Lazy (or Crazy?) Town Star Visits Leestock


Empty. An empty vessel in a field of festive folk. An empty tent with a no-brain jester’s hat sitting on its laurels, awaiting an audience.
Time for action. Time for a filler, and I, Jay Cool, blogger extraordinaire, have just the wig for the job.
I take off with my wig, and work the crowds. “Get off your a***s and pay us a visit!”
“Free drinks?”
“Yeah, of course. Get yourselves over to the comedy tent and, as you’re asking, a mango cider please? A barrel of mango for the Crazy Town lady in the pink wig? See you back at the venue!”
Mission completed, I return to base. The audience is beginning to gather. But … there’s been no delivery – not even a thimbleful. Further action required.

I take a merry jaunt next-door to the beer tent, momentarily lamenting the loss of last year’s neighbour, my green-footed portaloo pals! But no matter, the loos have been replaced by a rocking ambulance. Red lights and frolics, or a dry run for the resuscitation of our headline act, Dom Holland?

Dom Holland, so I’ve heard, is renowned the world over for passing out if (when) the braying crowds of try to heckle him off the stage. Still, he’s a resilient old soul – keeps coming back for more! Reckon he’s got a bit of a thing about our Suffolk nurses. The good old NHS, reliable and consistent. Anything to keeps old Dom standing.

The NHS have even provided a gibbet –
to hold up old Dom’s rotting remains!
Mesmerised, just a touch, by the mystery of the rocking ambulance, I return to the comedy tent, full vessel of mango cider in hand, and attempt to settle it down into a steady pint-glass holder – a clump of grass and leg of my deckchair. Sorted.

Worms, drawn out of their underground hobbit tunnels, by the promise of sweet rain, find themselves intoxicated senseless. Heads chase tails, as they try to lick their own a***s. (Do worms have arses?) Such images, once again, bring thoughts of Dom into my mind, and I contemplate whether Dom too, like his partner in middle-aged self-aggrandizement, Jay Cool, would welcome an opportunity to become a stakeholder in the mango cider business.

Contemplation aside, I return to my trusty friend, the beer tent, and beg for a refill. It doesn’t come cheap! Must make a bigger effort with the crowds on my next outing. A different wig, perhaps? The Ed Sheeran orange? Or Cher’s sleek-black raven? Alas, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by the think-of-me-only chords of Gavin Milnthorpe!


Is it really Gavin? Gavin Milnthorpe, my hero?

My hero worship is only slightly dampened by Gavin’s forthcoming declarations that he’s a ‘window-cleaning pervert’ with an ‘Oedipus complex’. He can stop by my window with his bucket anytime, just so long as he tops up my now-empty-again pint glass. A few fruity squeezes of the mangos are acceptable, but I’ll give Gavin’s ‘father-in-a-stew recipe’ a miss! Sounds a wee bit chewy and gristly to me – us middle-aged ladies have to look after our sensitive gums! Sainsbury’s Little Ones Simply Organic Mango Puree is more up my street (or, to be more truthful, the Tesco’s Value equivalent, diluted, and by the barrel!)

But, here I am – in a reverie, fantasising about mango cider – whilst poor desperate Gavin is trying to plug his new publication. How disrespectful of me!

I refocus. Gavin.

Reckons he’s an established novelist with a cult following. But, given the clue, that Gav’s attempting to sell these on the black market beyond Melford Hall’s sacred grounds, for only a fiver a piece, I ‘m drawing my own conclusions.

Melford Hall
Forget fiction, Gavin. Face up to the facts! You need to diversify, and venture into the land of Mrs Beeton, or Jamie Oliver. Look at the millions made by the latter, all for dipping his saliva-smeared fingers into his latest concoction, and taking a slurp and a burp, before passing around the finished product to his have-to-be-polite-because-we’re-on-TV nosh tasters.

Cast aside your ‘Stanley Young is Planning a Murder’ effort and get working on ‘Milnthorpe’s Oedipus Delights’. And I, Jay Cool, will get working on the sequel: ‘Milnthorpe’s Mush for Middlers’. Come on, Gav! Together, we can make a fortune …

But, Gavin’s gone. And, to make it worse, the Butcher’s been replaced by a Barber!

A Barber called Neil!

Neil Barber
A Barber who looks like a cross between Kenny Everett and Prince Harry!
A Creative Commons image from
A Creative Commons image featured on

‘The Duchess Diaries’ blog

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2018.

Can things get any lower?


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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