Acme brides: An expose!

Man is a simple creature, he works, he eats, he drinks, he sleeps and he has done this with a monotonous clockwork rhythm ever since the mist shrouded beginnings of recorded time.
Is it an inbuilt metronome that swings him into these daily actions? Some innate instinct passed surreptitiously down through his genes?
No.
The reason for man's seemingly natural actions is of course woman and more specifically wife.

No one knows when the institution of marriage first appeared but the earliest known references to this peculiar ritual appear in Sumerian cuneiform tablets dating from around 5000 BC, a rough translation of which gives us this tantalising glimpse of ancient marriage:

"And so the great king did say unto (Missing word)....thou have placed your arrow shaft into yon virgin's gourd, now thou must promise to doest as she tells thou and buyest all her foot wear (Missing passage)..... if thou does not do these things we will cut off your arrow and boilest thou in the oil of ten camels!"

So it seems that man has needed this mutually advantageous contract since the very beginnings of civilisation, indeed it is maybe even the very bedrock of our modern day civilisation.
Nowadays our fast paced lifestyles and isolated urban existences seem to have separated some men from the necessary contract of marriage, leaving them stranded in a sea of filth, instant noodles and internet porn.
Luckily for these poor unfortunates the marriage agency has sprung into much needed existence as an essential aid in the elimination of unwanted bachelorhood.

News direct decided the world needed to know more about these essential tools of modern love and asked me to delve into my box of undercover disguises and pretend to be a sad unlovable wretch so desperate for love that he would resort to the seedy world of the marriage agency.
I started my investigation by trawling the phone book. After F for fanny didn't turn up any promising leads, I then tried M for marriage and stumbled upon a veritable treasure trove of possible leads.
I decided to start where you're supposed to and made an appointment at a place called Acme brides, which had the intriguing motto of "If you don't get laid (for life) we don't get paid!"

Acme brides was conveniently placed atop a mini cab firm in deepest darkest south Leeds, only a discreet hand written crayon sign gave any clue that the steep unlit and uncarpeted stairs before me had been the stairway to heaven for so many of life's saddest losers and desperate geeks.
I climbed the stairs, after checking no one I knew had seen me, and came to a thin paint peeled door with another elegant crayon written sign bearing the legend:

Not the toilet!!!!
Acme brides
Stopping suicides since 1984
(Not affiliated with Acme medical supplies)

I pushed softly on the door, afraid of taking it off its rusting hinges, then pushed again harder because the frayed carpet under the door had gathered up into a foot worn conspiracy to deny me access to this temple of marital bliss.
A voice called out from behind the door "Oi!! what are you trying to do!!"
I continued to push against the flimsy door "It's stuck! I'm behind the door and want to come in and get married"
"Well don't keep bloody pushing on it! You'll have the door off!!"
I felt some give in the door and gave it one last big push and then felt myself swoon into a sort of free fall weightlessness with nothing but the door guiding my passage to the inevitable floor.
I landed hard, star fished awkwardly across the floored door.
Before me behind an untidy desk sat the astonished face of a portly,slightly purple, balding middle aged man, whom I assumed was the owner of Acme brides.
He stared down at me.
I stared apologetically up at him from the traitorous carpet "It was stuck." I nodded at the carpet "On the carpet."
He stared down at me.
"Pushed it too hard I think.......I can't feel my testicles."
He stared down at me.
"I think I may be genitally paralysed, I'm not joking, I really can't feel my testicles."
He stared down at me, his violent purple face now mellowed into a slightly less memorable shade of puce.
I gingerly lifted myself from my spread eagled position into a more comfortable on all fours doggy style, to try to lift the mood I ventured "Bet this doesn't happen often! Does it?"
He stared at me.
I now maneuvered myself onto my knees and began to vigorously rub some sort of life back into my numb testicles "I've come for a wife."
"Get off my door!"
I looked behind me, then back at him "What?"
"Get off my door!!!!!" He was now turning, cuttlefish style, back to his previous violent purple, it was strangely beautiful.
I pulled my hand from the front of my pants and slowly stood up.
"Get off my door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What?" I looked down "Oh yeah, sorry."
I stepped off his door, and out of politeness, I picked it up for him and took it over to where it used to be attached and leaned it against its one time neighbour, the wall.
"I'll just put it there shall I?"
He stared.
I made a face that I hoped said "Oops!, I'm such a klutz! But aren't we all sometimes!" And which I knew as soon as it had appeared on my face was more like "Ha! I have just knocked your door off it's hinges and I'm not bothered, in fact I find it hugely amusing, because I believe you to be a twat!"
He stared.

We hadn't got off to the best of starts but in a strange way I think the door accident had helped me to establish my undercover persona as a sad and bumbling bachelor desperate for love.
I pointed towards the plastic chair in front of his desk "There?"
At the sound of my voice he took his eyes from his now leaning door, skipped them off me, onto the chair and sort of grunted as he slid down into his own much more comfortable chair.
"Sorry about the door."
He shook his head, slowly wiped a hand over his face and sighed "What can I do for you Mr...?"
I smiled my best smile "Mr Hart, Johnathan Hart."
A look of puzzlement drifted quickly across his face at the sound of my name but by the grace of god and my brilliant forward planning my disguise held.
"So what can we here at Acme brides do for you...Mr Hart?"
I smiled inwardly with the intense satisfaction that another cunning persona had entered the world fully formed and ready to investigate "Well Mr..?"
"Mr Steele, Remington Steele."
I narrowed my now suspicious eyes "Well .......Mr Steele, I won't lie to you or beat around the bush, the fact is that I'm a multi millionaire businessman and I have decided that after a lifetime of cigars and scotch stained board room deals that it is finally time that I settled down and got myself some legally bound pussy." I smiled.
"Mr Hart, we are not a knocking shop, we don't do "legally bound pussy" we are a reputable bureau du amour, a resource for the time poor bachelor, a service to the community."
"Oh yes, of course I fully understand Mr Steele." I winked.

This wasn't really going how I'd hoped it would so I cleverly changed tack "How About I tell you what I'm looking for and we can go from there?"
Mr Steele sighed and nodded his agreement.
"Right what I'm looking for is something with very large breasts." I clawed my hands in front of my chest to give him some indication of an acceptable size."
He shook his head slowly as I carried on "an even temper and an O level in cookery if possible......but obviously the last two requirements aren't compulsory, but I will not negotiate on breast size!"
"Mr Hart."
"Yes?"
"Get out of my office."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, get out of my office."
"But I want legal love!!!!"
He stood up and pointed at the open space where his door used to be "Out!"
"Just gimme one of your fat ones then!! I'm not fussy!!!"
He then unexpectedly lunged at me across his paper strewn desk and I quickly decided my impenetrable cover as Johnathan Hart multi millionaire industrialist had been blown and he now suspected I was Britain's top investigative reporter.

I made quickly for the stairs and took all thirty two of them in four giant strides, and before Mr Steele could even reach the bottom stair I was off and away down the crowded high street like a investigative cheetah on amphetamines.
Sometimes undercover work is a dirty and dangerous business, but if it helps bring the stories that matter to the people that matter (That's you) I'm willing to do it.

Yorkshire day

"Ow much did tha' say it were? I'm not paying tha"
Unknown Yorkshire man.

As most intelligent right thinking normal people will no doubt know, The first of august is one of the most important dates chiseled into the metaphorical face of the Gregorian calendar.
It is of course Yorkshire day, a semi religious bank holiday for all of the folks lucky enough to have appeared from between their mothers legs within the Borders of god's own county.

To mark Yorkshire day News direct has put together this short but informative history of "The most magical place on earth." (What's that? That's Disney's Trademarked logo? Well Disney can kiss my hairy Yorkshire arse!)

For those who don't know or are, god forbid foreign, Yorkshire is England's largest county and was first created by the lord god almighty himself on, I think, the first Thursday after he had made the things "that creepeth upon the groundeth and the things that flyeth in the skyeth."
But the holy connections do not stop at Yorkshire being one of the first places ever created, a majority of the world's biblical scholars now believe that the garden of Eden was situated somewhere within the rolling fertile farmlands of East Yorkshire. One possible site muted as the geographical centre was the tiny village of Wetwang, mostly due to their being a large apple tree on the village green and the fact that the landlord of the local pub is called Adam and his "wife" is called Steve.

Having had such illustrious beginnings one might expect the flat vowelled demi gods lucky enough to have been born within this green and pleasant land to be boorish insular braggarts, intent upon impressing their way of thinking onto those poor unfortunates the Yorkshire people call "Them there outsiders"
You might expect this, but nothing could be further from the truth it has been scientifically proven by scientists working at NASA'S jet propulsion labs in Pasadena, that Yorkshire people are the nicest people in the whole of the world, beating out the whale breathed Inuit people by over ten science points.

Yorkshire's integral place within the scheme of god's creation has subsequently been reinforced by the discovery of a small stable deep in the Yorkshire dales that scientists have now confirmed may once have belonged to a Jewish carpenter with a beard.
This connection to the Jews may also have contributed to the widespread myth that Yorkshire people are, shall we say, careful with their money, for like the Jewish people we too have been tarred with the stigma of avarice.
That's not to say this reputation is totally unfounded in hard scientific fact because it is well known that the only way to get a Yorkshire man to buy you a drink is to buy him a pub, marry his daughter or kill a Lancashire man. Do all three and he may just make it a double.

This brings me to one of Satan's foulest creations, Lancashire. The very name drips with all that is evil and wrong in the world which is how it has been since the beginning of time immemorial, in fact up until 1782 Satan's county was called pedoshire.
It is maybe some grand cosmic joke that made the good lord place this foul den of inequity next to the glorious Jerusalem of Yorkshire or maybe he just wanted to show the peoples of the earth the contrasts between his magnificent glory and the dark light of Beelzebub, we can never know.

In wrapping up this short tribute to the world's most important place, I'd just like to say to anybody thinking of moving to Yorkshire, don't bother we are full.

Some like it not

Hull- Standing quietly on the muddy banks of the vast Humber estuary, The city of Kingston upon Hull has a reputation forged through centuries of under achievement and downright weirdness as a strange wind torn, almost forgotten corner of England. It's the kind of place you wouldn't really want to go to unless you had to, kind of like the urban equivalent of the clinic for sexually transmitted diseases.

But the city's bad reputation and lack of visitors allied to an ever shrinking gene pool have made the people of this much maligned town decidedly different from even the people that occupy the rest of the glorious county of Yorkshire.
So in the name of exploration News direct decided to travel to this forgotten kingdom of the clinically unwell, to try to document this huge lump of concrete that proudly calls its self 'Yorkshire's fifth best city'.

My contact in Hull was local historian Mike Fotheringill, who I was to meet in Hull's most famous hostelry, The Nervous ferret.
Mike was a short bald man with a beard but that didn't put me off talking to him and minutes after meeting we were deep in conversation.
"Hull was founded here on the shores of the Humber around about the 8th century, Hull wasn't it's original name though."
"Was it not?
"Nah it was originally known by the Viking name of 'friesboogard stahl'"
"And what does that translate as?"
"Windy shit hole."
"So the city has had a bad reputation from the very beginning?"
"Oh yeah, the Vikings originally used it as a kind of mental health sanatorium."
"They built a hospital here?"
"Well not so much as a hospital, they mostly sailed up the Humber and dumped the mentally ill off here."
Mike finished the pint I had bought him only moments before and sat looking me in the eye while tapping the rim of his empty glass.
"Would you like another pint Mike?"
"Bloody hell I thought you'd never ask!"
After returning from the bar with Mike's vocal lubrication I asked "what are the people of Hull like?"
Mike drained half of the pint I'd just bought him, burped and said "Well we have a reputation as hard working, slightly quirky xenophobes with a distaste for spending."
"And is that reputation deserved?"
"On the whole I would say, yes but obviously you can't generalise about a whole city, my glass is empty by the way."
"Oh right, and do you think the people of Hull see themselves as very different from other people?"
Mike sat closed mouthed and feigned disinterest in me till I realised he was tapping the rim of is empty glass again.
"Can I get you another beer Mike?"
He immediately regained his animation "Oh that would be lovely your a real gent you are."

I returned a few minutes later with Mike's pint and placed it on the scratched table next to my untouched white wine and soda.
Mike eyed my drink suspiciously, before picking up his real man's drink and again draining most of it in one gulp.
"So mike, the people of Hull they see themselves as very different from the rest of Yorkshire?"
"Didn't they have any crisps?"
"What?"
"Behind the bar, is their some kind of national crisp shortage I haven't heard about?"
"You want a bag of crisps?"
"Oh that would be lovely thanks, salt and vinegar please."
I shook my head and stood up, Mike quickly drained the rest of his pint."
"Might as well get me another beer while you're there."

I made my way carefully back to our corner table and placed mike's new pint and a bag of crisps before him.
"Just the one bag?"
"You wanted two?"
"Well, no I didn't particularly want two bags, but it might have been nice."
"You want me to go back and get you another bag??"
"No, no I wouldn't dream of asking you to go back just for another bag of crisps."
I bent to resume my seat.
"But if you are going back you could get me some pork scratchings as well."
"So you want another bag of crisps and a packet of pork scratchings?"
"Only if you're going."
I stood again.
Mike drained what was left of his drink "You might as well get me another pint while your there."

I placed Mike's refreshments before him and before he could request anything else I pressed him of the question of the characteristics of Hull people.
"Well I believe it comes from our isolation and our spiritual connection to the sea, you see this was a seagoing town, until Thatcher decided to give our fishing rights to the mighty island nation of Iceland, this city was one of the world's top fishing ports.
A community forged by the hardships of the North sea is bound to set its self apart from others because it takes a special sort of person to make a living from such a dangerous trade."
"But isn't Hull more famous for car theft and drugs offences?"
"Well now it is yeah, but even those occupations are quite dangerous, so it is a really a continuation of our proud tradition of undertaking dirty and dangerous work."
"And it's this that makes you look down upon outsiders?"
"We don't so much look down on them as pity them."
"Why would you pity outsiders?"
"Well it's like my old dad used to say 'Son, you're not clever, you're not good looking, you're not even mildly interesting, but you are from Hull so you'll do for me kid.' That sort of sums up the Hull peoples attitudes I think."
"So what your saying is that you're stupid,ugly, dull people but you live in a geographically isolated corner of nowhere and that makes you all very special?"
"Yep!"

After managing to squeeze two more pints from me I said a fond farewell to Mike and his strange corner of nowhere.
Now wherever I go and whoever I meet in this strange world of ours, I will be eternally grateful that I will never again have any reason to visit 'Yorkshire's fifth best city'

If this is man

Hull-Sitting quietly alongside Hull's main dock road oblivious to the heavy traffic and the vagaries of time is the huge Gothic gargoyle that goes by the name of Her Majesty's prison Hull.
This cathedral of correction is to be the venue for one of News direct's most controversial and dangerous interviews, for we are here to meet Britain's most dangerous prisoner Alfie "The nutter" Dixon.
Dixon, the scourge of the country's prison service has been in every prison on the mainland UK since entering the system in 1974 on the relatively minor charge of littering.
His subsequent behaviour while serving at her majesty's pleasure has ensured a seemingly never ending sentence and an infamy that will surely live long after they carry his still dangerous corpse out through the prison gates.

I arrived at the prison at eight AM sharp to meet my guide for the day, Senior prison officer Sandra Mcpander, the huge woman stood unsmiling before the open door set into the massive locked gates and thrust out a huge paw in a bad imitation of welcome "You were supposed to be here at eight."
"It is eight isn't it?"
"No, it is not eight Sir, it's precisely six minutes past the hour of eight."
"Near enough."
Officer Mcpander's huge flat face turned a deeper shade of what I presumed was her normal purple pallor and said "No Sir, it's not near enough, it's six minutes past! Near enough is not good enough, this isn't Jazz, it's Her majesty's prison service."
"Sorry."
She stood stock still and eyed me up and down while I looked at my shoes.
"Right Sir, shall we go in?"
"Yeah."
She stopped midway through her turn towards the door and I just about stopped my forward motion in time to avoid her huge bulk that was now blocking the tiny door.
"Don't you use manners in that there London?"
"I'm not from London."
"You sound like you are."
"I'm not."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Theres a definite southern edge in your accent."
"I've been unwell recently."
She seemed happy with my denials, but continued to block the door while I looked nervously at my familiar shoes and wondered why.
Several uneasy and quiet moments slipped past until I suddenly realised what she wanted and stuttered "Can we go in now please Officer Mcpander?
She gave me an imitation of a smile "That wasn't so hard was it Sir?
"No Officer Mcpander."
"Manners don't cost anything, do they?"
"No Officer Mcpander."
"So in the future will we remember this?"
"Yes officer Mcpander."
"Now Sir, if you'd like to walk this way we can get started."
She Squeezed her huge frame through the tiny door and motioned for me to follow her.

Just inside the gate there was a small reception area brightly lit and sanitised from the outside world by three inches of bullet proof glass.
Officer Mcpander marched up to the speaker set squarely into the glass and shouted into it "Mcpander and guest to see prisoner 4826 Dixon."
The officer behind the glass looked quickly up from his paper work and seemingly drained of colour, he squeaked through the tinny speaker "Dixon?"
Mcpander nodded towards me and Mouthed through the glass "He's from London, reporter."
The officer in his glass cocoon laughed and pressed a button under his desk that noisily opened a thick door.
After filling out copious forms and liability chits, Officer Mcpander led me into the main body of the prison, through sterile institutional corridors, until we came to a small room marked 'Interview room'.

Officer Mcpander opened the hefty door "If you will be so kind as to take a seat sir."
I walked into the bare room, sat behind the lonely wooden table and nervously awaited the arrival of Britain's most dangerous man.
Ten long minutes later the door swung open to reveal a man who appeared to be the spitting image of Charles Hawtry.
I was at first shocked, then relieved at the sight of Alfie 'The nutter' Dixon as he appeared to have muscles of a young girl suffering from polio and looked as dangerous as a plastic butter knife.
Officer Mcpander carefully pushed Dixon into the room and lowered his handcuffed frame onto the chair before me.
As he placed his almost feminine hands upon the table Officer Mcpander said "I will be leaving him cuffed, there is a button located just under table. If the prisoner makes any sudden moves or lewd suggestions, just press it and we will have the emergency response unit in here quicker than you can say 'Help!! Dangerous prisoner 4826 Dixon is attacking me and I urgently require immediate assistance from Her majesty's emergency response team'."
"Right you are officer, but I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"I will be leaving the door open as a safety precaution."

So here I was alone with Britain's most dangerous man, the air seemed charged with anticipation as we both sat in absolute silence and weighed the other man up.
Dixon seemed the antithesis of the man I heard so much about, his thin frame and delicate hands seemed more suited to light clerical work than kidnap and murder.
It seemed incongruous that this was the same man who had killed fourteen fellow prisoners and two guards all with his bare hands. Was this really the man who had eaten the prison chaplain in just under an hour?
We sat in silence.

"Why have you come to see me?" the sudden feminine voice shocked me and I scrambled quickly for a response.
"I'm from the world famous News direct."
"Never heard of it."
"Yeah you have."
"No I haven't."
"Yeah you must have!"
"No, I haven't."
"Surely you have, Hitler's ladyboy's, Panda sex expose, Giant squids?"
"I've been in prison since 1974."
"Oh right, and you don't get the internet?"
"No."
"Oh ok, anyway your original sentence was for a week and a day, for the offence of littering, I believe?"
"Yes that was my original crime but I..."
"You've really never heard of News direct?"
"No."
"Mouse club, Blair infamy, Sex change dogs."
"Nope."
"Does this disconnection with the world in some way fuel your barbarism?"
"In what sense?"
"Well in the sense that if you had maybe had access to quality publications such as... ohhh I don't know, lets say News direct for arguments sake, would you have still felt the same sense of anger and violence towards the world?"
"I killed my first man three hours after arriving in prison so I don't think so no."
"But could the lack of access to News direct have been a contributing factor in your later murders?"
"I don't know."
"But you do concede that it could have been a contributing factor?"
"Well I suppose so."
"So what you are basically saying is that if you had had access to News direct thirteen people could still be alive?"
"Errr..."
"That's what I think you are meaning to say, but don't let me put words in your mouth, our readers want to hear what you think."
"Are you from London?"
"No! I've had a cold recently."
"I was only asking, you sound like you have a southern twang."
"No, It's the lingering vestiges of a cold."
"The chaplain I ate was a southerner, Kent I think."
"Do southerners taste differently to northerners?"
"Oh yeah they are tastier, northerners are very fatty, I'd much rather eat a southerner they taste quite like veal."
"Veal?"
"Yeah, I think it's the diet."
"Yeah you're probably right they don't eat proper food, I once knew a girl from Reading and all she ever ate was salads."
"Did she taste like Veal?"
"No not really, more like Tuna."
"Well I personally prefer them, they are tastier they are more like free range produce, where as your northerners are like something Bernard Matthews would try to feed your kids."
"That's interesting, if you'd have had more time would you have added, I don't know, maybe some some thyme and a little garlic?"
"Oh yeah that would have been lovely, maybe a splash of red wine and some rosemary too."
"Yeah I would have thought that a nice piece of meat like that deserves it, me personally I would cook it slowly."
"Yeah but I didn't really have the time, I had to eat him raw before the guards could kick the chapel door down, gave me terrible indigestion."
"Shame."

The huge frame of Officer Mcpander filled the doorway and then disappeared quietly back into the institutional walls.
Dixon sighed "Thats the worst thing about prison they are always watching you."
"But you do have a tendency to eat people when they don't Alfie, I can call you Alfie can't I?"
From a myriad of chuckles he said "That's true I do!! Yeah you can call me Alfie."
"Do you ever wish your life had turned out differently Alfie?"
"Sometimes I wish I hadn't done the things I've done, but you can't continue to look backwards all your life you must concentrate on the future."
"On tomorrows tasty victims."
He laughed uproariously and using his manacled hands to wipe away a stray tear he said "That's right, I always say that at the end of every key chain theres a pot of meat."
"Do you think you would have read News direct if those bastards had have given you access?"
"What's it about?"
"People like you Alfie."
"Sounds fascinating, is it very popular?"
"Oh yeah."
"What kind of readership do you get?"
"Well we don't like to judge our success on reader numbers but more on the quality of our readership."
"So it's not doing well then?"
"No."
"Shame it sounds brilliant and you are obviously not only a very handsome man, but also a very talented one."
"Yeah I can't understand it, I feel like I'm throwing pearls at pigs Alfie."
"It must be very frustrating."
"Oh it is, you cannot imagine the sheer loneliness of ceaseless creativity. Some nights I'm so depressed about it I will not be able to cook and have to order a takeaway."
"Sounds horrible."
"It is, the only half decent takeaway is a Japanese one about five miles away, so the sushi is always cold when it arrives, have you ever eaten a Japanese?"
"No we don't get many foreigners in here."
"It's not good mate, and it tends to make me more depressed."
"You just have to stick at it and keep going."
"But I get so low Alfie."
"You're better than that, come on wipe your eyes. Don't let the bastards grind you down"
"Yeah, you're right."
"Yeah things will pick up, I'm sure in a few years time Story news will be the biggest site on the whole interwebby thing."
"It's News direct."
"Yeah, News direct will be huge."
"You really think so Alfie? You're not just saying that?"
"No, I believe you can do it."
Officer Mcpander then arrived and lifted Alfie's slight frame from his seat.
I protested "That's never an hour!!"
She ignored me and continued to guide Alfie through the open door, I stood quickly and leaned over the desk "Thanks Alfie!"
Alfie looked over his shoulder "Keep going and don't get discouraged, I know you can do it!"
"Thanks Alfie, I will, I'll make News direct the best site on the whole damn web!!!! I'll write to you Alfie!!"
And with a handcuffed wave and a smile Britain's most dangerous prisoner was gone.