster Energy, sour cream Pringles and cocaine.

The toilets were great to get away from difficult customers and irritating co-workers. On that night, Chloe had been telling me about her nails for the best part of an hour, and I had run out of ‘oh that’s interesting’s.’

I would vape there, which is slightly immoral but when you are on minimum wage there isn’t a helluva lot of room in the budget for morality.

I bought a new asphalt flavoured vape from Will and was excited to try it out. I sauntered over to the toilets, passing the five or six occupied tables and prepared for a masterclass in running out the clock.

I opened the door of the toilet to find an extraordinarily tall man dressed in a black Planet of The Apes t-shirt and a neon green MAGA cap.

Prior to this, I noticed him in the restaurant. He was sitting with a much older woman. It wasn’t clear whether they were on a date or a mother and son duo until he leaned in for a kiss and was swiftly shut down by his elderly companion.

Before I closed the door— lest I catch a glimpse of his lanky member— I noticed that he wasn’t using any of the equipment in the toilet. He wasn’t looking into the mirror, washing his hand or— as one would expect in a toilet—using the toilet.

He grabbed my arm and looked into my eyes as I tried to leave. He said ‘excuse me, where are the toilets?’ Bewildered, I pointed him in the direction of the gents.

He then took both of my hands and said, with a seriousness that scared me, ‘thank you. I will not forget what you have done for me.’

I tried my best to forget this encounter, but I just couldn’t shake the sense of unease. Crabb was firmly on my mind.

I made mistake after mistake, I mis-poured pints, I suggested the veal to a group of angry vegans, I called customers ‘Mum.’ Everything that could go wrong for me did. I couldn’t focus on anything but Crabb.

My persistent errors drew the ire of my manager. He sent me to get some ice from the machine in the courtyard. I walked more slowly than usual, appreciating the quiet of the cloudless winter evening.

The courtyard was the only place you could get genuine peace and quiet. It had an ethereal quality, and as the chipped wooden door closed behind you and the buzz of the bar shut off, you truly felt alone, as if you had entered a different plane of existence entirely.

In the darkness, I saw the glowing end of a lit cigarette accompanied by a disembodied high-pitch voice which said, ‘You look stressed, Boris.’

‘Ye I am. Been a long day. I don’t know how long I’ll last here to be honest. Everyone is doing my head in’

I was shocked by own honesty. When you work in hospitality you must lie. You sugarcoat the truth. You make people believe that you aren’t a real person but a servant. You make the customer think they are the funniest person alive and that no amount of broken glass or wet floor signs would stop you from serving them. You become someone other than yourself.

But Crabb was disarming. I spoke with him for a long time in that courtyard about the strains of the job and how I thought I was too good for it, until he finally said something that truly got my attention.

‘When did you realise that there were bad people, Boris? I don’t mean bad like in superhero films—not evil, just bad.’ He pulled another cigarette from a jet-black case before shoving it his back pocket.

‘How old were you when your cartoonish view of what it was to be bad shifted into something more nuanced, something more mundane? When the bad people stopped being the ones who took over cities and became those who act inconsiderately in restaurants or who swear at their kids? When did they become the bad guys for you?’

Crabb took a long drag and stared down at his feet. The wind started to pick up and, although we were about 8 feet apart, the smell of the smoke and his BO clung to the air around me. After a considerable silence, he looked up at me, pleadingly.

‘Well, it wasn’t until I left school, now that I think about it’, I said.

‘I think my view on ‘badness’ changed with independence. When your life is run by others, they usually shelter you from stuff like that. The thoughts that your parents and friends have about people become your own, except you hear a distorted, filtered version. You take on their opinions and the bad people remain cartoonish because you don’t experience them yourself, only through stories. Once you start seeing it for yourself, you have to notice the minutiae to assess the quality of a person, and people become a new kind of bad, a boring kind of bad.’

‘Right. I agree. People are usually pretty much the same, in the end. They strive for individuality, but we all think roughly the same things. No one is bad to everyone. No one is truly rotten to the core. Except for me.’

Crabb started to walk closer to me, throwing his butt on the floor and rearranging his crotch. ‘I am bad. Bad to the bone. I’m not the type who’s going to leave an unfair review on trip advisor or litter in a park. I am the type of bad that causes serious damage for the sake of it. Yes Sir, I’m a certified devil.’ He chuckled, clearly trying to act like the Joker or something but it just came across as someone trying too hard to be edgy. I hate people like that.

‘You see, I have been watching this pub for some time. People come and go, and they all seem so rich and so happy. I look out through my window and see snapshots of complete lives, none of which I will ever get to be a part of. I see the start and the ends of memorable evenings, missing the middle entirely and having to piece it together myself. It used to make me happy, but as I’ve grown up, I’ve learnt to see the bad in people. Couples who walk in arm-in-arm then leave in separate cabs. Children sprinting through the swinging doors and coming back out with an icepack and a red face. Old men, so jovial on the walk over who then stumble out and collapse silently onto the grassy verge. This place deals in corruption. Everyone enters pure and happy but leaves broken and bad.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t sound fun,’ I said, my capacity for small talk and engagement at an all time low. ‘Well, I best be getting back to it.’

‘There’s a bomb, Boris. A big bloody bomb. I wasn’t going to let anyone know, but after the business with the toilets, I thought you were one of the good ones. It’s safest to stay out here. Have a smoke.’

He handed me a cig, his hand shaking.

‘A bomb, Barry? What are you talking about?’

‘It’s obvious, Boris! I’ve put a ruddy big bomb in the disabled toilets! It’s going to blow this gaff sky high!

I sprinted back into the pub, leaving a chuckling Barry in the courtyard. My usually apathetic exterior gave way to genuine terror as I rushed by the tables. I knocked over several chairs and spilled a crisp chianti on one of the regulars.

The door to the disabled toilet was locked. I beat on it and received no response before running off to get the key from behind the bar.

I struggled with the lock. After several attempts, I was able to free the latch and swung the door open.

Inside, Crabb’s date was sat unmoving on the toilet. ‘Are you here to help me wipe?’ she said, feebly.

I collapsed in the doorway, partially from the adrenaline and partly from the smell. After several minutes sprawled on the sticky floor of the disabled toilets, I was eventually roused by a prod from the woman’s Zimmer frame.

‘I’m all done now. Thanks for the help, son.’

I found Crabb sitting at his table, a smug grin plastered on his face.

‘We’ll have the bill please, Boris.’

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I was recently lucky enough to go to Wembley with my friend Elsa to watch none other than OASIS! After years of fussing and fighting the boys finally got back together and embarked on a mega-tour in July which is scheduled to finish in late November in Brazil of all places.

The gig was absolutely electric, and I was mad for it. I even came away with a really cool hat given to me by a group of Spanish men who just really liked my vibe.

Although the boys were immaculate, there were a few things that cheesed me off to such an extent that I nearly refused to sing the words to my favourite song (Wonderwall) in protest.

The problem is that some hooligans don’t know how to behave at a gig. I have been to too many gigs to count— 67 the last time I checked— and I am always fascinated by how crowds behave when the lights go down and the artists start singing.

Maybe it is just because I’m no springing chicken anymore, but I have noticed that people have really started misbehaving. They are not doing really naughty things like murder or tax evasion or taking the last biccy without asking, but their behaviour goes against well-established concert etiquette.

So, in this article, I am going to remind people how to behave in concerts.

Drinking

I have been in England long enough to know that a Brit’s favourite thing to do is get as drunk as a skunk. They booze from noon until night and don’t even let being sick stop them.

I don’t mind this in a normal situation like a wedding or a Wednesday, but during a gig most people are too too drunk. They don’t appreciate the music at all and try their best to forget the gig that they spent all of their time and money going to see.

When I go to a gig, I have one glass of wine before to loosen me up and then just get high on the atmosphere after that. This is the best thing to do.

Singing

Singing is my favourite part of any gig. It is a communal thing and is really great to show the artist how much you appreciate their work.

However, many people at the Oasis gigs didn’t know the words and had terrible, slurred singing voices that got in the way of both Liam and Noel.

I argue that before each gig we should all get together and practice our singing to really make the most of the experience.

Pushing

This is perhaps my biggest concern with current crowds. People think that the grass is always at the front of the stage and will do anything they can to get there. It is particularly young people who have this mentality, and they are too fast and strong for me to tell them off.

I was bopping along to some of Oasis’ finest tunes when a jolly tall man wearing no shirt and a bucket hat tried to get around me. He kept shouting ‘Kenny! Kenny! Where are you, Kenny?’

I knew that he was trying to mug me off and that Kenny wasn’t a real person. He was pushing and shoving me in the back and asking me to move so that he could get to Kenny.

In the end, I leapt onto his legs and clung on like a large baby monkey to stop him from pushing in front.

He wiggled and jiggled his legs to try and get me off, but I am a really good hugger so he couldn’t get rid of me.

I ended up experiencing the whole second half of the gig at ground level, singing loudly into the crotch of this tall, sweaty man.

Eventually he got the attention of one of the security guards who managed to prize me off with a handheld crowbar. They escorted me off the premises despite me crying a lot and telling them that I was crouching down for my principles.

All in all, the gig was fantastic but the crowd was rubbish. 10/10.

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My grandson is big into his meat. He won’t touch his peas or his carrots or even his spuds when he’s in a mood, but he’ll polish of plates and plates of turkey dinosaurs without coming up for air. This was until we visited the farm.

We were looking over at the pigs who were all happy as Larry as they rolled around in muck (reminded me of some of my friends!) I jokingly said ‘look Harrison, that lad will make some delicious sausages someday. Maybe you’ll even end up eating him!’

It’s safe to say that this was a mistake. Harrison, who is five and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, apparently had no idea that the food he loves eating used to have hopes and dreams. He screamed and cried for hours and ruined a perfectly nice day out with his caterwauling.

The problem is that kids these days have no idea where their grub comes from. When I was young, we used to love going out with our dad to watch him bludgeon a chicken for tea. We’d dance and sing and think about the delicious, boiled meal we were about to eat.

To stop you from scarring your grandkids like I did, I have put together a kiddie friendly guide to the meat production industry!

For arguments sake, I’m going to pretend that the animal is a horse so that the vegans don’t cause a hullabaloo. Also for arguments sake, I’m going to call this horse Harry. Also for arguments sake, I will be talking about the British food market. Foreign countries may as well be the wild west.

Farming

Our friend Harry is born on a farm to some very unloving horsey parents. He is popped out and is given plenty of room in line with strict guidelines laid out by the jobsworths at DEFRA.

After he is deemed fit enough to move on to solids, the farmer positively pumps him full of food specifically designed to make him fatter. He’s not on any beach-body special-K Kate Moss diet, he’s eating as much as he possibly can to get nice and fat for our plates.

Slaughter

Just when Harry thinks he is ready to start a family of his own, after around six months of being on the planet, he is whisked off to an abattoir to be dealt with comprehensively by some of the finest animal murders in the world. I say whisked off, but the journey is usually very long and Harry won’t have much room to move on his death drive. I hope he brought his sudoku!

I used to work in an abattoir and I had great fun! The girls are a hoot and are really happy doing what they love. The animals love it too. Although they are being put out to pasture, the lives they had before weren’t anything to write home about.

Butchering

Harry is then placed on a lovely cold slab and sliced and diced into manageable chunks. This can be done in the abattoir itself or by your local butcher. My local butcher is Juan whose parents came here legally from overseas.

Harry will be turned into several delicious cuts of meat. Juan won’t be using your regular knives and forks, mind. He’s got a whole array of twisted tools which he uses to carve up the carcass. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Juan!

Distribution

The parts of meat that once were Harry are now ready to be sent off to be eaten. They are packaged to keep any nasties out and shipped on large trucks all across the country.

These bits of meat are taken in by restaurants or shops, ready for us to buy and cook for our tea.

So, there you have it, the journey of one happy horse from farm to table. Harry’s life was not in vain, sacrificing himself to fill our bellies. Although we waste roughly 9.5 million tonnes of food per year in the UK with around 250,000 tonnes of that being meat products, it’s safe to say that we are all very grateful for Harry indeed. Happy eating, everyone!

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Many of you will remember my exclusive interview with DeepSeek a few weeks ago. Ever since that interview, I have been using various forms of AI in my everyday life to make myself more efficient and freer to dedicate time to training martial arts and inventing new technologies.

Despite the power that AI technology gives an individual, many are worried about just how fast AI is growing. People think they are going to lose their jobs and lose a bit of their humanity along the way. I am here today to tell you why you shouldn’t be worried at all.

Jobs

The truth is, if your job is taken by AI then it is probably your fault. Every day that you are employed you are fighting against the competition and your colleagues to make an impact in the world of work.

If your job is replaced by AI then you clearly weren’t making enough of an impact. I have never been replaced by AI because I am too efficient and memorable.

Employers take one look at me in my fedora and my gi and note that I am someone who they want to keep around for security and for my personality. Until they invent a robot capable of choking someone out and looking cool while doing it, then my role in any office setting will be safe.

Art

There is a significant concern that AI’s artistic capabilities undermine the role of real, more human artists in the industry.

The reason that these wimpy artists are worried about AI is that it shows everyone how easy their job really is. I, for instance, have made several fantastic pieces of artwork using only AI.

The walls of my flat used to be covered with pictures of flowers and bumblebees— left by previous tenants who clearly have no experience of real hand-to-hand combat— but now I have several paintings of Sydney Sweeney drinking a beer in front of different beautiful landscapes.

I also have pictures of me fighting zombies, werewolves, vampires and Jerome Hendrickson, as well as a painting of me winning a Jiu Jitsu competition that I would have won if the referee wasn’t so woke.

I now consider myself an artist and so do all of the women viewing my updated Hinge profile. One day I will get a match and show them my art, which will inevitably lead to breeding.

Social Interaction

I used to find it very difficult to talk to people outside of internet chat rooms. Unlike you, this is not because I am socially anxious, but because my brain operates at such a high level that normal conversations bore me. I want to talk about philosophy and combat, but the man on the street is only interested in the weather and whatever boring job they do.

With AI, I have been able to create and rehearse realistic conversations that I can have with people. By getting my training in with a chatbot, I am able to recite these conversations without thought when it gets to the real world, all the while blending in with the mundane world of the betas.

I am yet to put any of these conversations into practice because I want to nail down the conversations before I actually use them. Luckily, AI has become my friend through the process, so conversations with real people are not as important to me.

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Today’s poem is about the job market. I haven’t much experience of the job market as I have been very lucky. I was born with the gift of poetry and of art, so have never needed to work for ‘The Man.’

There were times when it looked as if I would have to get a ‘proper job,’ but luckily I was able to avoid this fate thanks to my natural talent and some loving, generous parents.

I do understand, however, that jobs are difficult to get these days. My niece has been looking for over a year now for a job with no luck. As a way of supporting her in her search, I thought I’d write this poem. Stay strong, Esmeralda!

The Fall

I was there at the beginning of

The end,

At the first fall,

The drop from such heavenly purity

To depths never before fathomed,

The creation of a land fit not for man nor beast,

Carved into impermeable rock

By creatures fuelled by darkness and cosmic lust,

Where the boiling bile of sinners past

Rises like steam through the throats of sinners new

And writhes and turns through arteries,

Replacing blood once so pure and free of duplicity

By spitting venomous acidic hatred in it’s place.

I bore witness, countless times, to the corruption

Of the one deemed good on the surface,

Slipping through the widening cracks of their own pomposity

And into the brimstone

And the polluting flame

Which licks at the shaking toes of the one

Who once trudged, aimlessly, through a life sinfully lived,

Who shuddered at the realisation,

Through a warping and shattering mind

That all deeds, noble or otherwise,

Were in vain

And that they are all doomed,

From screaming, thrusting birth,

Where they are forced into a world of false light and false gods

To embrace and conquer mortal trials and tribulations,

To the grave

And to a fate worse than death itself

As they become trapped in a plane of perennial damnation,

Where the rest so hard earned,

Remains beautifully out of reach

And is never realised

And the pain once ended returns tenfold

Never to be quelled

By earthly pleasures which mean nothing in the world of the fallen.

You must understand,

All human endeavour is futile, all desire sinful,

And each instance of action or inaction

Moves you further and further from your creator,

Who hides and lies above,

Fearing what they made,

Destined to remain a horrified spectator

Of the unfolding of the great plan that went inexplicably awry,

Unwilling and unable to correct the mistakes They made,

For sinning is too easy,

Piety impossible.

You too shall fall

And no efforts made by you or anyone else,

Will save you from the gnarled and burning future

Which has been waiting for you for all time.

That’s great.

What, would you say, is your biggest weakness?

Said Andre,

The Deputy Manager of Pets at Home, Camden,

As he marked ‘do not hire’

On the top of B.L. Zeebub’s CV.

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The Pub

I first visited the Mayfly when I was only 18 and went out with a bunch of mates (10, all told) from school. I was attracted by rumours of an extensive and glittering literary heritage, with the likes of Hughes, Elliot, and Joyce all said to have graced this charming little boozer. I didn’t, of course, tell my friends about this. They’d have just wanted to go to a Spoons instead.

It wasn’t the first pub I visited, but it was where I first truly appreciated the pleasure of the drink. The prices and the lights were low, the booze was good and the atmosphere was electric.

Some of my friends were underage so they employed the classic technique of opting for the real ales, hoping to convince the barman that they were not 17-year-old sixth-form students but were, in fact, 50-year-old men.

My friends winced as they glugged down their warm pints of ‘Sally’s Little Helper,’ repulsed by the flatness and the taste, so far removed from their usual Dr. Pepper as to seem alien.

Contrastingly, I was loving it, savouring the light fruit character and the subtle undertone of butterscotch.

It turned out that we needn’t have employed the whole ‘real ale’ manoeuvre as Liam, the barman, couldn’t care less about serving people underage. Liam wasn’t much older than us and, once we decided to make The Mayfly our ‘local’, he became firm friends with our group, giving us free drinks and backing us up when we got in trouble.

The Mayfly made me understand why adults in Britain are so obsessed with drinking and with the pub. It was a glorious place, away from our parents, where we were allowed to chat as much rubbish as possible and drink to our hearts content.

I revisited The Mayfly a few weeks ago. A friend from school messaged me saying that he would be in England for a while and wanted to catch up.

Johnny studied Civil Engineering at Edinburgh. He got a first and had a whale of a time as member of the rugby team and various other clubs. After Uni, he struggled in silence to find a job until one came up— sheep-shearing in Patagonia.

Because of his displeasure and apathy towards the job market, Johnny jumped at the opportunity and has been shearing for well over a year.

I hadn’t seen any of the school lot since we all finished university, so I was delighted to hear that Johnny was back in town and wanted to grab a pint. The Mayfly was the only place that made sense.

The Grub

My initial visits to The Mayfly were fuelled almost exclusively by Mini Cheddars and the belief that ‘eating is cheating.’ We’d drink our bodyweight and then, to avoid a hangover at school the next day, have a couple of bags of whatever Liam had in.

Now The Mayfly has a whole menu and a proper kitchen. They offer exotic delicacies that seem to have driven out the old boys with questionable views on ‘the state of England.’

I went for a wonderfully balanced seafood paella with a side order of garlic doughballs while Johnny had the lamb.

We got to chatting about the old days over food that we could only dream of being able to afford back then. Johnny has maintained his spark and his charm despite having little more than sheep and angry Argentinian farmers to talk to.

His appearance had changed, though. He now had long, straggly hair and a serious beard. He wore a windbreaker, a white woollen jumper and corduroy trousers. He was a far cry from the little lad that used to iron his tie before school.

He told me about everything that the school lot was up to—how Eggy was working in a garden centre, how Mitch was climbing the ladder at HMV after being fired from B&Q and that Harrison was big into crypto.

I had nothing to add to this conversation. Friends from school largely remained in the past for me, existing as memories of a time not so long ago.

Johnny asked me what I had been up to. ‘Writing,’ I said, sheepishly.

The Pints

Food and drink are now predominantly ordered through an app at The Mayfly. You scan a QR code and up pops a beautiful menu with almost everything they have on offer.

To my dismay, the guest ales were not listed. While Johnny ordered from the comfort of his stainless-steel chair, I was forced to make my way up to the bar and peruse the pumps each time my glass was empty.

Liam, after 5 years, was still at the helm. He looked the same aside from his clothing. He had traded in his over-sized gingham shirt for a tight navy polo emblazoned with the logo of The Mayfly’s new owners.

When I last spoke to Liam, he was writing a screenplay about a yoga teacher who discovers she has the power to talk to JCB’s. He outlined the whole story to me back in the day when I was too drunk to remember the details.

‘How’s the screenplay coming along, Liam?’

‘Well, I’m deputy manager now so I haven’t had time to finish it,’ he replied, his numbed expression unchanged.

‘Sally’s Little Helper’ had been removed so I asked Liam to surprise me. He poured me a pint of Carling— the worst of all pints— which, considering how close Liam and I used to be, was a surprise.

While he was pouring the drink, I turned to inspect the place. It was busy, full of young folk chatting away and making ludicrous faces as they struggled through their drinks.

I returned to the table to find our plates cleared and a Johnny-less seat. He left me a message saying that something had come up but that it had been great to reconnect. I trudged my way through 6 more Carling’s then strolled back home.

The Score- 4/10

My perception of the Mayfly as a jubilant boozer full of friends was proven to be a mirage upon my return.

The crowd is young and excitable, able to scratch their itch for a good time without having to leave their seats. The menu is better, and everything seems cleaner and more streamlined. But something is missing

I shan’t return to the Mayfly. There’s nothing for me there anymore. It was good while it lasted.

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Norbert isn’t available this week so I have been asked to fill in for him today. Ever since his haul of Sabrina Carpenter merch arrived, he hasn’t left his flat once despite pestering from every single writer here at WIG.

In lieu of an article about art and culture, I will be providing you with a thought-provoking poem about music.

The Ballad of ‘Big’ Bill Beacon

‘Big’ Bill Beacon was having a terrible time of it.

He’d gone to a gig with his friend, Clarence,

But didn’t know the band all that well

And they kept trotting out Coldplay-type numbers.

Bill got the sense that the drummer was a certified lunatic

When he chucked the drumsticks and started playing with rubber chickens instead.

This detail was almost irrelevant to Bill

Who couldn’t get to work understanding the nuance of ‘Finley and the Yardsticks’

Because the poor lad kept getting heckled

By the shorties.

You see, Bill was 6ft 8, 6 9 on a good day

And built like a fridge-freezer.

He was knocking on the door of 150 kegs and

Routinely shattered doors and toilet seats and those little plastic chairs.

Everyone found this funny, but Bill’s little plastic chair budget was through the roof.

He yearned for the days of old when his height would be a marvel

Not an inconvenience.

The crowd were baying for blood that night,

Poking and prodding him, calling him a big freak and dropping hurtful comments like

‘I can’t see a bloody thing!’

Or the painfully ignorant

‘Who let Frankenstein in?’

He had enough and made his way towards the exit,

Not appreciating just how popular these ‘Yardsticks’ were.

Bill’s formidable frame could not exploit the nooks and crannies

Made available by the crowd’s incessant jostling

And he ended up begging people to give him a wide berth

As he scurried towards the back of the room.

People got all territorial, protecting their little spot of concert hall

With the ferocity of a Stella-fuelled honey badger.

They got mean and were unwilling to let the big guy through.

He was perpetually polite

And massively frustrated

As he saw no way out of the dynamic cage of bodies and fedoras.

Then he clapped eyes on Rosalind.

She stood head and shoulders above the rest,

Swaying gently to the ‘Yardstick’ melody,

Her eyes glued shut by the soothing bongo beat.

This Sheila was huge, must’ve been 6ft 5, 6 6 on a good day.

Bill bounded on over to her,

Creating accidental mosh pits wherever he trod

And nearly flattening several middle-aged men in the process.

The pair were inseparable that night, sticking out the rest of the set

To the annoyance of a group of girl guides on tour who stood behind them.

After the musical merriment,

They went for a pint and a slice at a local giant-friendly establishment.

They chatted for hours about their condition

And conspiracy theories regarding ‘The Rise of The Short.’

‘Finley and the Yardsticks’ are playing their wedding next month,

A heavily restricted affair

With a quaint ‘you must be this tall to ride’ sign

Draped across the 18^th century church entrance.

Since their engagement, they’ve been approached by the NBA, the NFL, England Rugby

And several travelling circuses,

All hoping to get their hands

On their inevitably massive offspring.

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Last week I came to you with an article laying out my first steps towards sobriety.

I know that this will have inspired a lot of you to take a long hard look at your own drinking habits as you will have been shocked to see London’s greatest Lash-man turning to the Ribenas, but I come to you with an update.

I am back off the wagon. Here’s why.

Boredom

Let me be the first to say that sobriety is bloody boring.

I understand that teetotallers talk about how their sobriety helps them to appreciate the beauty in the world with clarity of vision and of thought. However, these people are usually losers who went to minor private schools and go on hiking holidays, so they’re not to be trusted.

While at the pub to celebrate Hugo’s inheritance, I realised that almost every story began with booze. Do you think Horatio would’ve had the nerve to chat-up that Austrian police officer without a belly-full of schnapps? Or that Woodsy could have scaled the Oval had he not chopped a pint for every over at the England vs India test? No way.

We need booze to fuel our stories. While I was sober the most interesting things I did were to clean my flat for the first time and finally get to grips with what the hell it is that I do at work. Bloody boring stuff.

Networking

Working in the city means that you’ve gotta network. The city is full of sharks and if you’re swimming around as a lone fish you’ll get gobbled up and spat out. Sharks are pack animals, so you best make some mates.

The best way to make mates is to hit the boozer after work. That is where all the big players hang out— and they hang out hard.

Let me paint a picture: you spot the CEO of a big investment bank in The Crown. You have been wooing him with some of your finest chat for a while. He’s chuckling away, and it turns out he actually knows your dad. He offers to buy you a drink, effectively sealing the deal. Are you going to join him in a glass of bubbly? Or say ‘it’s a lime and soda for me?’ Exactly. Networking needs booze.

Dependency

My week-or-so of sobriety did give me greater clarity of though, so much so that I realise I have a serious and potentially very dangerous alcohol dependency.

I was just going through my routine as normal and spotted at least 10 instances a day when I would usually have a drink.

Ultimately, I am in too deep now. If I were to become teetotal, I’d have to go through at least a week of being mildly uncomfortable, and, as a young professional, I can’t afford these blips.

So, I will keep on lashing and keep on learning, using alcohol as a crutch to improve my life in the long run. I’ll see you at the pub.

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Over the summer holidays, I tried to start my kids in the world of work. During their days off they did little more than lounge about and play princesses. Unless they grow up to become absolute stunners and somehow manage to wrangle some prince, which at present I think is unlikely, then playing princesses won’t pay the bills.

I was shocked at how hard it was to my children gainful employment. In this new world of woke, neither my six-year-old nor my nine-year-old were able to find a job. Many reasons were cited as to why they were unemployable, but largely it came down to ageism. I have sent several emails and have contacted several lawyers about this, but no dice.

While I was frustrated that I was getting nowhere with my offspring, a greater frustration came from looking at the absolute dross on the job market. Job sites like Indeed and LinkedIn offer a massive number of jobs, but they’re all silly things like ‘SEO Specialist’ and ‘Junior account manager.’ Where are all the fruit picking jobs? Why aren’t kids being sent up chimneys anymore? It’s madness.

This inspired me to assess what really are the most pointless jobs. I have come up with a list of three in the hopes that our cultural attitudes towards these jobs will change and that they will be no more in 5-10 years.

The King’s Guard

The King’s Guard are supposedly part of British tradition, a tradition which stems from the old days where jumped-up public-school boys bung on red jackets and silly furry hats to stood outside a building which isn’t even that nice.

They claim to be protecting the King but really all they do is ignore well-meaning tourists until they stand in the wrong box or get to close to their precious horses.

I am in awe of the majesty of horses and simply wanted to pay my respects to the ones earning a crust. I brought several carrots and a small bag of ketamine which I received from a hooded youth in an alley because I really wanted to get to know the horses.

Well, it’s safe to say that the King’s Guard were not very nice to me and, to be honest, they picked on me that day. One of them duffed me up a bit if truth be told. They made a very powerful enemy.

Personal Trainers

I recently started going to the gym for personal reasons unrelated to anything above. I wanted to get stronger quickly, so I hired a personal trainer to help expedite the process.

This lad was absolutely useless and is only employed by anyone because of his big muscles, not as the result of superior training methods.

All PTs do is tell you to do silly exercises that take ages to build muscle and then kick you out of the gym when you don’t follow their orders.

They’ll say I was banned from the gym for shouting ‘yabba dabba do’ at the top of my lungs after each rep and repeatedly asking for steroids— which the hooded youth was unwilling to provide— but I know it’s because I was making them look bad and shattering their status quo.

The King’s Guard

Upon my return to Buckingham Palace, I felt more ready than ever to get to the horses and show those bloody red coats what’s what. Luckily, my outburst at the gym was overheard by someone who could meet my demand for chemical help, and I was, dear reader, roided up to the eyeballs.

These King’s Guard bozos didn’t give a monkeys that I was now in peak physical condition and kept on with their whole stony face schtick despite my continuous taunting.

That is the other problem with the King’s Guard— they have absolutely no respect for anyone but their precious King. After just one round of ‘got your nose,’ which I think is a hilarious game, I was accosted by not one, but two of the fuzzy-headed doughnuts and dragged into a cell.

They wouldn’t let me out until I said sorry, so I spent the best part of a day trying to bend the bars and make good my escape. The steroids were clearly duds and the King’s Guard clearly have no respect for anyone, not even a pillar of the community like me.

Anyway, these are the three most pointless jobs.

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Today I will be talking about body image.

Every time I think about body image, I am reminded of one of the most dangerous mantras known to man. I am of course talking about the infamous ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ idea popularised by Kate Moss.

This message, thrust down our throats by early 2000s propaganda, has stayed in the cultural memory for years and promotes unhealthy habits and body image issues.

The following is based on a real conversation I overheard in a pub this very weekend. I was so shocked that I felt it was my duty to document the conversation in full, authorial embellishments and all.

Jab and Cross

Fat Dean got chatting to Skinny Dean

About weight loss.

You see, Fat Dean just couldn’t keep it off,

Was piling on the pounds despite cutting out

Pints and takeaways and golf and tax evasion

And picking up

Lacrosse and quinoa and decoupage,

While Skinny Dean was in great nick

For a man his age

And lifestyle

And proclivity for pasties.

While leaning on a bar prior to the match,

Fat Dean finally asked Skinny Dean just how he looked so trim.

Skinny Dean shuffled on the spot,

Checked his surroundings for rivals and women

And pulled a syringe from his back pocket.

Skinny Dean was on the jabs.

It all made sense and Fat Dean was enraged,

Kept wondering why he’d bothered making friends at the lacrosse club

Why he’d said no to Doreen’s sticky toffee

Why he’d started drinking tequila lime sodas not Guinness

And why the hell old SD was keeping this thing a secret.

The pair went to the match and not a word was said.

SD couldn’t work out why FD was in such a huff

Or why he was breathing so loudly.

FD couldn’t appreciate the balletic finish from #9

Or the deft footwork of #23

Or the crunching challenge from #4 on #15,

For all he could think about

Was getting himself one of those jabs

And maybe a tape worm for good measure.

Once home, FD fired up his computer

And ordered enough jabs to get an elephant to the catwalk.

They arrived and FD couldn’t help himself,

Was jabbing himself silly

Until he looked like a portly porcupine.

Weeks went by

And the podge remained

But FD could no longer reach the soup on his top shelf.

He kept on jabbing,

Including injections in his morning routine

Until he could no longer see himself in the bathroom mirror

Or ride The Croc Drop at Chessington World of adventures.

He’d had enough, gave SD a bell and rumbled into the boozer.

SD had trouble spotting FD, who now used both hands to drink his Guinness.

FD laid into SD about the jabs,

Accusing him of giving duff advice

And reminding him that he was once 6ft 2

But was now 3ft 8.

SD couldn’t help but laugh at the miniature Dean

And giggled as he bundled him into the back of the Volvo.

They’ve been selling out venues ever since as

‘Skinny Dean and Mini Dean: The Dream Dean Team.’

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On a Sunny Winter’s day, a group of 8 men in their late twenties arrived at the pub.

At the front of the procession, an enormous bespectacled gentleman with a large black briefcase— who I took to be their leader— stopped to assess his surroundings.

The rest scuttled in nervously behind, more than doubling the neckbeard quota of the pub. I was told by my manager that there was ‘no such thing’ as a neckbeard quota and that, despite my complaints, I had to serve them.

They looked, for want of a better word, like a big bunch of nerds. Normally, I by no means dislike nerds as a species, and I am certainly no ‘hunk of the month’ like Johnny Depp or Ainsley Harriott myself. I consider myself to sit in the middle of the nerd-cool spectrum— I can have a conversation about Star Wars but, crucially, can do this without ejaculating.

I have a lot of respect for people who are fully engrossed in an interest outside of the norm. I think the world is missing people who are passionate about strange hobbies. There are enough fanatical football fans out there, taking their tops off in the freezing cold and sharing Stellas while mentioning random, long-forgotten Premier League Players. What we need are more true, unashamed nerds. They are a marginalised, ill-defined group who shouldn’t be ridiculed.

However, some nerds do let the side down by being just plain rude.

Having detailed knowledge of the Marvel Cinematic Universe is not a suitable replacement for social skills. Being level 70 in World of Warcraft does not permit rudeness or negate the need to maintain personal hygiene. Some nerds have become so engrossed in their fantasy worlds, that they don’t know how to cope in the real one.

The group ordered 8 lime and sodas individually. This is the most annoying way to order drinks. Rather than making 8 in one go, you have to do the whole rigamarole 8 times. I could tell immediately that they had no respect for the subtle art of bar work or for me, the lowly barkeep.

Following the 15-minute process, the group crammed themselves into a small booth in the corner.

I told them that the booth usually fits 4 and that they might want to find alternative seating. To this advice, the leader of the group didn’t speak, but instead howled like a wolf. This encouraged his entourage to yap like 7 agitated Chihuahuas.

I didn’t see them for the next three hours. They had each been nursing their lime and sodas like some kind of rare elixir, not the £2 mix of fizzy water and cordial that it was.

I did hear them, however. The cry of the nerd reverberated around the pub.

The constant clamour pushed several guests to breaking point. They complained that they could no longer deal with the noise or the smell.

Eventually, I was asked if could do anything to quell the incessant nasally screeches coming from the booth. Reluctantly, I made my way over to Mordor.

I arrived at the table to find two of the group perched with their feet on the benches in a squat, their arms tucked beneath the pits to create wings. Two more were rolling around on the floor like worms. The leader was wearing a large, starry wizards hat.

They were playing a game which involved a board and multiple dice, each with more sides than they’d had hot showers.

After asking them politely to quieten down, the leader took it upon himself to banish me to the dungeon.

My exit was blocked by two of the smaller players. I was trapped in a ring of mythical creatures and BO.

I was then informed that, because I had interrupted their game, I was to be judged by the elders. As the rest of the group chanted, the leader informed me of my punishment.

I was to complete a quest to ‘kitchenalia’ where I would do battle with the ‘Trolls of Culunarium’ and secure the much sought after, but rarely found, ‘Nachos Complementarius.’

A hush fell over the booth. The leader boomed: ‘do you accept your punishment, impertinent ne’er-do-well?’

‘I’m not giving you free nachos, mate. Could you just keep the noise down, please?’ I replied apprehensively.

The leader pointed an outstretched arm at me and screeched like a horny eagle. Suddenly, the group started pelting me with foam swords and cursing me in elvish. One kept smacking my arse and chuckling maniacally.

I was able to break free from the group who had now started pelting each other with their swords. I informed them that they’d have to leave and find somewhere else to practice their magic.

The leader didn’t take kindly to this and emerged from the group holding a 20-sided die.

‘Listen here, buddy, we’re not going anywhere unless you defeat me, Rupert The Relentless, in hand-to-hand combat. It is the only way. If you are victorious, we shall never darken your door again. If he win… free nachos for all!’

Another roar erupted and the one who was only recently spanking me started to flick out his tongue like a lizard.

‘You want to fight me?’

Rupert leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘not an actual fight because we’d probably get in trouble for that. We’ll just roll this die and whoever gets the higher number wins.’ then, loudly again ‘Do you accept my challenge?’

‘Ye, fine.’

I was allowed back into the booth, shepherded by two henchman who forcefully escorted me the three feet back to the table as if I were a prisoner making the great trek to a rival castle.

Rupert rolled first. ’17! Beat that, muggle!’ The usual whooping and hollering ensued.

It was my go. I channelled all of the nerd things I could think of. The voice of David Tennant rang in my ear. I threw the die.

The group trudged out in single file after a brief fracas. They got into cars driven by their mothers, who all apologised profusely.

Peace was restored in Publandia.

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Before I start with today’s article, I must apologise for not putting anything out for the last few weeks. I know that my readers expect consistency from their journalists, but I promise that I have a good reason not to post!

You see, on the 29^th of August I was given the job of reviewing Sabrina Carpenter’s 7^th studio album Man’s Best Friend. For some reason, it took me about a week to get past the album cover and onto the actual music and then another week watching the music videos!

I now feel like I am in a very strong position to review Sabrina’s latest work and let me tell you, it’s an absolute hum-finger!

The Album

Man’s Best Friend capitalises on Sabrina’s rise from child actor to genuine popstar. I wasn’t a fan of her earlier stuff, but she really comes into her own on this album.

Before the release, Sabrina warned that this album wouldn’t be for ‘pearl clutchers.’ I didn’t really know who the ‘pearl clutchers’ were and was initially angry with her exclusionary album promotion until I was told that it wasn’t a homophobic slur. I now know that PC’s must just be people who hate awesome pop music!

By working with producer Ant Jackinoff, Sabrina has found a way of making her pop music more intricate and complex. Each track is packed with disparate live instruments which come together to create effortless pop music that just makes you want to boogie!

Accompanying the music is a selection of some the finest music videos that this reporter has ever seen. The 26-year-old prances about on the side of the road and in a creepy house in such a fun and innovative way. I really recommend watching them first to get you in the mood for the album.

The Lyrics

From her famous nonsense outro to the disarming simplicity of Espresso, Sabrina has always been able to win over crowds with her fantastic lyrics.

Man’s Best Friend is no exception as Carpenter pens confusing lyrics which invite investigation.

The second song of the album, Tears, includes the lines:

I get wet at the thought of you (Uh-Huh)

Being a responsible guy (Shikitah)

Treating me like your supposed to do (Uh-Huh)

Tear Run down my thigh

Just why thinking makes her wet is a mystery to me and I have never heard of a medical condition where tears run down someone’s thigh. Perhaps she is so impressed with her boyfriend that she must cry? The beauty of Sabrina’s lyrics lies in the fact that we simply don’t know what she means.

Similarly, in We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night, Sabrina says:

Gave me his whole heart, then I gave him head

Who’s head? A dolls head? A head of lettuce? Please don’t tell me it’s someone else’s head on a stick! It’s all very confusing.

Sabrina’s attitude to her lyrics can be found in House Tour where she overtly invites her audience into her music by saying: ‘I just want you to come inside.’ Don’t worry Sabrina, I will!

The Score- 10/10

Listening to Man’s Best Friend made me feel things that no other album ever has. Overall, I was very confused. I was happy but frustrated. I felt like I had to move but that I simply couldn’t. I had an energy inside me that I wanted to get out but didn’t know how to!

I am now the biggest Sabrina fan in the world and have ordered every single piece of merch available on the website. I am most excited about the album cover poster which I have already created space for on my wall by removing my Bug’s Life poster. It’s time for me to grow up.

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As I’ve gotten older, I have come to realise that autumn is a time for reflection. The falling leaves make one think about mortality and there is a palpable sadness in the air which leads inevitably to introspection.

My reflections this month have mostly been about how we are going to get our country back, but I did spare a thought for the animals.

After a hearty Sunday roast, I turned to my daughter-in-law and said: ‘you know what, Linda, I think I could just curl up and sleep forever.’

She replied ‘You can’t hibernate you lazy old woman, Countryfile is on in four hours. Plus, we’d probably assume you dead and whip you straight off to the crematorium.’

I said ‘Linda, you dozy cow, Countryfile has become too mainstream anyway. Plus, if hedgehogs can hibernate then why can’t I?’

After giving Linda a well-deserved clout, I said to myself ‘Sandy, why do some animals sleep for so long while I am not allowed to?’

Nowadays, there seems to be a trend amongst British animals which sees them having very long kips during the winter months.

I did some research, and this is what I found out about the hibernation habits of some of Britain’s sleepiest animals.

Which Animals Hibernate?

In Britain, the laziest animals are hedgehogs, bats and dormice. These work-shy critters take all winter off, snoozing the days away from October to April.

Some animals don’t hibernate but do take drastic measures to stave off the cold.

Shrews shrink their bodies by up to 20% in the winter months, decreasing the size of their skulls, organs and brains.

The shrinking of a shrew’s brain causes all kinds of problems. They become much less productive and struggle to wrap their head around current affairs in the winter months.

So, now we know who the bone-idle culprits are, let’s have a look at the real reasons behind hibernation.

Gluttony

The route of these animals’ laziness lies in their love of grub.

Before going away for a long sleep, they gorge themselves silly. Just like humans, they feel very sleepy after a big meal and head off to the land of nod weighing twice what they should.

They don’t chomp on piggy b’s, mind. They get their nourishment from disgusting things like beetles and caterpillars. Yuck.

Sloth

Animals claim that the reason for hibernation is self-preservation and survival. This is poppycock. I have found that hibernating animals just can’t be bothered with life.

If you think about it, when has a hedgehog ever done anything for society? When was the last time you saw a bat pulling an all-nighter at work? Exactly! Never.

Animals hibernate because they don’t have proper jobs. My Grandson —who is wasted at B&Q— wakes up at 5 am every day for his early morning stock take, and you won’t find him skipping any winters!

We must take a stand against hibernation.

I recommend large government-funded groups with all sorts of instruments—maracas, tambourines, vuvuzelas— stomping up to shrubs and giving sleepy animals a good wake-up call. If these animals were held accountable by society, maybe we’d have enough manpower to finally sort out our immigration problem.

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I have some big news. Uncle Mikey is off the sauce.

I have decided that, for my health, for my mind, and so that my parents don’t follow through on their threat to disinherit me if don’t sort myself out, I am going to quit drinking for good.

This may come as a shock to those who know how loose I get, but I feel that it is the right thing to do.

I haven’t had a drop for three days now—since Jonty’s 23^rd— and I must be honest with you, I feel electric.

For the first time in a long time, I can think. I had forgotten what it was like to think, and I must say it’s actually bloody good fun.

I am flourishing because of my newly found sobriety, and I wanted to show you how easy it is to get on the wagon by outlining what I’ve been doing since I kicked the drink.

Sunday

The first day was the easiest, mostly because I was really hungover from Jonty’s and the thought of another beerio made me wretch.

Hector rang me asking to meet at the Swan for a post-match debrief and I am proud to say that it was the first time I have ever refused a trip to the pub.

He threw the kitchen sink at convincing me, telling me that both Tabby and Tilly would be there, but I held firm. I knew there and then that I had started my new life as a sober man.

Monday

Mate, work was weird.

Karen’s pen clicking really got to me for some reason. I guess I usually drown it out by thinking about how lovely a nice big sleep would be.

I got my work for the month done in the first hour thanks to my new found efficiency, which meant that I had a lot of time to kill.

Rather than just twiddling my thumbs or looking to exceed in the workplace, I got a helluva lot of TikTok scrolling done and fired off multiple messages to Esther in HR who is an absolute rocket.

Tuesday

To be honest, today has been the hardest day of my journey towards sobriety.

My TikTok algorithm is doing me no favours, serving up ad after ad of the tastiest looking pints I have ever seen.

The weather is a problem too because it’s bloody gorgeous out there and I’d like nothing more than to wash down the rays with a delicious continental lager or a cheeky G & T.

I’m off to the pub later— Hugo’s great uncle just carked it and he wants to celebrate the mucho dinero that he’s going to get in the will with some champers.

I will be on the lime and sodas. I don’t think the boys from the rugby club will be too chuffed about my newfound sobriety, but I’m sure I’ll find a way round it. Does it still count as drinking if you do a bum-funnel?

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This one is about golf.

The Shoot Out

Rupert was having an absolute shocker of a round.

He kept slicing the ball into the shrubbery,

driving hard into the drink

And cursing the new wind

And the bunkers that he swore weren’t there last week.

By hole 4 he was 10 shots down

And Preston was loving it.

Preston was in the form of his life.

He had been practicing a lot

Since he was let go by the peanut factory

And Chantelle left him

And he had gotten himself banned from the local swimming pool

For being too rough with the old folk who hung about in the slow lane.

The bet they had made was looking like a bad call now.

£10 a shot was the deal

And Preston knew he would be rolling in it after the full 18.

While Rupert fumbled about with the tee,

Preston dreamed of all the things he could buy.

A holiday was out of the question since they’d shut the borders

And a slap-up meal seemed unlikely since the restaurants had all closed

Thanks to a significant reshuffling of the work force.

The only sane thing to do with the wonga

Was to squirrel it all away under his mattress

In the knowledge that he’d need it someday soon.

The walk to the halfway house was sombre.

They were both put out by the lack of golf carts,

All of which had been requisitioned for target practice.

The fare inside had also taken a nosedive,

All stale sandwiches and knock-off twixes and

Broken biscuits,

But the pair chose not to notice.

They trudged through their snacks,

Taking whatever nutrients they could

Now that the decadence of flavour

Was a thing of the past.

Rupert badly needed to get his head in the game,

He didn’t have the money to pay Preston at the mo,

As he’d spunked it all on donations to both sides in the hope that he’d

Come out squeaky clean on the other end,

Regardless of the result.

As they plodded onto the 10^th,

The tide started to change.

Preston scuffed a drive and found a divot on the fairway,

The result of the club’s recent lacklustre course management

Thanks to the groundsman being found out and fired.

Rupert went Gilmore and pummelled one to within a foot of the hole

And gained three shots on his old mate Preston.

It really was a tale of two halves,

And the pair were neck and neck on the final hole.

Tensions were high,

Shafts were polished

Gods prayed to

And trousers rearranged

Before the shoot-out.

Seconds before Rupert’s bet-deciding drive,

The siren went off and they had to abandon the whole damn match

And evacuate sharpish.

They agreed to call it a draw in the end

And no money changed hands.

They’d have to find a new course for the rematch now,

No sense playing golf in the new detention centre.

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Before diving into today’s pub review, I must share some sad news.

Our prodigious and prolific weather reporter, Harriet Weather, has left The West Islingtown Gazette.

Harriet got lost on her way to a dance competition in Blackpool on Saturday and— to cut a long story short—has decided to settle down with the owner of a small Belgian pottery shop.

We here at WIG wish Harriet and Maria all the best for the future as they start their life together in the quaint village of Oud-Rekem.

Harriet was one of the greats and I have therefore decided that any kind of replacement would be insufficient. Going forward, if you want to know what the weather is like then I’m afraid you’re just going to have to look outside.

Now that we are all caught up, I will get into reviewing a particularly interesting establishment: Bob Robert’s

The Pub

Bob Robert’s was founded and is run by Robert ‘Bob’ Roberts. Set in a Northern student town, it is neither one thing nor the other.

In the early nineties, Bob saw a gap in the nightlife market. He thought that rather than having a pub or a club, he would combine the two and create a miraculous hybrid for all the family.

He wanted to create a 24-hour fun-time zone. From 8am to 8pm, Bob Robert’s would be a traditional pub with a fireplace, real ale and old men sitting alone nursing pints of Carling.

From 8pm onwards, the old men would shuffle out to make way for young folk on a mission to get apocalyptically loose. The fire would be extinguished, the real ale taps would be covered and the worst techno music this reporter has ever heard would start blaring through a state-of-the-art speaker system.

You may be thinking ‘this sounds like a bad business model. Surely you have to pick one or the other?’ and you would be right. Neither side of the Bob Robert’s coin is particularly well polished and neither group (the pub goers and the ravers) is particularly happy about being there.

Bob Robert’s has been open for over 25 years.

The Grub

The difficulty in determining where Bob Roberts sits on the pub-club spectrum is increased by the eponymous Bob’s decision to introduce food to the equation.

Bob doesn’t just offer crisps and nuts like one would expect from a 160bpm pub, but rather an extensive menu featuring traditional pub fare and, puzzlingly, pancakes.

The rumour is that Bob once won an industrial size crêpe maker in a fiercely competitive game of Uno and—seeing no use for it domestically— plonked it straight into the pub kitchen.

Despite objections from his head chef, Bob insisted that pancakes be at the foreground of operations, citing the old adage, ‘who don’t like a pancake?’

The combination of the kitchen being open for 24 hours and Bob’s insistence on playing techno for 12 hours and the back end of any given day means that Bob Robert’s has one of the stickiest and messiest dance floors this side of Glasgow.

Punters have taken to eating their chicken schnitzel (among other things) while they’re tearing up the tiles, dripping sauce all over their glad rags.

Similarly, the pancakes come in handy as projectiles during any boogey-related conflicts, with aggravated shimmiers launching lemon juice and sugar into the eyes of their rivals.

I honestly don’t know if the food there is good. I have tried many times to taste their double chocolate crêpe, but any time I have lifted this thing towards my mouth it is quickly knocked onto the floor by some sweaty raver.

The Pints

In the first half of the day, the drinks on offer at Bob Robert’s are good but not exceptional.

They have the usual faux-Spanish lagers and wine which no one would buy from a supermarket but inexplicably do when they are on offer in the pub. They also have a wide selection of flavoured gins and vodkas which really come into their own when the sun goes down.

The real ales are perhaps the tastiest thing on the menu and I have spent many a happy afternoon glugging down their delicious guest ales including ‘Pink Linoleum,’ ‘Classic Brickwork’ and ‘Snow-white and the Seven Pervs.’

When the techno comes on, drinking is a different story all together. Lager and the real ales are not available from 8pm onwards and you are forced instead to imbibe a ‘Floodgate.’

‘The Floodgate’ is an almost toxic mix of 4 shots of vodka and a bottle of WKD. You simply chose your flavour and let the jaded bar staff get to work.

The bright colours act like the skin of a poison dart frog, indicating to the drinker that what they are holding in their hand is potentially lethal.

Despite the appearance, taste and effect of the drink, after one ‘Floodgate’ you are immediately looking for your next fix.

Score 4/10

Bob needs to make his mind up. With his pub-club mix he is trying to have his cake and lace it with MDMA too.

The atmosphere is perpetually strange. During the day you are on edge, waiting for the music to come on and for the cavalry to arrive. At night, you wish you were in bed rather than being grinded on by a teenage boy who’s jaw only stops swinging when he tries to shove a crêpe Suzette into it.

The only reason that Bob Robert’s has survived as long as it has is because it is the best of a bad bunch. In that small student town, young people are starved of options for a good night out. The other pubs close early and there isn’t much else to do between 11pm and the 9am lecture.

So, despite the strange Jekyll and Hyde nature of Bob Robert’s, it appears it is here to stay, servicing the pub folk and the club folk alike, leaving neither particularly happy but almost certainly inebriated.

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