Much schelebrity schpotting going on at the jolly golfing jamboree this week Buglers although it seems Clooney and the Beckhams and the marauding primates from Planet of the Apes haven’t put in an appearance after all.
But lo and ruddy well behold now an email arrives into our dusty letterbox to tell all that a certain hand-chopping leg-kicking side-swiping pony-tailed Hollywood star may soon be lurking somewhere in the Hoylake undergrowth…
Yes Buglers none other than Steven Seagull star of such tinseltown blockbusters as Kill, Hard, Hard to Kill, Kill Hard, Killing Harder, Improbable Killing Rate, Stony-Faced Hard Killer and Stone: It’s Dead Hard, is said to be heading for Royal Liverpool tomorrow!!!!
The emailing Bugler says the man who has bitch slapped more baddies than there are grains of sand on the beach will rock up (<—— bad joke alert! HONK!) on the hallowed lawns in Meols Drive in advance of his performance at this gig tomorrow evening (had to google this one as I didn’t know he was a musician type fellow).
Local musical gentlemen The Viper Kings are on too so it sounds like a mighty ruddy fine way to finish off the weekend over at the O2 in Liverpool aka That Other Place Somewhat Slightly Farther Down The Road With You Know What…!
It has been a long old week of trembling cold turkey for the 9am regulars at The Hoylake Lights, that fantastical cover-up name for what is our local Wetherspoons, the dismal outpost where desperately pathetic hope roughly elbows its gruff way past the pale shadow of broken dreams in the red-eyed race to the death.
When the musty oasis of doom briefly closed its forever-open doors last week, to finally wipe the salt off of the tables and maybe run a vacuum around the place (clicky), the indigenous wildlife found itself with nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nowhere to let them in.
With the Punchbowl still shut and the Anchor being…. well, y’know, the Anchor…. it was either head for The (Fiddle-De) Dee in That Place Down The Road With Better Shops (clicky), reluctantly inhale the deep-fried air of The Railway in Meols, marshall a car at gunpoint to Moreton, or finally admit the truth to themselves and up sticks to a tip berth in the north end of Birkenshed.
You’ve seen them on Market Street, shivering on their haunches, sandpaper-dry tongues a-dangling through parched jowls, displaying with despair the sort of delirium tremens that would make a row of shitting dogs proud.
Now though after a lick of paint and a splash of bleach in the bogs the Hoylake Lights to the blessed relief of daybreak bitter drinkers is miraculously back open as from Friday evening and the thirsty hordes can return to their watering hole…
Hang on a-bloomin’ hang-dog gosh darn minute!
GAD-RUDDY-ZOOKS BUGLERS!!!! I’VE GOT IT!!!!
Like the highways agency and the council and the people who hurriedly fix things like drains on Meols Drive and the idiots who never ever finish the Meols Bridge repairs and godforsaken Wetherspoons, it seems everything but everything is being done to make sure those happy Americans come and toss their hard-earned dollars into the Hoylake wishing well eight years after the last time they bent over backwards, lifted their soiled petticoats and asked the residents to look the other way while they did what they felt they had to do to look good in the eyes of the incoming Bores in Plus-Fours.
For the next two weeks expect to have a host of helpful local authority people armed with earnest faces and mutton jeff ears pretending they’re listening to you while really keeping their ears pinned sharply back, like nervous Mr Rabbit wary of Mr Obese Fox, for any nearby hint of a mid-Atlantic twang.
Expect the councillors you never ever see and the MPs who don’t ever knock on your door and that mayor person to beam over glasses of bubbly bought by somebody else – most likely you Buglers! – while tootling on about £75 million worth of so called inward investment that actually doesn’t happen at all.
And when it’s all gone in a fortnight or two like a giddy patch of scotch mist (clicky) watch the whole lot of them disappear sharpish before anyone asks if they could spare a bit of that mystical £75 million for Hoylake’s Christmas lights this coming Crimbo.
There’s more chance of finding a salt-free table in Spoons.
* Thanks a-muchly to Bugler nomansland for the email
Yikes a-ruddy lordy Buglers!
Super duper news for curvy cows and portly pigs in the locale, they will be very glad to hear, but bad news for the rest of us.
Apparently our much loved purveyor of fine meats, none other than Hoylake’s legendary master butcher Bill Page, has announced he is to retire along with his trusty cleaver on July 19.
This is rather upsetting news for those among us who prefer not to shop at That Place Down The Road With Better Shops (clicky), as Mr Page is one of the few shining examples in Hoylake of A Shop That Could Easily Hold Its Own In That Place Down The Road With Better Shops (clicky).
Now whilst wishing Mr Page every best wish and endeavour for a deserved retirement after a winning innings of 48 years at the butcher’s block, presumably we are not alone in hoping that this marvellous local business is carried on “going forward”, as Mr B Rodgers Esq of Liverpool Football Club is wont to say a bit too flipping much for my liking.
Or are we destined to deny ourselves and our children’s children forever the chance one day of witnessing this much-anticipated sight?
Because that could upset us all greatly.
It would appear they have finally come up with an idea with what to do with the remaining bits of Hoylake’s favourite pigeon toilet, Buglers – the fetid, rotting corpse of what was once the Punchbowl Tavern of Broken Dreams and lino-lined bogs and quite a few teeth from over the lines.
And it is this, Buglers (clicky) – a new bar and “eatery” where the “lounge” used to be, with the wholesale builder purveyors to the left and some office space to the right, with new apartments built into the first floor and further up again into the roof, for views of the scruffy pigeons, one can only presume.
The plans come courtesy of the Beer family of Caldy, which I am reliably informed is a mere hop, skip and a jump from That Place Down The Road With Better Shops.
Hopefully the new chaps and chapesses will have sorted out previous, erm, energy problems with the building…
Objections are expected from this fellow shortly:
An email arrives from the earnest fingers of young Bugler Tooth, Buglers.
He asks, not unreasonably:
“Any guesses why this was in the field at the end of Heron Road in Meols on Wednesday?”
Why indeed Buglers why indeed?
A thrilling tale of derring do?
Prince William touching down to pilfer a couple of cabbages for supper?
The pilot urgently needed a wee?
It must have been just like a scene from this (turn up your speakers Buglers and feel nostalgia tickle your spine like Max Clifford inspecting your back for defects)
So Bugler Tooth, what by Jupiter and by Zeus their very selves was the gosh darn helichopper doing in that there field?
“A BROKEN ANKLE!
“No ambulances available, so the air ambulance came from Manchester! That’s quality.”
* Humblest gratefulness and thanks to Toothmaster Flash.