The Night Blonde Bob Broke Wind On Broadway

I was with Blonde Bob the night he broke wind on Broadway. Cotswolds, before you ask. Not an arresting sight and as a result he got a way with it. He’s got a way with a lot of things, Blonde Bob; as for me, only words. Worcester however is a much scarier place. At the weekends one sometimes sees yoofs about town appearing to enjoy a coffee or shopping for an adaptable cravats, but why are they really there? Only today I saw someone wearing a hood, now is that really necessary? Why, I remember when you could park your tractor on the Cross* whilst you popped into the Paul Pry for a pint or eight. Nowadays you can’t even drive your geese down the City Walls Road without ruffling somebody's feathers. Namby pamby nanny state. Moo. Baaa. etc

The Borrowers

Yoof is an interesting word. It probably has its roots in proud anglo/day-glo Saxon lingualism. Worcester is the faithful city, always ready to resist change. We have one coffee shop, one butcher (Pete the Meat) and one ironmonger and long may it remain that way. We also have the most wonderful golden library that has recently been competed, in direct contrast to the monstrosity of a shopping complex being built off the City Wall’s Rd. It’s a one stop knocking shop who's one selling point will be that in the future all the looting can take place under one roof. 

* The Cross is a junction in the centre of town. I misread a message saying a 'Policeman had been seen (standing) on the Cross. This made me think that crucifying Police Officers would surely end in tears.