keith lockey

I love the police helicopter - it uses my house as a landmark, like the Power Station Chimneys used to. Whenever it is called out they make a bee-line for my place and hover over it until they get their bearings. But, Keith, they can't pick me up on their thermal imaging. I devised a method to block them out. It's called Personal Reflective Imaging Camouflage Kinetics (PRICK). What I do is I dress up in women's clothes, usually on a Friday night, put a wig on and some foundation cream, with Max factor eye-liner and lip gloss, a pair of Pretty Polly fishnets with sussies and six inch stilettos and matching accessories. The police are out looking for a male perv and they see me looking radiant in my John England ensamble parading down the Furnace Bank with a casual air and catwalk stride. It fools them everytime. I've shook many a conker from that tree and I've got bark stains on my cheerleader's dress to prove it. But don't you try it, Keith, that's my patch down there, a girl's got to make a living somehow. Now where's my handbag.

It's annoying, Keith, because I go down there often with my bins - to look at the owls of course. And the best place to lurk...look...is behind the bushes. And me being a decent chap I sometimes go and clean the steaming windows of the cars parked down there. In fact there were so many cars and vans that I decided to set up a hot dog stall. So I used to go around the vehicles shouting Dogs..Hot dogs...dogging. Then this bloke came out and said i was a little banker!!! Well I've never worked in a bank before...nor a salad bar, like someone else suggested. I'll not be there tonight, though, my mac isn't dry yet.

What a carry on I had the other day. I was down the halfpenny woods wtih my bins looking for some tits and redbreasts and possibly a shag when I decided to have a hot dog. Well a piece of hot dog got stuck in my throat and I had to bang on the door of this green landrover to see if they had any water. This bloke with a Belfast accent comes storming out and threatens me with a baseball bat. I tried to explain the situation but I couldn't talk because of this piece of hot dog in my throat, so I reached into my pocket and fumbled for a pen and paper and this bloke went off it. He started calling me all sorts of names so I legged it. So watch out fellow twitchers, there's a maniac in a green landy down Halfpenny Woods.

AND THE WINNER IS.....MALCOM. Yes, they have all appeared in wheelchairs in films. Well done MR.

GRRR.

Sorry, Canny Lass, not Bette Davis, but as Malcolm points out, Joan Crawford. So you have Joan Crawford, Raymond Burr, Peter Sellars, Patrick Stewart and James Stewart - now join the dots.

OKAY VARMINTS - WHAT CONNECTS THESE

That's one of the reasons I turned veggie, Symptoms. I once worked at a battery farm - hens. And I was appalled at the conditions there. Row after row of chickens cooped up in cages and everything was getting mixed into their feed. It was arguably one of the worst jobs I ever had - just to make a few extra pounds over Christmas. I was a fresh faced teenager then and it made me see the meat industry in a new light.

Absolutely right, Maggie, art should/does inspire controversy. My main issue with Northumberlandia is that it can only - or at best - be seen from the air - like the Nazca Plains carvings in Peru. Now what good is that if it's supposed to be something for ALL the people to enjoy? Are they going to take people up in hot air ballons for free, or helicopter rides. To my mind it could have been better thought out.

Okay, this is where I make enemies (more enemies) and get rotten fruit thrown at me because I think the Nothumberlandia earthwork is a complete waste of space. It actually means nothing to me. I am sure something else could have been done with the money and something more representative to the area. So there, I've said it, I make my Thermopylae and I stand with shield and spear and sword at the ready.

Yeah, thats my place - taken from the pit heap.

So you feel like a right t*t?

The wordsmith of Terrier Close scrutinised the scribblings in the Bedlington Community Topic box. 'Writers wanted.' He absently mused. He turned to his favourite cat, a large mouser with breath that could stop a rhino in full charge. "What say you, Mog, is this an avenue I should pursue?" The cat ignored him and curled up in front of the new radiator that pumped instant heat into the small upstairs study. The wordsmith pondered on that. Gone were the days when a single pane of glass was all the defence against the cold north winds; gone were the days of ten blankets on the bed and two hot water bottles to keep your stockinged feet warm. For it was these things that the editors might be interested in, mused the wordsmith, little anecdotes of olde Bedlington and its people and places. A gust of wind sent W's wheelie bin off down the path, like a demented dalek with the brake off. Wheelie bins as well, W thought. I remember a time when a metal dustbin lid sufficed; a bin lid that could be a shield one moment and cricket wickets the next. 'Is this what they would want me to write about? Forsooth, am I to delve into my archaic past and regurgitate memories long forgotten; memories that should never see the light of day again. Faces of people long passed whirled like wraiths before the wordsmith; friends and enemies alike, teasing and tempting him, reminding him of the weird and wonderful games they played as sprogs. Moont the cuddy, Pottsies, games long forgotten now with the onset of the computer generation. The wordsmith sighed. Perhaps he would delve further into this project. He stroked his pussy and murmured..."perhaps it is time to remember; perhaps we should unleash our memories from long ago." The wind howled through the outside loo, rustling the squares of newspaper hanging on a piece of string and for a brief moment the wordsmith thought he he saw the pit heap through the snow storm.

What's the history, Merc', I need details, cold hard facts, the low down, specs, or I'll contact Dean and Sam and have them investigate.

Are you calling me horny, keithy Weethy. Just because you got TOMORROW NEVER DIES and I just put Bond movie. Yah boo hiss.

No probs, Maggie, it was just the way I wrote it. As I say, my bro was told - matter-of-factly - that there was a ghost and that he would probably encounter it at one stage. It seemed to be an established fact BUT NO ONE on this site seems to know anything about it. PS - I never was in the building, which was a shame, and now it is apartments.

I didn't say they were scared. They just informed my brother about the ghost because he worked nights and was new.

There was a teacher at the Woody School - Mr Ferguson - and he taught Scottish dancing and what have you. One day he had us all doing the Gay Gordon and Bradford Barndance. I was scarred for life, mentally and physically. I never forgave him for that.

My brother used to work at Hartford Hall and all the other staff told him about the ghost - some girl who committed suicide. But neither of us can find anything about the incident - or ghost!! Can anyone add to this story?

I was that sick and tired of you lot going on about Tesco's horsemeat that I went out and bought some for my tea. And you know what, lads, it was Champion...Mind you it could have been Trigger or Silver as well.

I know Dench and Palmer appeared in the bond films so I'll go for that one for starters.

Or, indeed, Animal Farm & 1984.

Smartarse or ubercool. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3hSHUV4iXE

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! They all have tanks named after them. Cromwell, Churchill, Centurion, Crusader & Chieftain. Well done Adam.

Getting colder. Think of the 'C' names.