‘Smokey’, the city’s most prolific tagger, gets sent down for twenty weeks for, well, making
tourists assume that we’re all mental about the rammell seventies band who did Living Next Door To Alice and looked like failed experiments in trying to clone Rod Stewart. Oh, and if there are any taggers out there reading this, pack it in, because you’re shit. There is a world of difference between Seen and Shy 147 breaking into a train depot in Style Wars and covering a carriage in art, and you writing your stupid name that noone can even read on the shutters of a cob shop in Sherwood.
David Cameron visits Nottingham for the day, in order to give off the impression that he gives a single, solitary monkey’s arse about us.
Two cars in Gedling collide with such force that one of their engines flies off and lands
in someone’s front garden, bringing back horrifying memories of the time when that plane
with a full cargo of knackered old sofas crashed into that juggernaut full of fucked fridges in Sneinton.
Former Atomic Kitten Liz McClarnon comes to Nottingham to promote pork at Clarendon College. And now, after writing those lines, I want to sharpen two pencils, shove them up my nose, and bash my face repeatedly against the table.
A charity is set up to get Tales Of Robin Hood reopened. So if you get hassled in the street by a robot in tights that stinks of piss when you’re on your dinner hour, now you know why.
A dark day for the Nottingham music scene, as an audition in Carlton for a member of a Take That tribute band (not Robbie or the fat lad – one of the other twats) attracts precisely no-one. “I am astonished. I thought there was supposed to be two million unemployed” says the band’s manager. “The lucky man will earn good money and travel the world. Doesn’t anyone want a taste of the pop star life?”
Cast, the bar at the Playhouse which had shut down the previous month, re-opens. I’m now convinced that there actually isn’t a recession at all - bars in town are only saying they’re shutting down to get their names in May Contain Notts and make me look an idiot. Hmph.
It is announced in Hollywood that Nottingham, that new film about Robin Hood that’s been hanging about the pages of MCN like a pissy whiff in a Debenhams doorway on a Sunday morn, is now going to be called – wait for it – Robin Hood. Whoa. It must have took ‘em ages to come up with that.
Talking of which, a local businessman announces plans to build a bleddy enormous Robin Hood on the outskirts of town, the batchy bogger. The plans include – disturbingly – a restaurant somewhere below his belt. Hm, shall we have a romantic meal in Robin Hood’s ball-bag tonight, darling?
Metallica play the Ice Arena, resulting in the greatest Evening Post forum quote ever, from ‘Brian of Grantham’; “the best 2 bands in the world r guns n roses and metallica and seein gnr at milton keynes in 93(with long hair)was possibly the best day of my life.....the 2nd best day was when i saw metallica at download 2006(again with long hair)....i ve now had my hair cut off as i got it caught in a tractor last september”
Selectadisc announces that it’s shutting down after 43 years, resulting in half the city bashing its hands against its head, even though most of them hadn’t been in there since Fear Of A Black Planet came out on import, this writer included. We’re all to blame on this one, people. We should be ashamed of oursen.
The Nottingham Eye, midway through its second stint of showing people what it would be like if they were the world’s tallest Emo, is forced to change its name after the people who run the London one get a mard-on and are scared that Japanese tourists might turn down the chance to look across the Thames and have a goz at Primark instead. So they change it to the Wheel of Nottingham, which is bob. Not only does it sound like something you’d find on the menu of a carvery, but it also implies that we’ve only got one. Making us sound like, I dunno, Mansfield or summat.
One of our local happy-go-lucky mentalists is given an ASBO banning him from being in certain parts of town, drinking in public and touching cars. So what does that mean – if you ran him over, he’d get done for it?
The Mecca Bingo club in Beeston puts on a search for a bingo caller in Viccy Centre, but no-one volunteers. Speaking as a former bingo caller myself, I can tell you that it’s a fantastic job if you like wearing extremely tight black Sta-Prest trousers and having your arse mauled by elderly women sporting home-made coathanger tattoos that read ‘DAVE’ and ‘BAY CITY ROLLERS’, who pull you onto their knees and screech “I’ve ‘ad bigger lads than yo’, duckeh” into your tab.
Snug gets its lapdancing licence application knocked back by the Council (for the usual reasons – i.e. the fear that town would be full of sex-crazed locals masturbating in the streets like bored monkeys in zoos), despite claiming that they would be offering a ‘highbrow burlesque event’ (i.e. sucky middle-class girls pratting about in their Nana’s knickers) and looking to book Dita Von Teese - which is not unlike the Thurland trying to get a music licence by saying they’re going to have a word with Prince and seeing if he’s up for doing a turn. Nice try, chaps, but Dita Von Teese? You’ve got more chance of getting Rita from Bees…
After leaving the Golden Fleece with a young friend, May Contain Notts witnesses a chatty youth rip open the nub-end bin, rummage through it, and shout; “EE’YAR, CARL! AH’VE GORRUS SOME FAGS!”
Heartwarming story of the bi-month: Pete Doherty, in town to play a gig at Rock City, spends the afternoon getting kaylide in the Old Angel, where he gets approached by two already battered members of mature punk band Certified (latest CD Piss In Your Face out now, kids), who ask if they can play support. Pete, obviously in a good mood that the papers are now wondering when Jade is going to snuff it instead of him, lets them. Next thing you know, they’re on stage, bellowing at a venue full of twatty students. Who says dreams don’t come true?
A postmaster in Sneinton announces he has banned customers who can’t speak English properly from his post office. Yes, that’s right; Sneinton. He then gets nobbed off by the owner and kicked out by the party he serves as a councillor for, but claims that he will impose the ban in his new post office in Netherfield. Yes, that’s right; Netherfield.