Beestonia: Royal Wedding Bap-Based-Bandwagon Leap.

I’ve hardly been able to take a breath before the next email/text/letterbomb hurtles at me demanding ‘THE ROYAL WEDDING. LINK THAT TO BEESTONIA, MR ‘ITS NOT A CRAP SUBURB ITS THE CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE’. GO ON TRY. LOTS OF LOVE, Mother.’ A challenge? I think not.

Red-headed joker, aligned to an evil-empire, meets Ronald McDonald.

EDIT: I must point out that the above photo is NOT Fergie with Hazel Blears, its some Clown-Meat pushing idiot.

Easy peasy: First, lets look at the last big Royal Wedding, that of Sarah ‘Not in the Black-Eyed Peas Fergie’ Ferguson, and Duke Andrew of Yorkland. Its a little-known fact that Fergie is a Beestonian. No, honest.

Well, her mum was: You can actually visit her house, sort of. Go to Bramcote Park, and check out what used to be the Hall: the council recently put up a brick foot-print of the building, on a site that was previously used as a council tip. I once deafened a dog there when I blew up a fridge that sat on a fire we built, but I can’t disclose the full story till I exceed the statute of limitations.

Ah, spurious, Lord Beestonia, spurious! Well, I could mention Princess Diana’s 1993 visit to Beeston (when she was put off from shaking my outstretched hand when the punk-attired student next to me shouted ‘lovely to see you, Camilla’); or the fact we have several regal pubs: The Crown, The Victoria, The Queens, and The Commercial (named in honour of the aforementioned Fergie’s love of shilling her diminishing fame out to anyone who throws money at her). We also have a Middleton Crescent, but thats a weak link…

Whats this though? Theres an actual celebration in Beeston? And it has the best A-board advertising it I’ve ever seen? Well, that’ll have to do then:

Outside the Commercial Inn, today, shortly before the Landlord got hauled to the Tower on Treason charges today.


Dunno why I even feel the need to write Regal Nuptial News; I’ll be spending the day on a Republican bike-ride, with emphasis on the ‘publican’ part, of which many I look forward to meeting en route. Have a good one, and Viva le Republic!


Beestonia Mocks Brox Cocks; 1984 and All That, Diggin’ Trowell, Tesco-a no-no, Memorial.

Its been a while since I suckled my hungry readers, and I apologise to you, my eager sucklets, that my blogoriffic teat has been so long dry. There are reasons (and I am dropping the disturbing udder-metaphors from this point on); enjoying the weird early summer sun and tending my flowering peony and burgeoing veg patch to crank my ancient laptop into life and type up some Beestonia. So here’s a non-specific round-up of Beestonia news:


Tesco: Has it been hit by the legendary Curse of Beestonia? Talking to a few people of late who know such things reveals that Tesco are in a bit of a panic regarding the Beeston store. Apparently, takings are low, staff are being laid off and they are now starting to worry about the wisdom of building a town centre store when Long Eaton and Toton both posess Complexes of Shameless Mammon. I still urge Beestonians to visit, but only to pick up loss-leaders and loss-leaders only. While Bristolians smash up Tesco’s efforts to impose a store, Beestonians choose to simply stay away. Well done, Beestonians.


Festival of Britain: Its sixty years since the Festival of Britain, a post-war pat-on-the-back we gave ourself once the dust has settled on the horrors of the prospects of Nazi invasion. The SouthBank centre on London’s, err, South Bank is holding a rather wondeful exhibition celebrating this. What has this to do with Beestonia though? Well, Trowell, which is geographically close enough to consider part of my prospective empire, was chosen in 1951 to be the Festival’s ‘Ideal Town’, its communal spirit and prettiness( this was when transport was dicatated by its pre-Beeching Report rail station than its present fame as having a service station when travellers betwixt Leeds and London could have a wee and a massively overpriced sandwich) lending it some fame, albeit temporary. You might have seen a few clues en route to Ilkeston: theres an fiftieth anniversary obeslisk in the centre of the village, and you’ve probably had a pint in the Festival Inn. This year, its having a big party to celebrate, once I get the precise details off the parish county I’ll let you know.

Chloe Memorial Concert: I’ve recently wrote on the terrible death of a most-talented local teen, that was so wonderfully commemerated with a floral spendour in Beeston Square. She was an aspirant singer, so her friends organised a charity concert recently. I couldn’t make it, due to other commitments, yet I hear it went brilliantly. I’ve asked a friend of Chloe’s, and trainee journalist to write a piece about it; watch this space.

I’m on twitter, so come find. Search ‘beeestonia’ (note, thats three ‘e’s.)


The Crown Inn..has recently won, for the second year running,CAMRA Notts Pub of the Year. And this is not in any way connected to the landlord recently buying me a pint, but its whole-heartedly deserved. Last weekend, they attracted Britain’s best film director, Shane Meadows, to sup ale at thew same table as myself. Though I was too locked in the paralysing jaws of cheap cider to engage with him, I doubt many towns in the UK can claim to have Spielberg drop into the local for a dark stout or a half-scrumpy, or Polanski demand some pork scratchings with his Vodka and Elderflower Presse.

Arsonist Twat:  not all Beestonians are geniuses.

Orwell Prised: I love a bit of the Artist Formally Known As Eric, but when I recently re- read the concluding lines of compulsary text 1984, as Winston Smith sits and sips sour gin and smokes a rough ciggy straight after a life of repression and months of torture, just before a bullet enters his head as he concedes his individual soul has been destroyed; I found myself not finding myself screaming at the vileness of totalitarianism, but rather feeling a bit jealous that Smith had fags and booze at hand. Thus, I’m back on the wagon for the foreseeable, and foresaking the tabs. I best lay off Animal Farm, lest I am impelled to give up bacon.

And finally: a very lovely journalist friend recently alerted me to a thing of wonder, a thing of joy. I apologise for not furnishing your lives with this glory beforehand, it totally passed me by. Before Soubry, before Palmer, before Lester, Beeston was governed by the most wonderfully monikered Seymour Cocks .  I need add nothing to that.

A few Beestonian Blatherings. Possibly entirely libellious.

I promised you a politics-free month in the run-up to the elections, and I am keeping to that, as I am, above all other things, a man of my word. HOWEVER! There will still be updates on the Battle of Broxtowe at:

I have devolved responsibility to some other more talented, less-partial budding writers,  though will be editing it round my usual job-seeking/writing Beestonia/loafing activities. Wow, I’m already franchising Beestonia. Maybe I could take it further, opening Beestonias all over Britain: Leeds, Dorset and onwards, then international. Estonia first. Save on stationery.


All is quiet in Beestonia once the election is removed from the equation: The Great Stump Debacle rumbles on  in the pages of The Beeston Express, and it appears to have an axe floating over its head (if it had one. It doesn’t. It’s already a stump). I must also be all sorry and apologise to the editor of the B.E. for saying hello rather too loudly in the Crown at the weekend. It’s all these politicians buying me drinks, blame them,  awful people. Sorry anyhow, Sheila. NB: Wannabe politicos must note that I NEVER turn down a drink. Unless you’re Mick Shore, Broxtowe’s BNP arse. Only drink I’d accept from you is hemlock, and you’re sipping first.


I popped down London to have a little look at the TUC march the weekend before last. Was quite a sight, half a million marching down the Victoria Embankment towards Parliament, reminiscent of the final scenes of Frankenstein as it traipsed relentlessly towards Parliament. No kettles, arrests or observed trouble, I’m afraid. Just a lot of people annoyed and showing it in that great British tradition: purposeful striding and then a fulsome, cathartic rant in the local park.

Was good to see so many banners from the locale: the regional CWU and UNISON, and (bizarrely) the Notts Land Registry among many others. I thought I’d be all satirical, and visit the areas en route where apparently chaos was reigning: simultaneously taking photos and sending them to Facebook with appropriately incongruous tabloidesque comments. Swiftian, that’s Beestonia.

Unfortunately, it went askew due to the concentration of people there,   the messages got through  a few hours before the photos emerged from the ether. Bummer. However, I can report that while I was walking down Oxford Street with half a million people peacefully being disgruntled, the liveblogs on newspapers were assuring me that I was in a conflict zone. At one point, when that scaremongering, right-wing, agenda-fuelled arbiter of  Fox News-esque hysteria; the Guardian Live blog; was telling me Trafalgar Square was a hotbed of destruction and anarchy, I was standing there smoking a Mayfair and surprised how quiet it was compared to any other Saturday one might venture there.

I don’t want to bang on about how the media distort stuff, that’s so rife on the internet right now its just out-googlestatted BDSM porn and songs mentioning Friday. Its natural. A news organisation doesn’t send a hundred reporters and cameras overflown by a news chopper to film a group of worried nurses share a flask of coffee  and some M&S flapjacks while taking in a speech by an obscure member of the NUT. Simple economics.

The Black-bloc anarchists therefore make a huge impression. Ninja-attired window smashing, bin-kicking twats are good telly. They are probably the type of shouty twats you get on any march, whose egos demand they make a stir and act all so naughty so they get on the 48 inch plasma telly at their baby-boomer made-good dad’s house when they return home for ‘supper’. Possibly in a  position that leads them to assume that the arguments against the cuts are nothing but bourgeois blather, unlike the thrustingly urgent radical opinions, errr, non opinions they hold.  Not realising that most people do not wish to raze the land, they wish to keep their jobs, maintain their services, protect their communities. Faux radicals who revel in mindless destruction for the sake of destruction? In my day they called that The Bullingdon Club.


Is that politics? Oops.  Sorry. To be fair, not a lot isn’t right now. Cameron and Clegg visit Boots, The Labour Party hold an event at the Ice Arena, or whatever its called now. The staduim that is, not the party. Miliband then decides to get married here. Still, I won’t be blogging about politics anymore.


So I won’t be telling you all about my invite to his stag night. It starts in Long Eaton, then on the Indigo to tahhn for a crack at some grannies down Yates. He will be wearing a French maid outfit and have to be cut free from a urinal in the bowels of Wetherspoons. You didn’t hear it from me, ok?