Tag: brighton

I’m 55 Minutes Through A Live WebChat, Please Join Me

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Quick, constituents, I’m 55 minutes through a live webchat, which shuts in five. Had a bad start due to a wifi issue here at the Bright Helm Wetherspoons, just down from the Brighton train station and near the sea. Darren, the deputy manager, didn’t tell me the code changes every Sunday. For anyone inside OR OUTSIDE who needs it, it’s BH1733920W. Also, had just ordered food when I signed in, hence the username. Get to reddit and ask me anything!

Sorry, the wifi crashed again mid intro and that’s just taken me six minutes to publish. The webchatroom is now closed. I’ll paste the last hour’s action here. Need to speak with Cathy about all this.

18.00 The live webchatroom with TABLE14 is open. Ask TABLE14 anything.

18.01 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.02 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.02 TABLE14 is logged in

18.03 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.05 MODERATOR – please wait while we try to connect with tonight’s live guest

18.15 TABLE14 is logged in – Hi, constituents!, and everyone else, thanks for joining me tonight here on redditAMA, sorry about my username, mix-up with my food order, I’m currently hot-desking here at the Bright Helm Wetherspoons in Brighton, just down from the train station and near the sea. 10oz gammon with eggs, in case you’re wondering. And great value too. Wifi not 100% at mo. Typical! But on we go. So, first question…?

18.16 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.17 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.20 TABLE14 is logged in – No questions yet? Is anyone there? Think wifi is working this end. Cathy?

18.22 C@HQ – Hello TABLE14, can you tell me a bit about yourself?

18.23 TABLE14 – Yes, thanks C@HQ, nice of you to join me. So, yes, I’m running to be

18.23 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.25 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.29 MALCOLM is logged in – You described me as racist in this blogpost, you absolute twat. So what are you going do for me then?

18.30 TABLE14 is logged in

18.30 TABLE 14 is writing a private reply to MALCOLM

18.36 MALCOLM – UFKCING TWAT

18.39 TABLE14 – Gammon and eggs arrived at last, will need to take a few minutes

18.42 TABLE 13 – Hello TABLE14 any chance of the ketchup or are you keeping the bottle?LOL

18.43 TABLE 31 – TABLE14 that was always our favourite table. We’re up here now. Look up above the screen. To your left. Hello!

18.45 TABLE 14 – is this webchatroom just full of people in the Bright Helm? Cathy?

18.46 DAZZ – Did you want a dessert TABLE14

18.46 TABLE14 – Cheesecake

18.47 DAZZ – Strwaberry again?

18.47 TABLE14 – STRAWBERRY

18.47 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.55 TABLE14 is logged in – Cathy, Im just asking people to join in from blog. Believe a couple might be able to make it, how long have we got left? Can we delete it from the internet as soon as it’s finished?

18.56 TABLE14 is not logged in

18.59 DAMEDAVELYNN is logged in

19.00 webchatroom is now closed, thank you, TABLE14, for more great live AMAs, click here

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What Is This All About, You Nonce?

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Good late afternoon/early evening, constituents, and if you’re a dog owner whose dog prefers to defecate in a little plastic bag, invariably black, that you tie in a cute bowed knot (like the one that kept Dick Whittington’s hanky attached to a brown stick on his way to becoming London Mayor, and designer of the world’s first rucksack), and then dump on the pavement like a tiny refuse sack full of wormy turd, for some imaginary dog shit fairy to haul over her shoulder and fly away home with, like a stinky and probably blind Tinkerbell, then read on. Because you’re in this candidate’s firing line.

So, remember the other morning, when I was at the Fauvist, Gauguin-esque, shrine that is Brighton’s Job Centre for the unemployed, well afterwards, with my new admin team assembled, I met for a copuccino! TM with Brighton crime writer and campaign supporter/sponsor (still awaiting cash) Peter James, while his police inspector-cum-chauffeur-driven, five-door-saloon, pimped and liveried Hyundai Getz waited with its limited engine revving outside.

What’s this all about then, you nonce? Peter shouted blowing some of his cocoa-powdered froth towards me, and leaving a little brown line on his top lip.

If you murdered someone, or dropped some litter, would the police let you get away with it? I asked. Seeing as you’ve got your own sponsored police car? I mean isn’t it at all weird, that the police drive a car around Brighton with your name on it, exactly like an advert, even though at any time you could kill someone or be arrested for paedophilia? How did you get away with it? I asked, as though he wasn’t there at all but I was writing the thoughts I’d always had when I’d seen the eponymous wagon being used to fight crime or just parked at random, highly populated locations for long periods around Brighton and Hove, much like a golf sign, or restaurant notice, or a billboard.

Leave it, said Peter. Just fucking leave it. I’ve sold 18 million books. Now what is this all about, you nonce?

He turned round and winked at the blonde-haired female inspector in his personalised cop kart who was applying some glittery pink lipstick beyond the confines of her lips. She stopped and wound the fleshy-looking tip down before dropping it in her little black handbag, which she clipped shut and threw somewhere behind her, past her sleeping Alsatian.

I took off my left brown Hush Puppy and pushed it towards Peter’s face, until he gagged.

I want to name and shame dog owners and their dogs across the city to stop this fucking mess from ever happening again. I need your help. I know about you and top Brighton drag queen Dave Lynn, I said, shooting in the dark.

OK, said Peter James through the black leather glove he had clasped over his coffee-stained mouths. I’ll do it, he submitted. What do you need?

And so as a result of our successful meeting, very soon, once Cathy sorts out the designs and paperwork, you will see many of Brighton’s police cars, and buses, emblazoned with pictures of dog owners and their dogs suspected of conspiracy to shit into small, black plastic bags tied and then left on the city’s pathways, grassy knolls and verges, for me and, others like me, to burst like mad surprise balloons at a Stephen King kids’ party.

It’s a pleasure to be your Peter James-sponsored candidate, funds depending.

Brighton Parade I Am Here

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Good day, constituents, and what a coup!

I was out for a walk along the seafront enjoying the sun, the smell of hot, frothy coffee and generally trying to avoid the kind of confrontation I’ve been enjoying too much of recently in a not enjoying way, when what do I see in the distance, apart from the god awful eyesore that some call the i360 and others call a massive cock ring?

A bus of football players, that’s all. Premiership promotion footballers. From Brighton. And lots of blue and white people surrounding them. What an opportunity!

So I ditched the family and called Cathy at HQ who immediately pushed my Battle Bike to where I was standing (it took way too long) and handed me my megaphone, and off I went LIVE CAMPAIGNING.

I got as near as was securely possible to maximise the crowd numbers and then began shouting, well speaking normally, actually. The megaphone does all the work.

I have four key messages for large numbers of people these days, but stuck to three, in case the fourth one set off the hooligans. It’s a message of dynamite in the wrong hands.

There was general approval of what I had to say, especially on tins for the elderly, and my improvised one of free pies. Note to Cathy: Can we get out of this one?

One man with a blue and white striped face told me he was with me all the way, which, after 10 metres, was further than he thought, so he stopped.

A woman with an inflatable seagull with what looked like a feathered cock! screamed under her blue and white afro really close into the megaphone which didn’t work the way she thought it would. The megaphone is one way only and that’s my way. Really sorry! I shouted back through the megaphone and right into her red, alcoholic face.

One of the footballers, I have no idea which one, did a wanker hand sign towards me or someone behind me. I have him on ivideo and will be passing it to BBC Radio Sussex Sport.

Many topless men with their arms around each other asked who I was in song form. I informed them sensitively of my gay-friendly initiatives, mostly approved by top Brighton drag queen Dave Lynn, and received a cheerful response.

Because the bus was moving so slowly I ended up doing laps like a Red Indian circling a wagon with a tomahawk. By the seventh time around everyone had heard what I had to say on pies and tins and seagull cages and my dog poo in plastic bags naming and shaming campaign (owners and dogs), and, due to the high numbers of small children there and my understanding of cycling proficiency, I decided to call it a day by calling Cathy to come and collect the Battle Bike and give me a handlebar ride home.

It’s a pleasure to be your cycling candidate.

This Election Is A Massive Cry For Help

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Good night, constituents.

So, while Jeremy Corbyn’s face continues to be a fart no-one in the Labour Party dares take responsibility for, the big news is the even greater revelation that was told to me in complete confidentiality by an under-age member of the Conservative Party over gins and nibbles in a closed toilet cubicle upstairs in the Bright Helm Wetherspoons, just down from the train station and near the sea.

Having opened his packet of Bacon Fries, somewhat theatrically, by swelling the bag with a pinch from the bottom and then squeezing until the top burst, like a great piggy burp, much, it seemed to me, like Boris Johnson speaking, my downy-lipped Tory mole stood silently waiting for 10-second thrusts from one of the three hand dryers outside, during which time he shouted in my face exactly what I’d suspected all along, through a bendy straw and with a smell of powdered pork essence:

This election, constituents, is a massive cry for help from the Prime Minister, who, my pale-faced, red-cheeked, laughing mole excitedly told me while shaking some of his fizzy tonic over the floor and very close to my new brown Hush Puppies, is being sacrificed by her party for all the Brexit shit that’s to come!

And with his words ringing in my ears and an incessant rushing of hot air flowing up from under our cubicle door, as one unknown man repeatedly dropped and lifted his wet soapy hands in a Dyson Airblade AB14, apparently unable to get them dry enough to step out of the toilets, I lowered the black lid, sat down, and let the, now I realised it!, Haley Joel Osment from Sixth Sense lookalike flush.

Yes, I thought, as the new water washed away the old and the cistern began filling. Her name was everywhere. And as soon as Brexit went wrong for anyone and everyone, the hard ones, the soft ones, the sticky remaining ones, someone would have to take the blame for the sake of the party.

Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Theresa May Vote Theresa May, it was literally writ large, and sometimes small.

Yes, her name had already replaced that of the party which would eventually forsake her like an old goat tethered over a white cliff, the one party she had faithfully served since the day of her initiation ceremony with gammon and pineapple-hatted Eric Pickles and his infamous black pudding.

And slowly, as the water level in the cistern reached its height, and the noise outside silenced to a couple of clacking high heels, and then one door and then the next opening and closing, I unlocked the cubicle, peered into the vacant, blue-tiled room, and allowed the teary-looking boy¬†to leave our confidential booth having cut, yet again, the name of his, soon to be ex, leader into the back of our long, grey door with a Wetherspoons’ spoon.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate.

At the Bright Helm, Queen’s Rd, Brighton, great value

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Good afternoon, from my table at the Bright Helm Wetherspoons, Queen’s Rd, Brighton, just down from the train station, near the sea, and currently offering a sparkling array of gins and tonics and other mixers, candidates!

Started the day off with a tremendous Wetherspoons fried breakfast (large) with a smashed avocado bagel and fresh fruit and organic Greek-style yoghurt with honey, as well as two cups of Lavazza coffee – a medium cappuccino and a skinny latte, because a million coffee customers a week can’t be wrong.

Well, I needed the sustenance, not only to reserve my chair and table as part of our temporary office deal with Denise the manager, but to digest the front page of the bloody Brighton Arsegas, I mean Argus.

It’s bad enough that Cathy at HQ’s been trying to get us in there since we began our campaign last week, but to see the PM standing on the front page going all ‘Strong and stable‘ and ‘National interest‘ again, the same way Donald Trump speaks about an imaginary wall. Well, Brighton, you deserve better.

But that’s politics today, just slogans and advertising. Call me an honourable cynic, but I sat there sipping my Martin Millers and tonic, ordered an Empire burger, and scrunched Mrs May into the empty glass I’d soon be returning for another delicious, frothy and incredibly-priced pint of Ruddles.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate. Why not visit the Bright Helm for a chat, and a pint and a hot dog?

RIP Big Phil

Prince-Philip

Good evening, constituents! Good news and bad news. Good news first. We have a temporary office space. It’s comfortable, reasonably-enough-priced to claim back on expenses, quiet, in a great location, and with 24-hour news, visible from my chair on four screens. And it is my chair, because I’ve had a word with Darren, the Bright Helm Wetherspoon’s current deputy manager, and he says, so long as it’s OK with manager Denise, and nothing’s left in the walkway, and we spend an agreed amount behind the bar each day, including on their extensive all-day menu, then it’s my chair, with Cathy opposite, when she needs, so long as no-one else is using it. So we have a base, and can relax on news of the portakabin.

The bad news is that while we were enjoying getting ourselves settled in, the subtitles appeared of Prince Philip’s long-awaited death. As Brighton MP candidate I’d like to take this opportunity to practise writing a few words for a big death and say to you:

It’s with great pride and of course sadness that I speak with you today. In many ways, Prince Philip was many peoples people’s Prince. He was kind. He was humorous. He was rude, occasionally racist, but in an OK, Ricky Gervais way. He had a great heart. A Prince’s heart. The Prince of hearts. But, we must not forget, the Duke of Edinburgh was also a Duke. A Prince of a Duke. A Duke of a Prince. A German. A Greek. When I think now of Prince The Duke of Edinburgh Philip. And please lest not us forgat he was also a Philip. A Philippos! I think, with a smile, a knowing, rather naughty, winking smile, of a saucy postcard. Of, perhaps, a sweating larger lady in a revealing red swimsuit, bending over, trying to reach the melting white Cornetto she’s dropped on a sweltering day. And I think of a man behind her, like Benny Hill, with a blue hanky, wiping his dripping brow, and squinting, his two slitty eyes like a Chinaman.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate, now and always

Chatabouts TM cancelled till further notice

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Hello, constituents! Thanks to some of you for joining me in my first Chatabout TM yesterday between 3pm and 3.10pm. It was a shame it couldn’t be longer.

As most of you know, on the whole it was a great first chance to discuss some of the points of my Manifesto. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more specific on some of the main topics. Like I said, the moment the Manifesto comes back from the printers, I’ll be delighted to get into the detail. Of course, it will first need to be drafted, edited, designed, and then sent to the printers. But it won’t be long now. As Cathy keeps telling me, the election is only a month away, after all.

Yet again heard another slightly mad-sounding woman on the radio saying how the country needs to get behind the PM at this difficult time, which makes her sound like a clapped-out old Triumph being pushed up a hill. Well, I’m here to tell you, the Brighton part of the country, this is exactly false. The only reason you might want to get behind the PM is because the front’s so cold and creepy. If you ask me, the PM needs a good fortnight on defrost. I’ve started calling her Theresa Grey, to Cathy’s feminist disapproval, but she does leave me with a definite chill. I imagine those around her always need an extra layer.

Finally, on my way home yesterday, after, and strictly not during, my chatabout TM, I was accosted by a man I’ll call Malcolm, much, I found out later, like Liberal Wallace and Gromit look-a-like Tim Farron. I always end up with the Last Of The Summer Wine theme tune in my head while watching him on TV. And then I’m off again in reverie, picturing him and Cleggy falling over a stone wall in the Yorkshire dales with stubbly Vince Cable sat in a woolly hat with holes in and a little friendly mouse twitching out of his tweedy sleeve.

Whereas Tim’s actual Malcolm was a fat, bald old racist angrily rejecting the accusation that he was a racist, which had only been made by a voice like his own shouting in his head every single day, mine wanted to know what I’d ever done for him. Having never met him, I told him to keep back. You’re all the same, he said in a non non-confrontational way, which is UNACCEPTABLE. What do you want? I said. But he was too slow to keep up as I cycled away.

It’s a pleasure to be your candidate, whoever you were.