Athletico Mince - The Crime Files Collection Vol. 2

Episode Date: July 11, 2022

Here's a compilation of some Crime Files stories, from episode 91 to 102. DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR... Become a member at https://plus.acast.com/s/athleticomince. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I've got a Cranfiles Andrew, but I need your permission to do it because it's really long. That's all right. So this is almost a reformat in a mince because everything is like, you're going to get a couple of longies. Right. Well, I can't like longies special

with a coliseum or so, do I know? Well, let's see where we get to. Do you need me to do the noise? I do, but I apologise for taking up so much fricking time. I'll just get home, will you? All right. Are you ready with the noise? Fairly ready.

Crime files. The small Lancashire village of Pendleton is a close knit community where neighbours keep an eye out for each other and the local police force encounters very little crime. With its 14th century church, village pond and picture post called High Street, it was a great place to live. And then Thursday, the 11th of November 2018 arrived and all that was to change. Neil Hunt owned a small nonsense pottery at the end of the High Street next to the convenience

store. It was 12.30 pm as he stood outside the nonsense pottery staring at a large Mercedes car that had parked illegally on his forecourt. It had been there for over 30 minutes and the owner had still not returned. Neil needed to pop next door into the shop to purchase his Thursday lunchtime pie and tinderice pudding. Worried that the owner of the vehicle might return whilst he was in the shop, he had pendered note to stick to the car's windscreen. It didn't pull any punches. Might as well have fun.

To the pig ignorant owner, stroke Todd Warrior of this vehicle. My name is Neil Hunt and I own the nonsense pottery that you were virtually blockaded with this vulgar, ostentatious Todd chariot. Firstly, it makes it impossible for passersby to approach the beautiful display of pottery tat in my window display and secondly, it obstructs access to my pottery for other users. This is forecourt, strictly for loading and unloading. Off a parking mind Nissan, not for an hour stay while you creep around the village, eyeing up the women in your cheap business suit from fucking primark. I don't know you, but an educated guess would be that you are pig ignorant, small cocked, selfish, pretentious, peddler of Todd, yours Neil fucking hunt!

Yeeeey! Neil then nipped into the convenience store to purchase his pie and rice pudding, but inspecting the chilled cabinet, all the pies were out of stock. No pies, no fucking pies! Don't they know it's Thursday, Pie Day? What the fuck is going on? Neil approached the man behind the till. I say you, yes you!

What happened to all the fucking pies? Were you rammerated by a fucking weight watchers escapee or something? Er, no, the bloke who just left bought every pie, a chicken, steak and potato, mince and onion, steak and kidney. Yes, alright, I get it, all the fucking pies! Neil rushed out of the shop to catch up with the pie hoarder, and there he was, stood next to the Mercedes, reading the note Neil had written.

It was Sean Daish, manager of the Burnley Footballing Club. Yep. Yep. Yep. Ah, I see you got the note. Maybe you will think twice now before you park so carelessly. Yes, I'm sure, Daish. Yeah, definitely. It's a very powerful note. Yes, it is. It is, isn't it? Now, I noticed you bought all the pies from the shop. I was wondering if in the circumstances of your ape behavior,

I could have one of those pies. You see, I have one every Thursday lunch, and if I don't, it will make me ten towards the anxious. Yes, of course. Why don't we go inside your shop and you not enjoy a pie together? Yes, yes we... Sorry, sorry. Yes, we should do that. Very reasonable of you. I'm Neil Hunt, by the way. Local nonsense potter. Pleased to meet you. Come on, let's get inside and tuck in. The two entered the shop and as the door closed behind them, it was immediately

locked by Sean. Nice. Sit down, little bottom man. Let's make ourselves at home. Right, we can both sit here at my design table. Nice to have some company, actually. There are so many clonkers out there, I rarely leave the shop. Sean picked up a roll of packaging tape. I don't blame you. Now, put your hands behind your fucking back.

And we'll have a nice little chat. What? No fucking woe! No, I fucking won't! I should have known you were a man of Todd, get out of the pottery! With that Sean Slappney, you'll fall on the temple. Do what Mr. Dish tells you, Potter. That's the burnly way. Now?

Yeah. What the fuck is happening here? I mean, do you know who I am? Who are you? I'm Neil fucking hunt, not since Potter. And I should fucking warn you that my brother owns a sword shop. And my sister-in-law has an 11 year old boy at karate school Sean Tide kneels hands behind his back with the tape

So you want to pie do you little Potter? Well, here is how it's going to go Open your mouth and prepare for pie. It's the food of the gods and the fuel of my tribe. Now I've got to, I've lost me music, you know Andy. Of you? Yeah, it was a free thing and it's disappeared. So it's a new, he's a... That's a shab. Yeah. See if I can... So I wonder which one this is. Sorry Andy. Now that's alright. I think it might be I'll let it some of this bit out Sean then began to force a whole staking kidney pie into Neil's mouth

Sean then began forcing a mint and mint and potato pie into Neil's face a mint and a little pie into Neil's face. What wrong with you man? Have you taken leave of what very little sense you were born with? This is England not the fucking democratic republic of shit shovelers! Stop neither in putter. Now get this short cross chicken and leak down your neck. I've got all the flavours. Get me nips, get me nips, stick in the shop told me! And as Sean continued to feed the muck into

Neil's mouth, he began to design the music for a new, inspirational whav. Get that dumb your neck! I'll get that dumb your neck! AHHHHH! I'll get that down your neck! AHHHHH! Fucking stop it! Get the pie down your neck! Get the pie down your neck! AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHH!

It's a good tune that I like it! Now, do I have your permission to park my car on your forecourt whenever I want potter? Yes, yes, yes, just fucking leave! Please just leave me alone! And with that shorn dyesh left the shop and drove away, leaving Neil slumped on his nonsense chair, covered in fats and filling. Why? Why did it have to be little old me? I want to run a 5k for women's health.

And I'm a qualified first-aid. Neil was discovered in a pool of his own vomit by a customer four hours later. Since that day he's erected a line of concrete ballads in front of his shop to stop cars parking. This has reduced his already poultry trade by 50%. Oh I tell you what, let's end with this. There you go, that was Cranfiles Andrew. Very nice. Oh it's something in it. It's something. Yeah, killed a bit of time. Cranfiles, you reckon. Why are you ready with your

Mr. Bow. I see that breaking bad trailer is nicked my Motorcycle noise. Yeah, shit honestly the reach of affector comments So Vince Gilligan sat in his L.O. And very positively on so I said oh I love this mens Oh, what's that sound? I gotta have it Uh, where is it wait till Brian hears this I gotta have it! Where is it? Wait till Brian hears this! I am ready. Okay.

Crime Files! The Darbyshire Dales count amongst the most beautiful areas of the British countryside. The Hamlet of Brockham is the jewel in its crown. Once famous for the production of sips and brass buttons, it is now a rural escape for the well-to-do of the large middling towns. But even in such an ittle, such as this, if you scratch the surface, there is evil lurking below, waiting to rear its head. On the 2nd of March 2009, there was not so much as a scratch, but a full-blown excavation. On the outskirts of the village was a small

refurbished barn. It was the home and workplace of Neil Hunt, a nonsense potter. That day he was alone in the potry, talking to his clay wholesaler on the telephone. This is Neil Hunt, nonsense potter, and I'm very dissatisfied with the latest batch of clay you sent me. Your terms and conditions clearly stated that it had a very low shrinkage rate and excellent plasticity. Well that was a fucking lie. I threw a military-themed suit bowl on my wheel and it had wadd before I even got a chance to kill it.

What are you going to do about it? Tell me, what are you going to do about it? Come on, tell me, I fucking dare you! My-no, shh! Sorry. My technique, my technique, you have actually just said that I'm Neil fucking hunt. The greatest nonsense potter to have walked these fucking lonely streets! And you sir are the biggest fucking fraud in the shitty kingdom! Take this as your notice to fuck off! At that moment a customer entered the shop, it was Steve McClaren,

ex-Alan footballing strategist and founder member of the British Managers lunch club. Thank you all for early. Hello Mr Potter, what a lovely shop. Yeah, what you want. What you actually want? Do you want some nonsense pottery? Are you just a rim-kick? Yes, I'm very interested in their purchase. It's my snake Casper's fifth birthday and I thought you might like a little pottery tableau. You know like a pottery shoe with some

kittens poking the sweet in the syntheses out. Did you say snake? You're buying a gift for a snake. Is your mind touching the fucking void or something? No, don't be deaf. Casper is my best friend in the whole wide world He's like a bucket of peaches with creamy whipped cream on top and a sprinkling of cuddles And you think you would like a pottery fucking shoe Fair enough. And you think you would like a pottery fucking shoe? Yes I do. I think it would give him a fun rush and a lovely smiley moment. If you say so. By the way, a piece of orange glaze seems to have drifted onto your forehead. You'd best brush it off. No, you silly rudely from the plonkish county.

That's my hair island. Their once was a manager had an incredible idea. It came to him while shopping on the first floor of Ikear. He stared into a mirror at the island on his head, and realised in that moment that all other styles were dreaded, he'd grown a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Steve walked over to the shelf and reached up for the kitten shoe tablo but as he did so he knocked the military theme potty and it fell to the floor smashing into a hundred pieces. Quite a long one, I think.

What have you done? What have you actually gone and fucking done? That pottery is irreplaceable. Why me? Why is it always little fucking me? I've given literally hundreds of pounds to useless kids over the years. I sometimes wish I'd never fucking bothered. Oh come on Mr Hunt, it's just a bit of nonsense, putty, putty, putty. Surely you can knock another one up. Neil grabbed McLaren by the collar of his Moss-Bros blazer.

Oh, sorry. Nock up another! I'll fucking knock you up, such a... Can't town you silly, rugby-set, Tonka. I'm sure we can settle this, I beg company. But Neil was in no mood to compromise. He began shaking McLaren, and McLever and covering his blazer with spit as he barked in anger. You fucking pay for that log of heart. Do you realise how many nonsense hours went into

crafting that military-shitting butt? Casper! Casper come quick, help me metallic! Casper, the snake rushed through the door and raised his head up facing Neil. And that snake can fuck off! You should know that my sister-in-law's father is in the fraud squad, and my brother is in negotiations to purchase a knife factory! Fuck me! That snake stinks! With that Casper leapt at Neil and coiled his body around Neil's neck, he began to squeeze tightly and Neil's face began to redden under the pressure.

Call him up! Call him fucking up! But Steve didn't say a word and soon enough the steam Neil fell to the floor unconscious and his slacks covered in urine. Casper released his grip. Oh thank you, thank you Cas Casper my little jug of gravy bear bravery. Look what I got for you birthday it's a shoe in kitten pottery tableau. Casper smiled. And you it would give you a smiley moment and a fun rush.

20 minutes later Neil came round to find his shop empty and note on his table explained that Steve was taking the shoe-cut tableau as compensation for dry cleaning of his Moss Bros blazer. This fucking country, this fucking Todd Warrer is taking over, but believe me I won't go without a fight, I'm Neil fucking hot! Not set spotting! Crying files! Poor poor Neil.

Get married for straight with the world, innit? Yeah. Yeah. Shame in it. Oh man. frustrated with the world, didn't he? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Shame in it. Oh, man. Crime files. There are monsters all around us hiding in plain sight. Who can you trust? Which one is out to get you? Are you safe speaking to no one and locking yourself away from the world? Evil doesn't

have a face, evil doesn't introduce itself and give you fair warning. A small smiling, innocent looking fool might just turn out to be the bogeyman you feared as a child. bogeyman you feared as a child. The small Burke Chatteron of Campbell had a population of just over 800, a small thriving high street and a reputation as one of the most popular commuter destinations for the London, the High Street, the London, the High Street, the middle class. Not that much happened apart from the annual Campbell Fair, the occasional visit of a tourist bus

to visit the stone circle on the village green. That was until the 14th of June 2019, when a certain Mr. Dom Littlewood pulled into town in search of a cowboy builder he wanted to expose. No. Yeah. A was shorty. Wasn't it? Neil Hunt was the local nonsense potter

and had his workshop come gallery in a small stone barn just behind the high street. He was at his wheel, fashioning a nonsense pottery milk jug when Dom Little would enter. All right, Chase! Not getting past you, you idiot! What's the play?

What's your angle? Excuse me! Excuse me for wondering this, but what an earth has it got to do with you? That's the friendly inquiry, son. Where are you selling? Was your gift? Was your markup? How are your virgins? I thought it was pretty obvious. I'm a nonsense potter, selling nonsense potries at a very reasonable rate for the hours I put into each piece. Now can I help you with something and if not take a fuck off notice and serve it on yourself?

Wow, don't need to get caution right on me, I was just wondering, if you're building works down on this jam, guess what I have, I needed the floor reinforcing for the kill and those skylights installed so I could see what I'm doing here. Listen, do you want to buy a piece or are you just cock me prick passing the time of day before the crack dealer turns up? I'm just looking for a builder. I wonder if you had a work in the Asian foomey. I used to look on Mandaric Phillips, a fucking ape of a man, but he did his work within schedule and without playing a fucking radio all day. Oh Derek Phillips, yeah. ape of a man, but he did his work within schedule and without without playing a fucking radio all day.

Oh, Derek Phillips, yeah, well that's ever worth with him. Do you have his number, Andy? Oh, an adress? Yes, but I'm not giving it to you without his permission. You could well be a Todd warrior as far as I know. Ah, but if I was to buy one of these pointless nonsense vases, would that loosen your po-o-e-tang? No, it wouldn't, now fuck off.

Dom grabbed a large elephant-themed vase from the shelf and dropped it to the floor. Pfft! Oh, how clumsy of me. If we like talking now, what do we mean? Do we fuck them? What the fuck are you doing? How fucking dare you? How fucking dare you? That vase is worth 200 fucking quid. You pay for that sunshine and what's fucking more I'm calling the police. Neil picked up his mobile phone, but it was immediately grabbed from him by Dom.

It's ever-look-food or contact, shall we? See if there's a certain greek phoep in there. You tiny bald fuck wallet! Give me my phone back or I'll fucking thrash you to with an inch of your tedious life! At this point, Dom grabbed the largest item on the shelf. An orange and black walland of ours decorated with images of canine police. Canine police units. No, no, no, no, not the canine sniff a dog centerpiece. Do you realize, do you even have a clue how valuable that piece is? Well, maybe 200 Nika, give her a try, a poundy. You cheeky little cunt!

It's worth well over a thousand pounds in cheap at that price. You should know that before you continue, that my wife's cousin Timothy owns a camper van with flame decals and my god-parent son owns a shop that's allowed to sell bullets. Very interesting. Ah, here it is, Derek Phillips builder. It's giving him a bell. Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare you little chimp. With that meal dived at Dom with all the force he could muster. The canine police

fire a shattered on the floor and the foal was thrust from Dom's hand. Dom pulled a leather man utility to from his bummer jacket and thrust the Phillips screwdriver attachment into Neil's lower back. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me, that's tart! What are you thinking of your little Todd sausage? And my vars! Just look at it, fucking look at it! All that work! Why me? Why is it always fucking little old me? I went to a million coffee morning yesterday

and I once ran a 5K in aid of dogs with mons. HE LAUGHS Dong climbed on top of him and switched his tomb to the pen knife, but... HE LAUGHS What are you doing? What are you actually fucking doing? I'm Neil Hunt nonsense potter! I'm fucking invincible! How is that so? Let's see what happens when I gouge your eye out of his

blade. Dom slowly brought the blade towards Neil's right and main potting eye. Just as Neil could resist no more, the door of the potry opened and in walked builder, Derek Phillips. I saw you rang and I was just passing so I thought I'd pop in. Yes, yes, I've fuck off with the story, Talin! And get this fucking boiled egg off me!

Derek picked Tom up and held him mid-hair. What do you want me to do with Inboss? Bite him! He fucking bite him! Bite him all over his shiny fucking skull! And then we'll lock him in the kill until fucking pancake day! And as Derek's teeth repeatedly penetrated Tom's head in face, Neil looked to the sky and declared, I'm Neil fucking hunt and I'm loving my life!

Dom was released from the kill in the following day when his film crew came looking for him. He was unable to explain what had happened as his mind had flattened and reversed inwards. Crime files. Oh, blind me. I don't look at you. That was a good, but that felt like two equals coming together. Yeah. And battling to the death almost.

Going to the death. But we just got chucked in the kiln. Yeah. chucked in the kiln. CRIME FILES Little Aston is an affluent area in the District of Lichfield, some 7 miles north of Birmingham. There are around 1000 properties in a village of which some 20% are valued at over 1 million pounds. Unsurprisingly, it is an enclave for professional footballers and celebrities and frequently referred to as Millionaires Row. In the nearby town of Stretley, just off the High Street, is located a small nonsense pottery owned and run by Mr. Neal Hunt.

On the 28th of October 2019, this pottery was to be seen of an infamous and horrible crime. The day started as usual with Mr. Hunt taking delivery of a batch of fresh clay and some replacement brick liners for his kill. There you go mate, 250 grams of buff-throwing clay, five litres of transparent glaze and hold on! Let me just stop you there. Did you just call me mate? Did you just assume that we were somehow friends when all that's actually going on here is a simple nonsense pottery business transaction. Oh it's just a figure of speech mate. You did it again. You just had the fucking goal to slap a mate on me after I just indicated to you that it was inappropriate.

Do it again and you can stick this delivery up your shit pipe and take a fuck off notice back to your boss. So what's it going to be? Go on, I dare you. Do it again. Um, sorry Mr. Hunt. I didn't mean anything by it. No you Todd worry, it's never fucking good. Now where do I sign? You're just here on the docket. There you go. Now fuck off mate and lose your attitude. I'm Neil Hunt nonsense potter. Not some bar stool crooner looking for compliments from a fucking clown. Just as he leaves, two men enter the shop. It's Jack Grelish and John Terry. Oh Mike, we're looking for a nice bit of nonsense pottery for Jack's man.

What did you say? I said we were looking for a pot for Jack's man mate. Tell me, who are you actually speaking to? You mate. Listen, I don't know you from Adam and not your mate and if you continue to insist that I am, I will ask you to leave the pottery. Oh, I can't dare to eat. Sweetheart, sweetheart!

Go on, get out of my shop, you're just another Todd Warrior. I can spot them a mile off, go and leg it. Jack, Grelish turned to leave, but as he did so, he brushed his leg against a pot stand and fell to the floor. Oh, sorry, sorry, I'm hearing very heavy shoes and thick socks and a lust the floor. On sour sorry, on wearing very heavy shoes, and thick socks and a lust my balance. Get up Jack and stay still you muppet. Don't you fucking dare stand still, keep walking and make your way to the Todd Cabin that you undoubtedly crawled from under. Jack turned to leave a game but sadly tripped himself up on the corner of a military

themed rug on the floor. As he reached to steady himself, he grabbed another pot stand and a UK garden fruits theme to us. A UK garden fruits theme verse fell crashing to the floor. What have you done? What have you actually fucking done? I spent over 18 hours on that UK garden fruit special. Why is it always little old me? Every other week I give stock cubes to the food bank and I take ice buns to the prostate support room every fourth meeting. I don't fucking deserve this tarnery. Oh look mate! Don't fucking make me you cocky pellet! At that point Jack takes a step forward to apologise. Sorry Mr Potter, it's just that with the heavy leather shoes

and the thick knit socks combined with the draft coming from the kill now it let I lost my balance. Well it's your fucking bug balance that's gonna take a hit now that UK Garden Fruit Spot retails at 350 pounds. I know what it now! Give me your debit card! Go on! Give it me now, you fucking stint up! But as Neil Hunt barked out these words to Jack, John Terry had already grabbed a sharp edge of the broken UK Fruit Spot

and slashed it across Neil's face, instantly drawing blood. Don't you talk to my boy like that, mate? To be done, what have you actually fucking done? I should warn you that my sister's new fellow owns the most accurate catapult in the West Midlands and my brother-in-law's neighbor is a graffiti artist. Ha, listen mate, it was accident. Right, caused by your filet to secure the rug to the floor. No, it wasn't, no it fucking wasn't. Even a child couldn't fall due to contact with the lip of that military theme drug. Oh yeah, well, let's check the CCTV, shall we?

The three of them gathered around Neil's computer screen as the footage of the fall was replayed. Neil zoomed in on Jack's foot at the moment his fall commenced. It was clear that there was no contact between the rug and Jack's foot. Ah, there you go, I fucking knew it! I fucking knew it! Now, coffat! 350 fucking knew it! I fucking knew it! Now, copper! 350 fucking quid!

Now, mate, that military frame rug definitely made her move towards Marjack. It's all about intent in it. Mark, can we just leave it, Mr. Terry? Truth is my eye, but our prayers feel very heavy today. And what would the heavy shoes and socks of it lose my balance? Shut it, Jack, we ain't praying for nothing. Terry held the sharp pot against Neil's throat, drawing more blood.

Is that all agreed potter? Yes, yes, yes, yes, okay, okay, just get out of my pottery. As Jack and Terry left the shop and Neil held a Belinda wipe to his bleeding neck. Terry noticed a photograph on the shelf by the door. It was this bird, it's my brother's wife, he's fallen. Oh tasty, I'm having that.

Fuck, okay, child warriors, I don't know, don't even know why I'm fucking bobbin'. Unleaving the shop Jack immediately fell to the floor again. Sorry, I didn't expect the pavement to be so rippled. T- Cri- Files Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha soddington lies 12 miles to the north of Cheltenham, a peaceful and wealthy place that is home to a law-binding population of some 400. Just behind the high street in a converted chapel is the workshop and sales room of local Nonsense Potter Mr. Neal Hunt. The 22nd of May 2018 was to be a dare that neither Mr. Hunt, nor the residents of Tuddington, would ever forget.

Neil was- P- P- No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no They're putting on to them and was mumbling under his breath. Fucking foreign yoghats. Could they have made this muck any harder to open? I mean what's wrong with a fucking lid that you can actually get a grip on? He then noticed the telephone number of a consumer hotline on the side of the ski-a-pot. He rang the number. Yes, maybe you can help me. I just opened one of your muck pots and the force needed to rip off the foil seal was the same as you would need to rip the ear off a sleeping rabbit. As a result, I've spilt your tasteless offering all over my nearly new slacks.

What colour? What colour brown, of course, I'm not a gender web. So what are you going to do? What are you actually going to do? What do you intend to do to make this right? Now I don't want a replacement pot. I never want to set my eyes on this foreign chod again. You could tell your Icelandic overlords that I'd rather eat some heron todd than this impenetrable, dairy sludge. Now fuck off! At that moment the door to the shop open and in what the football manager Nigel Pearson. Hello there, what do you want? Tell me, go and tell me what do you actually want? I'm after a nice bit of pottery, something humorous and light-hearted, maybe a seal holding a beach ball or a clown garing an old battered suitcase.

Well, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I don't produce fruit through this is a serious nonsense pottery. Maybe you should try the Argos catalog on a local boot sale. Excuse me, but do I detect an attitude in your voice? Do I sense an indifferent patronising torn to your words, perhaps suggesting that I am inferior to what you are? Maybe, maybe not, and anyway, what's it to you? I've answered your question, and now I'd like you to leave. Goodbye. Are you looking for a fight? Physical fight. Do you want to fight me? If you do fight me, it is a fact that you will lose because I am an excellent fighter.

No, I don't want to fight. What are you a child? You don't look like a child, so why are you acting like one? Has your mind turned in on itself and turned into a Todd bun? Go on, get out! At this juncture, Pearson grabbed Neil by the scruff of his neck and lifted him clean off the ground. No body, and I mean nobody, like it's me to a child, and let me tell you, if I were a child, I would be a child that fights and wins most of those fights. The few fights

I lose would be against all the children, or the parents of children I have just beaten in a fight. And go with me, let go of me, look, I should warn you that my brother owns a sword shop that sells bullet necklaces and the handmade poster-pocalypse zombie knives. Yeah, but your brother isn't here, is he? And even if he were, he would lose a fight against me because I am the best fighter in the school. Nigel threw Neil against the door of his kiln. Neil slumped down to the floor, his head ringing from the impact. He looked down to see a long tear in his slacks. Not my slacks, not my fucking beautiful brown slacks.

Why is it always little old me? I've donated well over 50 pounds to Michael Bolz's donkey charity and I always return my shopping trolley to the covered bay At this moment into the shop walks Martin Lewis the money-saving expert and busy body Hello, I've come for my refund on that faulty head chug money bank I returned to you because the poinslet had rough edges fuck safe. Not you again Look it clearly says in big fucking letters on the website that there is no returns policy on all my nonsense pieces purchased in the sale. End fucking off!

But that's against the long-distance selling regulations of the sale of good act. If you don't refund me, I should be issuing a small claim against you. Quickly then you can log on to how to save a money on a Zoom visit at MartinLewsMyHero.com. Fuck you, fuck me, your slice of shit! Do you want to... Sorry, this is Nigel. Oh, fuck me. You're a slice of shit.

Do you want to fight? If you do, it will be a fight you will lose. A fight at a furious purse. And without thought to injuries, I may cause. I ask you again, do you want to fight? Well, uh, what business is it? Too late, we are fighting. Pearson jumped on Martin Lewis and proceeded to pummel him, specifically aiming his punches at the centre of his face.

When he had finished Lewis was unrecognizable, his face resembled the sick of a person who ate nothing but liver. How fucking Martin Lewis. No, no, no, no Fucking heart, fucking heart Take that Martin Lewis. I fucking love it. What a fucking beating you have had and that's for you sir I will make you the most humerus piece of fruit you've got ever desire for free on me Just piece of fruit through, you've got ever desire, for free on me. Can it be a clown eating candy floss while having a dump on a melon?

That is exactly what it shall be. As Nigel carried Lewis out of the shop and dumped him in a skip, Neal was heard to mutter. I'm Neal Hunt and I'm loving my life. Oh, shit. Yeah. Grimefork and files. There. There we go.

A lot of hitrots, Martin Lewis there. Well, I didn't do. He only wants to help us. Oh, but sometimes. Sometimes. You know what I'm saying? The letter of the sometimes, sometimes. You're not supposed to pause it though. The letter of the law, baby.

Hey Andrew, what? You fancy going for a crown files? Oh, God, I'd love to, yeah. Now, I'll be playing Neil Hunt. Can you play the other character, Andrew? I will, I'll do me best. OK, here we go. Do me best.

Crime files. the other character Andrew? I will do me best. Okay here we go. Crime Files. The small Surrey town of Merston prided itself on being a quiet and tranquil community where friendliness and hospitality were valued above all else. With its treeline high street and picture postcard cottages it was often voted as one of the top 10 places to live in the UK. That was until the 16th of June 2017, when everything was to change. Christopher Peacock was a nonsense potter, who would recently moved into the town. He had taken a lease on a small shop just off the High Street.

It was to be a combined workshop and retail space where he would make and sell nonsense pottery, ranging from humorous novelty egg cups to more elaborately hideous vases, jugs, plates and bowls. It was the 16th of June when he first opened his doors for business. Little did he know that his first visitor would be Mr. Neal Hunt, proprietor of the recently established nonsense pottery on the high street. Hello there! Are you looking for anything in particular? Yes, I'm looking for the owner of this Todd shed.

Well, that would be me, Bucko, and what's with the attitude? Do you think you are the fresh prince of shite? Oh, calm it off with your posturing, you half-wit. What I want to know is how, actually how, you have the audacity, the nerve even to open a nonsense pottery in this town. And what's it to you, small man? What's it to me? What's it to me?

I'm Neil fucking hunt! And don't tell me you didn't know I had a nonsense pottery. Just a hundred yards from here on the high street What you tried to do put me out of business? Oh That's your shit of shit is it you know last two minutes once people say the beautiful nonsense I create Beautiful did you say beautiful? It's only suitable for Todd warriors and tiny needy baby people Look at this dinosaur theme plate a fly wouldn't even land itself on this disaster, you from pure unadulterated pigeon-todd. Take that back, you pathetic old, take it back now,

before I mash up on you like a dirty bofo. But Neil didn't take it back, instead he threw the dinosaur a sore plate against the wall, smashing it into a thousand pieces. Come on then, pricky-ato, make a move, but I should warn you that my sister, in law, actually owns a full-body fencing suit, and my brother's eldest son can't just spell-dude it, so he can write it down as well. Like I give, like I actually give a flying spoon of talk about that. I'll have you know that my brother owns a venomous snake shelter and my wife's boss Ron Whittle knows a formula for gunpowder. Oh does he? Well he's not fucking here is he? So let's strip off and go toe to fucking toe till one of us gets anxious trousers. Chris grabs a kiln shovel from the wall and brandishes at Neil.

Now hold on, just hold on. Why is it always little old me? I once gave a Dayton wall that sliced to a homeless man outside Lloyd's bank. And I once gave the vicar a lift to Red Hill to buy some Jesus sandals. But his pleadings fell on deaf ears and before he could defend himself the blade of the shovel crashed against his head and he fell out of consciousness. Two hours later he came round to find himself tied by rope to a chair. Christopher Peacock was firing up the nonsense pottery kiln and deciding upon Neil's fate. Ah, there you are! Look at you! Not so mouth-happy now, are you? So what shall I do with you? Chop off your bony nonsense pottery hands! Throw your tod-ridden

body into the kiln? Oh, I couldn't care less! Literally, I couldn't care one dotless! You're a fucker, Chuchu, and I am, and, or will, and I am always will be Neil Hunt, the greatest nonsense potter the world has ever seen. Yeah, well here's a thought, what about you sign your potterie over to me and get the fucker boo out of this town. It's that or into the kill you go. I've had the paperwork printed out, all you have to do is sign.

Go on then, go on, fucking on timeely then and I'll sign it but believe me when I say I will come back at you with thousands of nonsense pieces that will blow you out of the water I'll do it online if need be I don't give a liquid shit Chris untied Neil and offered him the pen to sign as he did so Neil picked up the largest shard from the shattered dinosaur theme plate and began to gouge at Chris' groin. In his fury, he managed to completely cut off Chris' personal pipe. Chris began to bleed profusely and Neil threw the battered appendage into the kiln. As it sizzled, as it sizzled, Neil turned to Chris. That's what happens! That's what happens when you try to get the better of Neil

fucking hunt Christopher Peacock. Ha ha ha! I just realized your Chris Peacock! Chris Peacock! And listen, that's your cock roasting and it's now a Chris Peacock! That's fucking wonderful! Neil left his rival on the floor, carrying not whether he would recover. As he closed the door behind him, he declared, I'm Neil Hunt and I love him my life! So that was Grandpa. Always a bit graphic, innit? Well, well, definitely. That was very intense.

Yeah. We were there, a rival for in it. Well, well, definitely that was very intense. Yeah. We're there, arrival for Neil there. I saw him off. I very much enjoyed Chris. I hope that Chris be cocked. I hope that maybe recovers and we might see him again, you know. Yeah, that'll be good. That'll be good. Thank you.