Thursday 22 August 2013

View from Civic Hall

As our seasonal revels fade from memory and we crawl towards the cool respite of Autumn, it falls to me as Council Leader to reflect on the wonderful summer we’ve just enjoyed. The town festival went so well that the incident with the runaway traction engine has been almost entirely forgotten and work will soon begin to rebuild the war memorial flattened during that terrible accident, along with the wall outside the town hall, the corner of the police station, the Putney childcare centre, Uncle Bob’s Hot Dog stand, and the east wing of the hospital. Civic engineers estimate the damage will cost us £2.5 million, though we are delighted to report that the festival did raise nearly £750 towards our new swimming arena.

On a more upbeat note, the winner of the tombola was ticket 287. As yet, the prize remains unclaimed. So, if you do want to win a meal for two in the company of Mr and Mrs Edgeshaw, the town historians, find that ticket and prepare yourself for six hours (or five courses, whichever is longer) of the finest municipal tales!

Turning to council business, I today instructed the town’s engineers to look again at the potholes which local cyclists brought to our attention at the last council meeting. Cyclists are always prone to exaggerate about the size of our potholes but I accept that those on High Street are considerably larger than the national average. Sadly, the search for cycle club member, Mr George Leadbarrow, has now been called off after he fell into the pothole on Sandshaw Drive, Bareman Road, and the Cricket Club. The good news is that after the recent heavy weather, the Cricket Club has asked permission to rename itself The Angler’s Club and they are now accepting membership applications to fish the pothole which the council have graciously voted to name Prunefield Lake. I am, of course, delighted by the honour, as well as having more proof that the short termism I introduced to borough planning is again showing long term rewards.

Next month, we should have some exciting news to report about the closure of our library. I know there has been a lot of local anger about this necessary cut in council provisions but I believe that will be more than alleviated by the news that we’re already in advanced discussions to convert the old reading rooms it into a beauty salon and tattoo studio. As I’m sure it says in the good book: where there was knowledge, let there be light! Ultraviolet light, fully compliant with The Sunbeds (Regulation) Act 2010 and costing only £4.50 an hour and brought to you by the good people at Prunefield Healthcare (‘The skin of a ninety year old, today!’™).

15 comments:

  1. Years ago, I went out with a Barry Prunefield. Could this be the same one ?
    Brenda Hargreaves [Mrs. 48]

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. How many years ago?

      Mrs Barry Prunefield.

      Delete
  2. About 23. He took me to a Little Chef just outside Warrington. I had scrambled eggs.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Scrambled eggs - that's him all right, the rat that I married 25 years ago. Scrambled eggs. I'll give him scrambled eggs.

      Mrs B P.

      Delete
  3. Steady on, steady on. Records indicate that during the period under discussion some 12 million people consumed scrambled eggs [slightly lower in Porthcawl], and that at least 47,000 of those meals were taken at the then extensive Little Chef chain.It does not pay to jump to conclusions.

    Geraint Morgan - Freeman
    Egg Marketing Board 1965 - 81

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  4. Of those twelve million people, Barry Prunefield was indeed the only serial adulterer known to use the just-outside-Warrington Little Chef as part of his modus operandi. He would ply his intended victims with scrambled, poached and sometimes even lightly boiled eggs until they succumbed to his fatal embraces, and then make off with any readies they happened to have about them.

    He'd always do a runner before the bill arrived, too.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Barry Prunefield24 August 2013 at 11:58

    Disgusted to see my name thrown around like this, especially in connection to the Little Chef just outside Warrington. Little though he might have been, that chef was perfectly sized for my knee and we enjoyed many happy hours together as he scrambled my eggs, which now accounts for my limp and inability to sit on a motor scooter without a cushion.

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  6. I'm with Barry here. This is just cheap ,slanderous innuendo. Besdides, there's nothing like a little cook every now and then.

    Name [Germolene O'Higgins]
    and address [23 Globular Close, Glossop] supplied.

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  7. Exactly, Love Rats Anonymous. Now confirm for us, please, Mr Organ Freeman, just how many of those 12 million scrambled-egg eaters were also called Barry and pathologically accident-prone - in this instance, as I recall, spinning a cake carousel in such a way as to cause a paper doily to paraglide into the multi-toaster which was later identified as cause of the fire that destroyed two-thirds of the building and left diners for months to come complaining of sogginess in the chips, toast and all-day breakfasts salvaged from the sprinkler system.
    Brenda Hargreaves [Mrs. 48]

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  8. Actually, fifteen although in four of the incidents, paper serviettes and not doilies caught fire and one of the Barrys signed himself "Barri" and wore a Tina Turner wig.
    G. Morgan- Freeman

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  9. Not according to Love Rats Anonymous, Mr Organ Freewilly (or should I give you your correct title, Barry
    'Todger' Prunefield?)

    No, there was only one who answered to that description - as Mrs Hargreaves pointed out. The others were a figment of Mr Prunefield's exceptionally freddled imagination, though they did pass into urban legend after a particularly widely-circulated article in the Sunday Sport.

    By the way, diners had always complained about the sogginess in the chips, toast and all-day breakfasts - until it was pointed out that they'd actually ordered the chicken soup.

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  10. Thank you, but that does not explain what "freddled" is. Does it ?

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  11. It doesn't so much explain it, as express how very, very freddled Mr Prunefield's imagination is. It is a classic of its kind.

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Go on... you want to say SOMETHING, don't you? Post under a made-up name if you're shy!