Athletico Mince - The Beardsley Collection Vol. 6

Episode Date: September 29, 2026

Here’s a compilation of Peter’s efforts between June and December 2021, including some of his world class rapping.(Originally released to Club Parsnips members in October 2025) Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Peter Beardsley sent me a wav. Are you interested? Always. Let's see what he's been up to. All right. All right, Bob. Just so I get in touch for a chit-chat, you know, chatter and a natter, chinwag and waggy around, a bit of a babble, you know,

to the fat, you know. Truth is I'm in the wife's bad book, so she's thrown me out of the outside. Like, and I'm sat in the cat in the moment at the retail park. A pretty good spotter would be honest, like, you know. I can see Alfreds, Costa coffee, Greg's. That's Wicks over there, like, you know. Hey, I wonder if Greg sell a chicken rat. Let's have a look at my laptop here, what's this Tanduli chicken bagget?

Treat yourself to a chicken. A taste of India with our delicious Tandori chicken baguette. Fresh baked with Tandori style meal and slices of roast chicken breast. Now that's not good. As you know, but I like my chicken nice and lumpy, you know, lumpy, not sliced like, all on, chicken bake. Chicken pieces is rich and creamy rice sauce sauce. might be all right there

I wonder if a chicken piece is as lumpy as a chicken lump yeah probably not don't yet so yeah the wife threw me out this lunchtime for back chatting here you know

she was watching police interceptors on the telly and I was still at the door to ask her about their egg requirement's like now ever since I've had the second jab I've had a nasty, stingy pain around the seam of my ball bag. And I was spiking, I gave my bag like a little itch, you know, with a spatula, and I had my hand.

Are you intending to cook my scrambles with that spatula, your filthy little clown? No, love. I usually no one put this one in the dishwasher. You'll put the bald bank tated implement in with the other. stuff. Have you no fucking understanding of hygiene and fucking manners? You witchy fucking Doyle. I couldn't have any of his instinct like reaction I wasn't even thinking. That's your problem, isn't it, Ballface? You never fucking think about anyone other than your foregone self. That's not fair enough. I cook your eggs every day and I change your leg bandage,

you sleep in the spare room so I don't get on your net and frankly I don't think you're being fair Fair, I'll show you fucking fair Get out of my fucking house And don't come back till I fucking phone you And be warned

It might be months rather than days Go on, fuck off Yeah, so that's what happened Because I haven't got Tally in my car So I'm missing the yield or I think I could go to the pub, but my wife finds out, and she will, I'll get lamp to her heart to pool back via the foot and moon,

so, you know, I'll tell you what, I'll put talk sport on. Hello, welcome back to me, Jim White, and co-presenter Simon Jordan. Now, breaking news is what it is, and breaking news is what we have. This is going to blow your tiny minds. It's an incredible earth-shattering development from the England training camp. Reports are emerging that a 16-armed crop scarrifier

has just been delivered to the training camp, which folk are interpreting as a move to concentrate on thigh density and toning rather than formations and tactics. I have to say, Simon, I have to say that this news has caused my epididimus to rotate 360 degrees, unravel itself, and take on the form of a small wicker doll's chair. What say you, Simon Jarvan? All too often, though, we are exaggerating, nay, supersizing in our interpretations of incidents

that uniquely, and some might say, manifestly are attributable only to chance or at best serenwifery. I need to be ingested with a pinch of salt and huge spadefuls of scepticism and doubtfulness. Thighs are important, Jim, but so are the major muscle groups. and in that respect draw your attention to the buttocks and particularly those of Jordan Pickford which are mightily high and without doubt intimidating in the context of going forwardness I couldn't agree more Simon

more incredible breaking stories after these messages hey mate do you want to sell your cars yeah I do but it's too much fucking asshole what with phone calls and emails that sort of shit Not if you sell with Flippo

It's just one phone call and that's it Fuck me That sounds amazing But will I get a good price Absolutely not But we will give you a free bicycle And after all What price can you put on hassle free experiences

Oh I don't know One million fucking pounds Exactly So call Flippo now And kickstart your new life Now I'll have enough of that Hold on. Hold on.

Hold on. Wife's on the phone. It's that you, Peter? Yes. Hello, love. Get yourself home now. My bad leg is seeping and I need an egg. Put on this front door like fucking chanteau.

And pick us up a bottle of nog on you way home. My guts are churning like a fucking slush puppy machine. Oh, yeah, I will do, love. Look, I best get going. See you, Bob. Oh, see you, Peter. Oh, it looks like he might be. Back in the Good Books, maybe.

Yeah, it's because you need an egg portless, though. How long's that going to last? Yeah, exactly. How long is it going to last? I hope he gets to watch his matches. An interesting beginning for us, Andrew, this week, because Mr Peter Beardsley has kindly sent me, let me just check what he describes as a very strong opening rap

to kick off the show. Good. The sad thing is, is he hasn't sent me any music, Andrew. Can I do the music? Yeah, it's like the world in motion beat. Right, you need a beat. I can provide a beat for you, yeah.

I am Sunderland's number three human beatbox. Okay, let's have it then, let's do it. All right. You got to stare around at the grass and the trees. See, if you can spot some dog that in the leaves, You need a chicken wrap Before you mount an attack The journey could get bumpy

If your chicken's not lumpy You should get round the back Of your local shops Have a look in the bins Like a Georgie Fox And don't forget the eggs For your beautiful wife If you do she will lap you

To win an inch of your life We're sharing for England And so, there it goes. Turn your music off, Bob. So there it is, Bob. A very strong opening for your show. And I'll tell you what, whilst I'm here, a lot of couple of jokes, you know,

from my old joke book. Just, I get a boys, girls, and girls right in the mood. Okay, to a couple of jokes by you, Bob. Andy, I've been invited to, when you're new this party next week. It's not usual my sort of thing, but

I might give it a go if I've got nothing on. What's one for kids, really, this one, what's blue and smells like red paint? I don't know. Blue paint. And you,

what did the cleaner shout when she jumped out of her cupboard? I don't know. Supplies. Like supplies, you know. Yeah. So, there you go, but I hope that made a good start to your podcast.

See, Bob. Have a nice of him, won't it? That was lovely. Just by chance, Patreon, Patreon, Patreon listeners will know that Peter Beasley occasionally sends in an intro. Yes. Yeah? and he sent me in another intro, so we should do it, Andrew.

It's the World in Motion song. He's obsessed with it. He obviously resents he never got the job to do the rap. So once again, if you can give me, you know that world in motion beat? I will be the human beat box

that I was in the recent past the show. And I'll press play and hopefully it'll gel. Okay, here we go. You got to stare around. at the grass in the tree See is that you can spot Some dog that are in the leaves You've got to look the park

Before you walk to the park To always look your best A puffer, puffer is smart If the foreign lads Are coming down the line Diver them with hot dogs The best ones come in drying Get your chicken wrap

Before you mount an attack The journey might get bumpy if your chicken's not lumpy And don't forget the eggs For your beautiful wife If you do she will lamp you To him in an inch of your life I'm staring for England

Oh, oh, oh! There you are, thanks. Oh, no, no, it carries on. Oh. No, he doesn't need a music, he sent me a message. Oh. You do it with music if you want.

No, you're right. There you are. Go, Bob. Oh, that's good. got you in the mood for the podcast, like, you know, a bit of football rap. I love fun writing that, so much so that I've actually written down

that it was a fun thing to do. So, up there was, I should tell you, that the wife's gone all organic, you know, with her legs these days. Are you... I used to be able to get away with, you know, like barnry or farm fresh you know but she saw some last on their TV

saying that the organics like happier chickens you know so she's got all sentimental about it like you know you know what I mean like yeah problem is I can only get the organics in town like and not from the local corner shop of the garage so anyway you know You know, you know, yesterday I ran out and she were absolutely busting for a 12-egg poachy and scrambled platter lake.

And I only had seven eggs, so I sneaked at the garage under the excuse saying I was going to have a good stare at Jet Wash half an hour, you know. And I got some barnry you'd like. So I used the barnies for the scrambled egg element of her platter because I thought she'd, I'd have less chance of spotting them, like, you know, but sadly she did spot it, and I got into some very deep, you know, very, very deep shit. I said, there you go, darling, a lovely 12-egg scrambled and poachy platter, with a nice mug of Bobville. What's going on with these fork and scramblers?

They seem very pale and watery. Are these organics? Uh, oh, yeah, yeah, I think so rough. You look a bit shifty to me. I can see your eye twitching like a let me have a... I can, sorry. I can see your eye twitching like let me have a taste, do you? Oh, you dirty, cheating, useless midnight, fucking creeper.

They've got absolutely zero fucking clout. And their farm freshers are worse than that, and they're not fucking barnies. are there? Well, I come to think, love, there could be Barneys. I might have picked up a box by mistake. There's no fucking mistake of your haircut, boy. You have deliberately tried to fucking take me with Barneys,

you sneaky little wonky dial. Now get yourself down to Asda and buy me my organics, and the money is coming out of your savings for that daft fucking knee-length, puffer, puffer coat you after. Okay, love. Sorry about that.

Do you want me to dispose of the platter? No. No, keep your stubby chimp's fingers off it. Eggs is eggs, and I'm gasping for a full of organ dozen. And stop staring at my fronties. They're out to bounce for two weeks, cos of you. Oh, okay, though. Sorry, love.

I'll be back as soon as I can, you know. So that would be a close one, there, Bob and Andy, you know. I'm still getting the glares off her whenever I pass the TV room, like you know. So, anyway, so good luck with the podcast. And remember that a stare at a bush is worth two at your hand. Keep them peeled. Oh, turn that it over.

That's nice of Peter, wasn't it? Oh, lovely stuff. You know what? I think that's the first time he's ever acknowledged me in one of his messages. He mentioned me there. Did he? Yeah, I feel a little bit, you know, touched.

I've been listening to the Martin from Homes Under the Hammer show on the radio, you know, recording anything decent. And quite a good episode this week. Oh, yeah. You know, it's the show where he goes to Celebrity Homes, takes a look inside, famous football people usually. It was Peter Beardsley this week, Andy. How wonderful.

Yeah, so I thought I would tape it, and I'll play it for Andy, yeah? Here we go. Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Martin. My Martin. Tin, tin, tin, tin, tin. Hello, everybody and welcome you are to my show. Now, you find me outside the house of Mr Peter Beardsley, ex-Newcastle in England footballing,

and straight away I can see that the door knocker is in form of two lovely boiled eggs. Little bit unusual. But do you know what? I like it, baby. I like it. I like it, baby. Let's see if anybody's in.

Peter, answer the door, will you? These poachies are very, very fucking runny and I'm not moving for no one. Uh, uh, well, do love. Uh, all right, mate. How can I help you? Hello, Peter. My name's a little bit.

Martin from Holmes Under the Armour on the BBC and I've come to have a look around your beautiful home Sorry, mate I don't know anything about that day My wife only lets me watch police

intercept her sort of shows You know what I mean How is it, Peter? It's a bloke called Martin off the Terry He won't have a nose around our house like What does? does he look like?

A bit like a hedgehog, you know, that walks on its back legs like. That's Martin, from Holmes Under the Fulkin Hammer. Let him in right now, you dozy half-wit. Don't come in, Martin, and of course make yourself at home. Thank you. Now, I can immediately smell a deep and overpowering stench of eggs. It's not unpleasant, actually. reminds me of that morning.

I woke up round the back of the little chef in Reading. Bring him in here, Peter. Is that her voice? You fucking... Bring him in here, Peter. Hello, Mrs Beasley. I see it's your eggs I could smell. Oh, hello there.

Yes, that's nice, Martin. I do like a plate of poachies in the hookah, morning. Would you like Peter to fetch you some porches or would you prefer a fried or even a fork on boiler? No, I'm all right, thanks. So this must be the living room.

It's very dark. Dark brown settee. Dark wood sideboard. Broody posters of various policemen. Some of them holding eggs and the curtains shut tight. Ah yeah. Your wife does

not like any reflection getting on the TV screen, like if it gets too dark, I'll come downstairs for a spare room and shine my head touch onto a scramblers or the evening omelet, you know. Yes, thank you, Peter. Why don't you nick off into the kitchen and fetch your drink for Martin?

Do you fetch your sherry or a mug of Hocon-Bavril? It's very invigorating if you don't mind me saying, God, you are beautiful. Right. No, I'm fine, thank you. I know you are. So, how long have you lived here? Yeah, about ten years, I reckon.

I remember the first day we moved in, actually. We had a little dog back then called Ego, and he got run over by the removal van. Are you still here? Go and do something useful. Those recycling bins around the back need a good staring at. Well, if that's okay by you, love. I would love to have a good stare at them through the kitchen window.

Just shout if you need anything. Why don't you come and sit with me on the sofa, Martin? I'll pop a newspaper on the cushion so your jeans don't get any mucky slack on them. I'll tell you what, I'll go through to the kitchen with Peter and have a nose about. You finish your poached eggs. I see you've got eight on the plate, which is certainly unusual, but do you know what I like? kid. Okay Martin I'll come through and join

you in a huck a minute. Well, what a lovely kitchen, Peter. Nice few of the recycling bins and the conifers through the window. And it's all very sleek and modern. With white cabinets and a super modern laminate floor

must be a great place to cook in for your wife. He'll be honestly very rarely comes in here. Unless you've got a strap on with me, I do all the cooking like, Oh, is that right? It's that the done thing these days.

And what do you cook? When you're cooking, things that need to be cooked. Well, I'm a big fan of chicken wraps like. Oh, William of Orange. Tell me a bit about these raps. Well, I like a pitter, pita bread to be a nice and soft and stretchy. And I like the chicken really lumpy, lumpy, lumpy, with brown stripes on it, you know,

so it looks like it's outdoor cooked. So do you cook the chicken on the grill here? No, I got you from the shops and eat them on the bench opposite the shop so on the low wall next to the bus stop. Right, right, or, right, oh, ho, ho. So what do you cook in here, then? Eggs mainly, porch, scramble fried omelette. Depends what the right ones here loves their eggs like.

That's an unusual diet, and I'm not sure that I like it. Does she ever eat anything else? I mean eggs can bind you up of it if you're not careful. Do you know what to mean, Harry? Oh, she has the occasional bovro and her saveray on Fridays, but most of it's just eggs. She's a very eggy lass. Oh, hello again, Martin.

Is he boring you? He bores me terribly. No, not at all. He tells me you're a very eggy lass. I don't think I like that, at all, at all, at all. But you don't like an eggy lifestyle? No, I don't think I do. How fucking dare you?

Well, senor chipmunk in a fucking overcoat. Anyone who isn't fully on fucking bored with a life of eggs is not welcome in this house. Go on, get out before I fucking home, before I put your fucking home under the hammer. Oh, come on. Let's not be silly, buggers. I've got a show to do. I'll give you a show. I'll wrap my hacky fucking bandages around your head and then pummel your daft fucking face until your mind wanders off to Peterborough. Now, go and get out.

Well, that was an unusual experience, being threatened by a woman who's an egg addict. At first I thought it was most unpleasant. But you know what? At the end of the day, I think I quite liked it. See you next week when I'll be visiting Santa Cazana's Laughter Emporium Sounds like a lullathon See ya Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma,

tin, tin, tin, tin, tin, tin tin, tin, tin. Wonderful stuff Did you get some pleasure from that? Yeah, was that the entire two-hour show? Sorry, I don't like it. I'm sorry, Andy, I got carried away. All right, Bob. and just out in about at the moment

you know my mate Graham told me about some fly tipping so I've come have a good old stare at it you know I tell you what I'm a pretty good one a couple of washing machines a mattress old fly more

some hardened bags of concrete yeah various lengths of timber Just looking now, I reckon the longest one. About seven foot, you know. Some plastic curtain rails. Microw over there. Looks like 800, what to me?

Big tin of ghee. That's the Indian butter, Bob. Kitchen cabinet, probably IKEA, but it could be B and Q. You know, they all use the same basic shell and the door's missing. So it's quite hard to tell some PVC piping ranges from about one inch to about four inch diameter. So, yeah, it's a pretty good stare, really.

And I'm really glad I made the effort, you know, to come out and have a good stare. I've got two or three hours to pass me because the wife spooking me out of the house. And again, dog there. I suppose I should probably tell you what happened, Bob. So I got it up half an hour before the wife to prepare her eggs pletini. It's an egg on that's stuffed with three soft boilers, too pickled with a spinkler of turmeric, you know, the help of swelling on her wife's legs like.

Well, as I was just taking the platini into her TV, room. There were a knock on the door, so I put the pletini on the hall table and answered the door. I was lovely surprise. It was my old mate, Mark Lawson. All right, Mark, long time no see. How is it hanging? Fine, thanking you good sir. Just thought I'd pop by for a quick catch-up. What are you up to? Oh, well, my mate Graham has just texted me saying he spotted a good flytip to have a stare at so, you know, I'm pretty excited by that day. Peter, Peter, you clown shoe.

Where are my fucking eggsplotini? Yeah, sorry, love. Just chatting to Mark. I'll walk me a minute. Well, why are you stood at the door, you fucking midnight creeper? Invite them in. I miss having a chat with a proper man. Okay, love, I will do.

Come in, Mark, and say, hello to the wife. I'll get the kettle on. Just be making some eggsplitini for the wife, like. Oh, ex-plitini. I love them. Could I have a three-egg-based one, please? Yeah, no problem, what's the fucker ever? Hello, Mrs. B, how's it hanging? Oh, it's terrible, Mark. Living with him is so very, very fork and tiring. It's like caring for the chimp on Rizzling.

Here, let me move these bandages so you can sit down with me on the porchen sofa. It's okay, Mrs B, I prefer to stand. I've been sat in the scoda for two hours, and although the seats claim to be orthopedic, I find a rake adjustment lacking in fine tuning. I wish I'd tick the electrically-ble-adjustable option, but I'm just too tight. Oh, what a fascinating manly story. Peter never tells us how interesting. I do miss mental stimulation. Honestly, Mark, I'd have to talk to you for hour upon fork an hour. Here we go, guys.

Two egg patinis, an eight egg for you, my love, and a sweet best for you, Mark. Why don't you sit down on the soapamark? I can move the soil bandages. No, I'm better off standing. I was just explaining that the manual adjustment system on the scowder driving seat isn't particularly sensitive. You can never really hit the sweet spot that's perfect for comfort and hazard observation.

Oh, wow. I wish I'd be on that conversation. It's so absolutely riveting. Yes, well, you did fucking miss out. So if there's nothing else you've got to fucking offer, then could you eat your pletini outside, and leave me and Mark on our fucking own, please? Oh, yeah, no problem, love.

Just give me a shout if you need a bottle or anything. It's okay, Mark, if I sit in your score there. There's a car. Just fill your boots, Peter. So, Bob, I went outside to have a stare at Mark's car, you know. But to be honest, it was, playing on my mind a bit, you know, the unsatisfactory adjustment spectrum on the driver's seat, so I got inside and had a sat on the seat, like, there was a decent amount of lumber support

and the seat cushion, it was firm, but comfortable here, yeah, but there was no doubt in my mind that the angle of the seat back was far too acute, you know, for safe driving, like. So anyway, the seat had a little lever on the side for adjustment So I gave it a pull and the hole of the back of the seat He went backwards, sudden like So I was more or less horizontal He gave, a gay, you gave me quite a start And unfortunately my plate of platini

Spiltini spilled all over the beige seats like you know Well as you probably know bob, eggy turmeric is our bastard of a stain, so I virtually shit myself and I ran into the house in a pretty dozy panic. Mark, Mark, I've spent eggy tumouric on your cats!

What I'm out to do? Oh, I'm digging my six pincers. Get some Belinda wipes. Quickly! We need Belinda wipes! We haven't got any Belinda wipes. Starry boys too tight to fork out on them. All we have is wrong Bog roll.

No, Belinda Wipes! What kind of a man are you? A tight ass. I'm sorry, Mark. I was just trying to adjust the brake of your car seat, like, you know. Nobody, and I mean fucking nobody fiddles about with my fucking scotter. Get out of my way. All is not lost if I can get some Belinda wipes in time.

Yeah, so Mark ran out of the house and screeched away in the scourdy, you know. like he was in a film trailer or something. Once again, you have turned my life into a fucking shit pit, my first other company for weeks, and you stop it short with your creepy fucking antics. Get out of the house, get out and don't come back until it's time for my ex-beck and bower. So there you have it, you know.

So I've got a couple more hours to stare at this flytip before I go home so I suppose that's all really Bob I'll tell you what I'll tell you a couple of jokes from my old joke

before I go you know you like them but so a bloke like the RSPCA and I just found a dog and two puppies

in the suitcase and the RSPCA man says that doesn't not sound good are they moving the man says I'm not sure, but that would explain the suitcase. This is one I got from a blog called

Adam at the Bear 977. It sent me one. It says two cannibals were eating a clown. One says, does this taste funny to you? Tell me, Bob, what is green with one wheel? Grass. I was lying about the wheel So

I'll see you then Bob, see you next time One Peter B, C There's only one Peter Bidsey See Bob That was nice of Peter When it keeps sending

I don't ask for him You know Andy No well It's nice that he's got an outlet I suppose I have to say at this point That Peter Bardsley has been in touch with his

Maybe his Christmas message, would you call it? He's giving us an update. I call it that, yeah. Would you like to hear it? I absolutely would like to hear it, yeah. I guess there'll be some music to go with that, yeah? Festive music or just the usual? Just the usual, I think.

Fair enough. Here it, Cubs. All right, Bob. Merry Christmas, and happy New Year, you, of course. Christmas Day was a bit of a disaster for me really. I should probably tell you what happened. You know, I started off okay, I got a barely

and put the big chicken in the oven on a low heat, you know, for a nice long cook. You know, so that the meat parts of it would stay nice and juicy, lovely, juicy, juicy, you know, like an overripe peat. over the right pair. I put it in on a high heat for, you know, the first 20 minutes or so, you know, just to get it gathered, you know what I mean? The wife likes to have half a dozen eggs cracked into the cavity, you know,

give the bird a nice eggy aroma when you cut into it, so I did that and all. Anyway, after I put the chicken in, I went outside to my camera, a fetch the presents that I got for her wife. I got a pair of pottery earrings, shake like a couple of poor cheese, an egg-shaped vase with a couple of pairs of knickers inside, a border force New Zealand mug, and a bar of egg-flavoured chocolate.

Pretty good selection, if I do say so, my incense. So I got back to the front door only to find that I've locked myself out. I opened up the letterbox and I give like half a shout up to the wife, you know. Darling, Plessis Angel, I lock myself out there, you're awake? I get no response and I'd diem to shout again. So I get in my car, have a good old thing, you know. there's probably your best part of the day to be honest Bob I had a good stare at a little crack in the windscreen

and even longer stare at a boost bar wrapper that had trapped itself on their grill and they got a really nice stare that one Bob the Albanian bloke he came out from next door briefly but that was only to tell me to fuck off I was a bit peckish by this point so I took in the eggy chocolate, like, you know, because the wife would never know, like,

that we were having, you know, she wouldn't know that I bought it, and we were having eggs for a Christmas pudding anyway, like, but after about 30 minutes, I thought I should give it another go, but this time, when I opened in the letterbox, all I could see inside was like plumes of smoke

coming from the kitchen, you know. I'd left the oven on eye, and the eggs and meat must have set on fire, you know. Oh, man, I thought in panic. First off, I threw the border force mug up at the wife's bedroom window, you know, come on, then the earrings, and then the vines, and it all smashed on the floor, but I got no response from the wife, you know.

So I started banging and kicking you on the front door. And more than it immediately, really, the wife opened it up. What's with all the noise, you fucking clown show? Get inside before you wake up the old fucking street. Well, love the smoke. I think I might have a set of the chicken on fire. Quick, get out of the way and let me do and extinguish it. Oh, calm down.

you look, my fucking shite. The chicken is fine. But darling, the smoke, the smoke, the fucking smoke. Oh, fuck off with the Dad's Army fucking panic. I'm just trying out the new egg smoker. What the lasses at work got me. You meant to do it outside, but I thought, fuck it.

The eggy smoke might even kill off all the fucking moths. Oh, God, thank God for that. I really worried. for your love, I don't know what I do without you. I can't imagine spending even a single day without you, let alone my Christmas day. Oh,

fuck off with that shite. Where's my presents? Well, of course because of the throwings. Well, of course, because of the throwings, all I had left was a couple of pairs of knickers that were all crumpled up and damp from the lawn, but I took

a chance late and I ended him over. There you go, love. Christmas, gave her a little peck on the cheek. A couple of pairs of damp knickers, you creepy little midnight, fucking pervert! And what's with the eggy breath? Have you been eating poultry brand eggie chocolate? Yes, though. It was meant for you, but I got hungry. Sorry, you'll.

Right, that's it. You can fuck off out for the day. Go on, fuck off out. And don't come back till you see all the lights out. Oh, well, what could I say, Bob? I fucked up pretty badly, you know. So I spent the rest of the day driving around there, listening to the radio, getting the odd kippe in there, you know. So there you have it, really. I hope you all Christmas went better than mine, you know.

Just before I go, I got a couple of jokes. A Christmas cracker, all jokes, you know, from my book. So I'll try them out here, what you think. To the person who stole my glasses, believe me, I will find you. I have contacts. That's one of them. I went to the doctor because I couldn't stop singing Tom Jones songs, you know. And he said I was suffering from Tom Jones' compulsive disorder.

Is that common? I asked. It's not unusual. One Peter Peterson. There's only one Peter for you. Happy New Year, Bob. So that was nice of Peter.

Well, that terrible days had, ain't he? It's never easy for him, is it?