Check out this bust

There was a story in the tabloids a while ago about Craig Charles going on a CRAZED bender, buying DRUGS and having a PINT with some MATES. You can read about it here. The reason I am reminded of this is because as part of his crazeddrugfuelledwildnightbender, he asked his driver to buy him some PORN. Now, unfortunately this is the only link I could find, but I remember at the time the reporting was even more lurid, quoting him as saying "f*ck me I really need a w*nk". This was actually the embarrasing part of the story. Drink and drugs are fine, he's famous and it adds to rock and roll mystique he's cultivated whilst pretending to be a taxi driver in the only part of Manchester to still have cobbled streets and whose most ethnic resident is a slightly tanned David Essex. Buying porn though, is just a little bit embarassing. That's all I could think about when I read it, "oh no, poor chap, what would the boys from the Dwarf say?". Stories like that serve a positive purpose though, they remind us that famous people are the same as the rest of us. They may appear in Heat magazine, snapped boarding a bus in Mayfair (whereas the rest of us have to snap ourselves if we want a record of it), but they are just us with a more recognisable face. How do we know this? Because people like Craig Charles helpfully remind us that even famous people get drunk, go home and masturbate alone over a woman with staples through her tits.

You may ask why I am talking about a news item from four years ago? Well it's all down to drunk men's nocturnal desire to look at boobs. A burger van has been 'seized' by police for giving away free porn when their customers spent more than five pounds...

I love the idea of men being 'enticed' with free porn, like they are under the spell of a pied piper in a dirty raincoat. In the event of a population explosion you could cull the male population by dumping copies of Razzle off a cliff and just sitting back to watch the shuffling hoardes of drooling grub-monkeys tumble off the edge fondling their crotches and murmering "mmm, jubblies" as they fall to their doom.

Please don't think that I don't approve of free smut. I actively applaud it in fact. If porn was given away as a free gift more often just imagine how empty the streets would be. On the rare occasion anyone did leave their houses violence would be as rare as rocking horse droppings since everyone would be so weak and sluggish, it would be all they could do to drag their massive right-arms behind them like they're on their way to their own crucifiction. Even if violence did erupt it would be over in seconds because if anyone landed a punch it would take your head off.

The reason this story really appealed to me was the undercover officers who made 'test purchases'. That's a bloody tough case for them isn't it. The horror of it, having to buy burgers and be given free porn. Oh dear. Imagine the counselling bill. How many volunteers do you think they had for that operation? I'm amazed there isn't a headline underneath the article detailing the officers killed in the stampede. One thing's for sure, the waiting list for evidence room duty is longer than the ever dwindling rolls of Andrex in their desk drawers.

'Five Pass Out in a Gutter'

Take a look back there. That was a bank holiday that was. You can tell because it was mostly drizzly and for the rest of this week people will keep asking you what you got up to, as if by tacking an extra day onto your weekend you are guaranteed adventures that a regular weekend simply cannot encompass. In fact it is generally acknowledged that all of Enid Blyton's 'Famous Five' stories take place over bank holidays, as that's they only way the adventures could be completed and the mysteries solved. Apart from 'The Case of the Unwanted Pregnancy' of course, which was solved in an alley on an overcast Thursday afternoon. I recall Julian and Georgina didn't mention that one to the others until 'The Riddle of the Bloody Coathanger' in 1958.

One response could be "I went to the 'Jazz on Broadway' event", which took place on Sunday. Doesn't that look fun (and isn't the website attractive). I have actually hitched my wagon to that particular star on a previous occasion and emerged stained, hoarse and due to the exotic pricing structure imposed upon on all drinks, poorer than an unemployed church mouse (in fact wherever they live, mice have yet to develop a satisfactory system for funding a jobseekers allowance, primarily because mice are very resistant to taxation). This time I was busy attaining squatter's rights on a comfy Brighton sofa whilst others were jazzing all over Broadway, which I can recommend you try but would also ask you to find your own sofa.

Sadly, home being what it is, it must eventually be returned to so 10:30pm saw me returning from Brighton to Haywards Heath station and from there wandering in the direction of Castle Benenstein. Though it had failed to lure me, the prospect of £5 pints and a lack of requirement to make conversation had evidently proved too much for many, and my return took me through the wobbly masses who were en route to the fabled 'last train'. It was easy to see why they chose to name the street 'Broadway' as there is a definite air of glamour about it. I could think of nothing else in fact as I walked up through the steadily departing hordes. Sweating wobbly drunks farting down the street with burger grease dribbled down their shirt-fronts and couples demonstrating how lovely it is to be in a relationship by arguing in the middle of the road, showering each other's red-faces with spit and insults. Glenn Miller always brings out the best in people.

So anyway, hopefully you had a lovely one. The banks have now returned to work feeling refreshed, full of vimto and vinegar and are happily setting about ruining people's lives until their next break in August. You might like to start planning your next adventure.