Bangkok Lady Boys, Cheap Sausage Rolls and Pay-offs, as Mrs Chucklebutty speaks out and takes on Dr Tim Leuni -Tune and Ringo Out-of-Tune.

That's me, at our Engagement, taken a few years ago now mind, but better than that picture he always puts up of me renewing our wedding vows.

Hello, Mrs Chucklebutty here, stepping into his breeches. So, I’ve finally got me hands on the keys to his shed. This is where he spends half the night writing this rubbish. Ooh it stinks in here. He’s asked me to do a few entries until he’s released from the nick. I’ve just read the last piece, after Mr Clack showed me how to turn this thing on. Had a quick look at his last searches to give us a clue what he wanted to write about and found something advertising The Bangkok Lady boys Show, no wonder it’s called Liverpool Confidential, wait ‘til I get me hands on him!

What are they on about here? Trying to make out he’s some kind of dissident. None payment of fines, that’s why he was arrested!

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Telly licence, three counts of drunk and disorderly and fighting over some reduced vests in Ethel Austin’s. To cap it all, he was caught having a piddle in one of those council kiosks that nobody uses - well apart from him. Said he thought it was one of those super-loos. Well somebody is taking the p*** installing them on the street. Anyway, he got the Custard Company to put a spin on his arrest. The usual cover-up.

The truth is, they are going to pay him off, but as there’s no money left, since Hasitall grabbed the last £500,000, he’s decided to take the Sayers 08 Sponsorship Sausage Rolls. He had a big fight over that as well, said he wanted so many a week, not 960,000 all in one go or he’d never shift them - they’d go off.

Well it’s too late now; they delivered them today while he’s still banged up. Can’t get in the bleedin’ house for them! We are doing our best to get rid of them, Mr Clack had six for his tea and as soon as it got dark we threw about twenty thousand over the wall into Mrs Hewitt’s garden. She must have heard us when a few hit the window and she came out screaming for the police, so we ran in. She’s still shouting through our letterbox now.

Anyway, sod whatever he was going to write, it’s about time this Blog had the feminine touch. And you can take that smirk off your face Mr Clack.

Right so what’s been happening? Oh yes, there was the Echo exclusive, “Merseyside woman gives birth to 1.6million pound triplets” I’ll bet that made her eyes water. The Echo had a picture of them. Greedy looking little buggers. Not the most attractive babies I’ve seen, a slimy one, a dopey one and a fat little diddy one. Seems they were such fat little sods, it has taken nearly three years to weigh them up. Isn’t this the same woman who had a daughter a few years ago who tipped the scales at about 380,000 pounds? Who pays for this IMF fertiliser programme?

It must have hurt though. Our Sebastian was only 9 pounds when I had him and I screamed so loud all the windows shattered along Oxford Street. Mind you it didn’t help that soft lad handed me the nozzle off the Goblin Hoover, instead of the gas and air. Me tongue was trapped down the tube for over half an hour. The pillock! Then he switched it on reverse and covered the baby in dust and fag ends.

Of course that wouldn’t happen now, these days you can’t smoke during labour or even in the maternity ward. Bloody Nanny state. I’ll bet Cherry Booth was all right for a few woodbines when she had her last one.

I heard she’s on 60 a day. Can fit them all in at once. She’s a right one her, fancy havin’ it off in the next room to the Queen - the dirty gets - Arise Sir Tony eh? Ooh, it knocks me sick to think about it. Didn’t somebody say that Phillip was watching through the eyes of one of the portraits?


I’ve lost me thread now.

Sorry I just had to punch Mr Clack in the head. I told him to pack it in, he was getting a bit frisky - pressing his skinny leg against me while I’m typing - thinks he’s in with a chance while soft lad is inside. Oh stop blubbering man! Hold your head back it’ll soon stop bleeding, it’s not pouring. Don’t drip it on the cat, if Ken tastes blood he’ll have yer, he’s feral.

What else? Well that Bingo Starr was in the papers again, moaning on his website telling fans to stop writing to him. The bleedin’ idiot.

Nobody is writing to ya love, it’s your P.A. sending them, she’s worried about you going back on the booze and pills if you find out nobody is interested.

She’s worried that she’d be out of a job. What a tosser. And I say that with love and peas. I used to like him as well, but now I hear he’s just like one of these Pop Primate Donners or an Opera Diver whatever you call them, has to be pampered and preened all the time.

I heard that while he was at the train station in South Liverpool, he had somebody rush up to trim his bush for him. Oooh, imagine, as Lennon would have said. A right little Octopus’s Garden that must be, I’ll bet it smells like it as well, shrivelled old tentacles and a blue meanie. I’m saying this with love and peace you know?

Mr Clack says to turn it in, and that I’m disgusting. He’s a fine one to talk, him, with his collection of rusty old chastity belts. I’ve seen him, prancing about to “Hey Nonny No” on the gramophone wearing one with that bodice and wig. He forgot to pull the curtains properly one night; half the street was out watching.

All the school kids were singing it outside his shop for weeks. Oh all right yes, I’ll delete this bit.

Liverpool Direct is up for another award for customer contricks. The CCA, cash and carry awards, I think. Create an industry of call centres everybody hates and set up a body with hundreds of members so all the Directors can come to the freebie dinners and give yourself loads of annual awards.

Have you seen how much that lot cost us? And that’s just what we know about. About five times the budget deficit! For that money, every house in Liverpool could have a council officer sitting next to you on the couch for three hours a day. They could sell all the buildings then, oh they already have. That’d be great for the pensioners; they could do a bit of tidying up and make the tea as well. There you go Mr Stilton, you can bin those robbers off, once and for all. Send Dr Mucky Penny to a crack house in Croxteth.

I tried to get into the Cathedral the other night to see that little Boffin, Dr Tim Leunie.

They always call them Boffins in the paper when they don’t like what they’re saying or inventing something that stops your veg drying up or your plums shrivelling, you know, like where they put your strawberries on a radiator or something to keep them fresh for longer. You know the bloke I mean, the one who said we should all leave Liverpool and get a job with Burger King in Hackney, if we wanted to live as well as those in the south.

Dr Tim Leunig

Anyway I got there a bit late and they wouldn’t open the doors for me so I started kicking hell out of them. I was shouting through the letterbox calling them all the effing b’s going and to open the friggin doors or I’ll put the windows through. I did in the end.

Bloody cheek, trying to keep me out of the debate, I am not having some little sod giving us a bad name. Ay, it’s my city too ya know, I shouted, gerrout here now yer little squirt! Then this Nun came out and said it was at the other Cathedral.

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She wanted me name and address to pay for the damage to the window and door. I told her my name was Olivia Cromwell, but she got all shirty and tried to grab me, so I turned her wimple backwards, spun her round and did a runner down Hope Street.

I was too late to see our learned muffin by the time I got there. I probably didn’t miss much. Is he the same Dr Timothy Learrig who was around in the 60s, the one who said “Turn-On, Tune-In, Drop-Off” or is that the slogan for CitytalkFM?

Thing is, when you read what he said, he’s not too far off the mark. Even the Echo is pissing off to Oldham. I didn’t know that Oldham was in the south. And how come they are going south, if what I heard is right, that they are letting all the printer’s jobs go west?


Ay! I’ll tell you where I went the other night, the new Oldham Arena in the docks.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I got tickets to see Alma Coogan, you know “Dreamboat” oh she was one of my favourites. I loved her as Alma Partridge in The Partridge Family.

What a disappointment though, I had me bobby socks on and everything and she didn’t do any of her hits, just stood there and told smutty jokes all night.

I hope the gig in Birkenhead is better next week. They’ve got Frank Ifield on; he’s an MP now you know. I expect that’s why he’s not done many records for a while. Give me half an hour with him and I’d have him yodelling again.

Here's Frank demonstrating the perils of having the bath water too hot.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqORTeW01m0

There are a few former stars that have become MPs. Glenda Jackson; she was wonderful as Mr Hudson in Upstairs Downstairs. The Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, she's another one, wasn’t she Holly in Red Dwarf, after Norman Lamont left?

And of course the Tory leader David Camembert, he used to be Tuppy Glossop in Jeeves and Wooster or was he Barmy Fungi Phipps.

Oh it’s six o’clock, nearly visiting time. I don’t know if Mr Clack is coming to the prison, they had a bit of a fall out. Old Clacky being a locksmith and key cutter was explaining quietly to Yaff how flimsy the locks were in the prison and he could open them all in less than a minute with a couple of bent wires.

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Old Professor Birdbrain of Alcatraz, was all geared up for the great escape. The next thing he knows, is there’s Clack changing all the locks for the Governor. He’d gone and got himself the contract.

It is depressing in there and he’s starting to look gaunt. Although that may be because of his 28st cellmate Muriel, who keeps pinching his dinner and sitting on Yaffle's head for a laugh while he eats it. Mureil made Yaf shave his legs and his back for him as well. I don’t know what that was about. Oh that reminds me, Bangkok Lady boys. I could have those tickets.

He’ll probably be out next week; he’s had Sir Rexy on the case. Rex has applied for a writ of Harry H. Corpus, well we think he has. There is a rumour going round that he has been offered a stint to take over the Custard Blog as guest writer for a week.

Now that could be a problem, he could let Jasper Harbottle on, apparently he thinks he’s great. Mind you that was in comparison to old Pricerite.

Speaking of which, I better go and do me hair, what’s left of it, I’ve got the lovely Peter Price coming round later for a Cherry B and Sherbet Lemon supper. I wonder if he still has that fur coat?

I’ve hardly mentioned Capital of Custard. Oh who cares, it’s nearly all finished now apart from the karaoke in January. Then again, they say it’s not over until the bag lady sings, so maybe Redmond will give us a number on the closing night. He could do that Fred Astaire one, “Let’s call the whole thing off” But they are still pretending that they haven’t.

How does it go? You say a cock-up and I say a cock-up, you say a pay-off and I say a pay-off.

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The Legacy Waltz.

Right now what? Do you press send or what? Mr Clack, you’ll have to do this bit.

Yes I’ve deleted the stuff about your Chastity Belt fetish….alright, hobby, collection - whatever.