Athletico Mince - The Crime Files Collection Vol. 1

Episode Date: February 5, 2021

A compilation of the Crime Files stories, right from the start and up to episode 90. DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR... Become a member at https://plus.acast.com/s/athleticomince. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

So Andy, I got a new feature, what kicking off this week, because as you know I love me crime TV, so I'm calling it crime files. I thought that's like, first I have a Brexit party and it is what it is. It's crime files, yeah. So I've taken me first episode. Right. And so I press the play button.

Right, yes, it's how it goes. The village of Poland is much like any other picture postcard, luster, she village. The church, post office, a village hall, and a well-kept village green. But on the 15th of October 2015, its peaceful tranquility was shattered. Three months earlier, two new residents had arrived in the village. Their names, James, the Chen, Vardy, and Harry, the farmer, Maguire. The Maguire property soon became an eye-saw, the front garden piled high with barrels of fertilizer and pesticides, as well as discarded seed planters, plows,

trops, and tractor spares. Fordhawes down the Vardy residents, things were even worse. He constructed a huge onyx fountain on his front lawn powered by a diesel generator. The fountain was the shape of an upside-down chin and was in operation 24 hours a day. Such was the volume of water dispersed by the chin-tain. The pavement and the basement of his neighbor's home were often flooded. Back to the 15th of October, and a group of Polden residents were sat in the back of the local village pub, discussing the Vardy Maguire situation. Little did they know that the farmer and the Chinn were in the adjacent snug and could hear every word being spoken.

The chairman of the meeting was Roger Pearson, the local GP. Only yesterday, Valdi was driving along a high street in his Porsche, with his chin jutting out of the window, scraping it against parked vehicles and laughing like a schoolboy. Tom Dawson, the owner of Dawson's diploma spoke next. My wife is at the end of her tether. The Maguire's Bat Gardens piled her a horse in chicken shit, and she can't even put the washing out on the line. Because it gets tinted, and none of us can get any sleep because of the drone of Vardy's generator.

My whole family is on the pills. Neil Upton of Upton's pottery nonsense was next. Last week, in the middle of the night, I caught Maguire pumping galleon upon galleon of liquid-picture into the main sewer, and the next day I saw Vady encouraging songbirds to land on his chin by resting seeds along its length. As soon as they landed, Maguire smacked them on the head with a shovel. It has got to stop! Well, at that moment Vardy and Maguire appear in the doorway. It would seem to me, it says Vardy, and my bro Harry, that we're causing you some consternation

in the village, so tell me what are you going to do about it. Roger the GP, we just want all this misbehavior to stop. It's not appropriate and a small English village. Harry. The farmer Maguire. All I is doing is farming. Farmers in my blood in it and if I can't farm and I don't want nothing to do with life, because farming is my life.

But do you have to store so much manure in your gardens? It's a residential area for Christ's sake! May I correct you there, Doc? It was a residential area, but now it's something much bigger and important than that. It's home to premiership footballers. You've been in a state of status for too long. You're all in your comfort zone and we are here to stir the pudding. Must you run that hideous fountain all through the night? No one can sleep for God's sake! Jamie did score 12 goals in a row once and in my book that would be meaning to do anything

he bloody wants for the rest of his living days on this earth. Well at this point, Neil Upton from Wukton's pottery nonsense stands up. I've had enough of a fucking nut! And he points a hunting rifle at Vady. Hey Mr. Upton, with your nonsense pottery. Don't do anything rash. Let's talk. I have whole violence in all its forms.

Not if it's farming related though Jamie ain't that right though. Tell me that that is so. Yeah fair enough. If it's for the food supply chain then I'm cool with that. At this point Upton fires his gun. It's a direct hit right on the tip of Vardy's granite chin. The bullet penetrates no more than a millimeter before ricocheting off the wall and then deep into the chest of Upton, a nonsense potter. Upton was never charged with attempted murder though because

he collapsed a week later on the floor of his nonsense pottery studio and died. Whoa. That's the crime file episode one. Wow. Now, I hope you liked it. I did. Welcome to Crime Files. Jeff Pearson was an ordinary hardworking guy living the good life in the Leicester,

Shavillage of Polesden. He'd recently take over ownership of the nonsense pottery shop on the High Street and business was solid. He was married to his childhood sweetheart Christine and they had two beautiful children Ross and Rebecca. Life couldn't have been better. Then one day, in September 2018, a phone call from Rossis School set into motion a chain of events that would end in tragedy. Later that day, Jeff was seated opposite the headmaster of Rossi's school, Mr Hunt. Sorry to have to call you in Mr Pearson, but I'm afraid to say an accusation of bullying hers been made against your son. Apparently he's been intimidating a lad from the year below. Neil Gray, son of the footballer de Marie Gray?

I don't believe it. Ross is such a gentle boy. He wouldn't hurt a fly, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, they say that, members of staff. Oh my God! My God, no! How could this be? Why? Why? Why? I've read him stories about bullying and we go to church for Christ's sake! This can't be happening to lovely us! We go to church for Christ's sake! This can't be happening to lovely us! Look Mr Pearson, I'm willing to keep this between ourselves so long as you agree to discipline your son and meet up with the father and work it out between you. Now, I would suggest a neutral venue.

Do you have a sound effect for a garden centre or a cafe? Yes, a cafe! I'll meet him at the Blue cheapod on the high street. That's a cafe. No, that was a moment, won it? Right. The blue, the blue palette, I'll wear it on the high street. Sorry. The following day, around mid-morning,

Jeff Pearson was seated alone in the quiet back room of the blue keeper, another private down in area. Wow, in that extraordinary episode title. His mind was running in over, was running in over-driven as he searched for the right words to say. He knew he must be careful not to blame Damaria's son, but at the same time was reluctant to fully admit his son's role in the bullying. If he was lucky, Damaria would speak first and he could just play it by ear. Then he felt a shadow on the doorway, and two men stood ominously over him. Demaria Gray and Jamie, the chin, Tzaddi. Vardy spoke first. So you must be the father of that little wanker Ross. You do realize

that the boy he's been bullying is not just an ordinary. He's the son of a premiership footballer. Your penance will need to be appropriate and visceral. Is that a threat? I suppose you're going to thrash me with that massive chin, are you? You can't down south of you. Hello there, Aunt DeMaria. Neil's dead. Pleased to meet you.

Can I get you another coffee or another ice pop or would have air to top for yum yum with hundreds and thousands on top? No no no that's okay, what's he doing here? I thought this was just between the two of us. Jaime insisted and you know he's a really cool guy. I'm not great at this sort of thing but he's Bustonatat. Bustonatat? So he said it, he went to the scales.

All right. Well, I'm not exactly happy about him being here. Surely this is a confidential meeting. And only the parents affected should be involved. Oh, you know. Oh, you know. Oh, you know. Put your hands on the table, bro. Let's just guess this resolved so we can move on and

drink from life's beautiful and bountiful syrups. Well, Pearson puts his hand on the table, not sure what is Well, what, oh god, that's not right. Did I see if it's that one? No, that's a countryside. But it was a born crunch in sound. Oh! Well, what happened next was sicking even the most hydrated fan of crime fiction. With one kestrel like sweet Vady rammed his chin, hard down onto Pearson's hand, and pressed it down hard, so that you could hear the bones in his hand crunching and the creaking.

Ooh. Oh my fucking lord, what are you doing man? In the name of every shit in the sewers released me. That's the fucking hand I used to fasten my nonsense fucking potty fucking A! Careful, Tommy. Every community reloads heavily on its nonsense potty. For gifts and whimsy, you know bits and pieces. Shush brawl, I'm just letting the bullies pay to have a sniff of what your child has been suffering. How'd you like it, nonsense

potter? It hurts, it hurts like fucking hell! Your chin is as heavy as a blacksmith's fucking animal, and the point on the end is a sharp as a diamond-ended fucking javelin! Release me, you fucking man of taunt! Look, just live in the moment, bro. Save the pain and be reassured that if your son so much is even breathed, near my mate's son again, the pain will be threefold and ten. Do you feel me? Yes! I said, do you feel me?

Yes, I fucking feel you! Now the moment I release the chin, I want you to run out of the bistro across the street to your nonsense pottery and bring to Maria a beautiful nonsense vase for his wife by way of reparation. Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, yes! Well, Jamie releases his chin and Pearson sprints out of the bistro and straight across the high street straight into the path of an oncoming tractor so see if I've got that sound effect Yes, I had it, that's good

The tractor was being driven by Harry Maguire That's good. The tractor was being driven by Harry Maguire. Oh. He just got run out in front of me. I was just thinking about my early crop spuds. I didn't even have time to break. No charges were brought against Maguire, but one on look of swore that he heard him whisper to Jamie Vardy.

Did I do good, Boss? Did it go like you said? You know what's coming next The Herifitcher Village of Churford was a peaceful, tranquil community where families could live free of fear and in a certain knowledge that their families and their friends would be safe. Nothing much happened and that was exactly how its residents wanted it to be. That was until the 13th of December 2018, when everything changed. It was quizz night at the village pub and about 16 of locals were competing. One team was captain by Neil Hunt, the local nonsense potter. Next to them was a team calling themselves the laughter imporium,

which included the Arsenal footballers, Metip Ozil and Sandy Kazzola. Neil Hunt noticed that Kazzola appeared to be checking for answers on his mobile phone. Look, I don't know if he realises, but that is cheating. It completely negates the rules and it ruins the whole point of having a quiz in the first place. Hey! So, Sandy. Mr. Nonsense, Bobber.

Chill out. What's the matter with you? You lost your party vibe? Here. Have a turban, my vape. It's full of skunk and who the hell knows what else Look I perfectly killed as you put it. I just don't like cheats Why don't you go and play on the fruit machine that seems more like your sort of thing

Methe Ozil chips in Leave it Sunday the man is an arse The Ozil chips in. Leave it, Sunday. The man is an arse. Hall. What did you say? What did you fucking say? There's only one thing that looks like an arsehole in this place and that's your fucking

warp face. Ozil very slowly gets to his feet. What, what's wrong? Right. Get to it. Thankfully, Neil's friend Brian steps in. Look, leave it you to calm it. Let's just enjoy the quiz. Fair enough, fair enough.

But if their team wins, I'll kick up a storm, the like of which hasn't been seated cheerful since all he must was caught pissing in the post box. Everything calmed down and Santa even brought over a drink for Neal's table during a break in the quiz. Hey guys, have a drink on me, I love to party, I love to go crazy, most of all I love to party! I love to go crazy! Moth of all, I love to laugh! Hey, if you need bunting, balloons, novelty pens, saucy outfits, I'm your man! I've got to open a laughter and porium on the high street! The whole village is gonna get high!

Well, the quiz ended and Neil left on his own complaining he felt unwell. Just as he was about to turn into his front drive, he was grabbed by two men. It was Ozil and Sandi Kazzola. Yeah, no. Hey, Mr. Putter in nonsense. You not feel so well now hey, you don't look so good. What's he got to do with you? What do you even want? What do you fucking want? God the man walk home and I've been fucking accosted. God I feel sick so fucking sick. Maybe it was something in your drink nonsense boy. Oh I get it, I fucking get it!

You fucking let my drink you pair of bastards! I swear on my fucking fat neck! I will get you back for this! Ozil donkey kicks him to the ground. You dirty fucking turd of a man! Oh god my mind is fucking warping! What have you done? What have you fucking done? And then Neil fell out of consciousness.

Neil woke up slumped on his work desk with a pen grust in his hand. In front of him a document bearing his signature. It was a deed of transfer selling his nonsense pottery company. To a company he had no knowledge of for a fee of £50. Its name, Santies laughter and paureum, churford limited. What have I fucking done? What have I fucking done? The wife has got to fucking kill me! What a bike. Crying files. So you know it seems to me every village has got a potter. Yeah.

A certain of the ratchets of the life. Yeah, this shit. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for crime files. Roger Meadows ran a small upmarket car sales dealership in the sleepy Chesa town of Warzlo. It was a small but exclusive showroom that sold luxury marks such as Porsche Ferrari and Maserati. Business was steady and he was a popular member of the local community. Life was good for Roger until one day in September 2018 when a black Range Rover pulled into his forecourt. Roger was stood with Nigel Hunt who owned the nonsense pottery across the road when the

Range Rover pulled up. Sorry, I hope looks like they've got a few Bob, maybe not the usual tyre kickers for once Nigel. Must infuriate you, dear good people who have no intention of buying. Alright, just part of the game Nigel, it's just part of the game. At that point, two men got out of the range over. It was professional footballer Paul Pogba and his agent Stanley Pingapong. Marco was the first to speak. Let me introduce more cellphones, Stanley Pingapul, and I'll

represent the interests of Mr. Paul Pogba. Paul. Hello! Paul requires the use of a red for a lolly for this evening, the publicity should be more than enough, a payment. I don't, I don't loan out cars, sir. You need to try air this or enterprise, though I don't, you'll get a Ferrari. I don't think you understand. I'm taking the car whether you like it or not. We leave the range over here as security. We are talking Paul Pogba here, not some tubby fart like Luke Shaw. Hello! Says Paul. I don't care if it's Luke Skywalker, matey. You're not taking the car. Malcolm pulls a revolver out of his cold pocket.

Is that so? Tempt me inside. Let's get the keys. Both of you move it. Is Marco instantly Stanley the same fellow no row right? Marco forced both Nigel and Roger into the showroom Mr. Pogba followed closely behind seemingly oblivious to what was unfolding But as with most crime there was a flashpoint a moment of never going back

It was started by Nigel the nuts and spotter But as with most crime, there was a flashpoint. A moment of never going back. It was started by Nigel, the nuts and spotter. I've had enough of this. I've had it up to fucking here with no good fucking toy gangsters. I've been it's not even a real fucking gun. Go on, prove it. Prove it's really a little fucking cabinet of shit. Well, Marco took up the challenge immediately

and shot out the wing mirror of a £200,000 Ferrari. Mr. Pogbus suddenly realised all was not as it should be. Paul pleaded with Marco. Mmm, Mr. Marco, I don't belong to that. You can't cost me an arm of the leg with your trigger-appishin' enigins. Listen, I don't want a red car no more. I want that big blue vase in the nonsense pottery opposite.

That's my nonsense pottery matey. There's not a chance in fucking hell. It's locked up at the moment and the key is in my fucking bum bag. Now get out before I ring the police. Within a blink of an eye, Marko had grabbed Nigel around the throat and was holding the gun against his temple. Oh fuck, fuck get off me, you peddler of fucking time! You pay for this, my brother sells swords.

Can you tell Paul, can you tell me a bit about that blue pot in your window? Where the gun engaged my fucking head, are you in the keeping of a fucking evil ghost? Let him speak Marco, I'm desperate to learn more about this blue nonsense pot. Marco lowered his gun and released his grip from Nigel's neck. Okay, I'm fucking K! It's a clay body with coiling at the fucking base and a crackle glaze within that little detail around the fucking lip and yes, it's fucking blue! Is it to Matt or Gloss Glaze, says Pogba? Matt, I'm not a fucking hotelier! How much for the pot says Marco?

To you, £50,000 are not a fuck less! Well, we'll take it and the Ferrari that we shot up and remember Mr Pogba was never here. With that Marco and Pogba left the fork or a Nigel and Roger were left to reflect on their harrowing experience. Honestly Roger, how'd you put up with these fucking Todd warriors? Alright, easy Nigel. I take the asshole then I take the money, that's the name of the game.

What you going to deal with that 50 grand? I'm going to get arse in blunts and an apron with tits on the front. What do you think of that? Very nice. D- D- D- Struggle the bit with my voices there and really?

Oh, it didn't really noise. Crime Files The Lancashire Village of Dunton was a peaceful enclave in the north west of England well known for its Dunton pottery and its famous resident Sean Daesh, manager of the Burnley Football Club team. One thing that could be guaranteed in Dunton was a life free from petty crime. That was until the night of the 12th of February 2019 when everything changed forever. Sean Daesh was sat in his study enjoying a glass of wine with local nonsense potter Neil Hunt. Sean was busy recording the latest motivational WAV to send to his squad.

I can't even be far to play the tune. Oh man. Sorry I'm doing this to him. I'm leaving the all in this week. You can though, you know I suppose it's easier, isn't it? Yeah. Come on beatmaker. Oh it just opened as I thought it wasn't opening.

Here we go. The season is about to start and our first opponent is Southampton. They are South Coast fannies with a stripy kit. They got a foreign manager where as I am a Brit. They prefer a prawnsani to a non-filled Barney. Tackle them hard because they're scared a lot and remember. Blavwire, fish heads, shit, concrete, mud and carbs and that's the Burnley way. Smiling is for clowns, no laughter at our ground. Perform without joy, your reward a Savaloy. Never end to turn the crowd.

If you start doing that, I'll find you a field that you can plow. Well Andrew, at that point. Yeah. At that point. Stop the wav. Stop the wav there. And well at that point there's a loud bang and the sound of breaking glass at the front of the house. It sounded like an intruder. I'll put it in the glass. Sound effect in there. Thank you. Okay. And a duh.

And one of them is... Yeah, okay. That's the fun. Did you hear that, Sean? Probably a hanging basket falling or an open window smashing shut. Hang in basket to or having a laugh. I don't have flowers and shite in my garden, just tarmac, mud and vehicles,

and I never leave a window open of an evening, it hinders me getting a pie sweat on. I'd better go and investigate. Well be careful, Sean. There was an attempted break in at my nonsense pottery last week. Good job, I didn't catch them. I would have chopped off their dick and roasted it in my nonsense kiln.

Have these people know concept of property ownership? The world is going to hell and back in a tot cart. Ha ha ha. Sean left the room to investigate the noise. Five minutes had passed when Neil heard footsteps coming along the hallway towards the study. The footsteps were loud. No, sorry. T towards the study. The footsteps were loud. No, sorry.

The footsteps were loud and heavy. It could not be sure on approaching as he was wearing his barnie the dinosaur, when he left the room. A shadowy figure appeared at the study doorway and remained there silently staring towards Neil. Who are you? What you fucking want? What have you done to Sean? Fucking say something, will you? But the stranger remains silent. Look what do you want? What do you fucking want? I'm just a nonsense, Potter. I haven't got any money.

Listen, just fucking leave, leave. I won't call the police. And this whole satchel of long shits can just be forgotten. For Christ's sake, say something you fucking horse! And then the stranger spoke. TAKE OFF YOUR STRIGE AND ANDIES. ALIVE TOST THE DESK WITH YOUR BAT FIGHTING TOGODS THAT SEE how to along on the ceiling He was South African and intent on assault

No way no fucking way Jose nobody and I mean fucking nobody Actually gets to see my ass apart from me and my brother who you should know on the side shop The stranger lifted his arm revealing the unmistakable shape of a baseball bat. He raised it slowly above his head. Alright, all fucking right! Jesus, how can this be happening to lovely me? How can you fucking church the Christ say? And I collect testicle club points, a percentage of which goes to some fucking charity or other! N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N- We did into your irons! Are you off your fucking rocker? Look at the side of it!

You could barely fit inside a fucking bucket! Start with the Ethernet cable. That should loosen things up and give you a bit of confidence. Suddenly Sean looked into the room, armed with a large ceramic vase gifted to him by Neil. He brought it down in the strangers head and he felt at the fore like a sack of wet clay. Oh thank you Sean! Oh thank fuck you are okay! The blokers are fucking nightmare! Toad and Todd lord! Sorry about your pot

Neil. That's okay Sean, I can always throw another nonsense pot but you can't throw your ass in a kill. Oh I don't know, I might do if it was Joey Bartons, and the two friends stood in the study laughing so hard it was as if every insect in the world was currently telling a superb joke. Wow, crime files, so much together in one thing there. That's a lot in it. A lot in it. Yeah. Crime Club. Files? Sorry. Crime Files. In association with Crime Club. The Small Yorkshire Village of Herwood is an affluent enclave on the outskirts of Leeds.

It's well known for Herwood House, an opulent 18th-century mansion with notable collections of Turner paintings and chippendell furniture. The residents enjoy use of a village pub, a post office, a community cafe and a village hall, a splendid place to live and home to many of Leeds' most successful people. But this tranquility was shattered, like a sugar--glass tumbler on the 22nd of February 2019. For local nonsense potter Neil Hunt, this was an important day as he was going on his first date for over for nine years. He had met the lady Kate Robinson in an online chatroom dedicated to the craft of nonsense pottery. They had spoken

online most days for the past month, and he had finally plucked up courage to invite her for a romantic meal at the Harewood Arms. Today was the day, and Neil was sat in the snog of the Harewood Arms awaiting Kate's arrival. He'd chosen a sage, V-neck pullover with a pink shirt and a pair of brown mullskun slacks. His hands were already sweating when Kate appeared at the door of the snog and gave him a cheerful wave. You must be Kate, we meet at last. Do take a seat. Can I get you a drink? They sell them at the bar, you know. There's a menu on the table for you to peruse. It's this nice.

I mean, isn't this really nice? And you look nice. Or can I say that these days? Or will I get into trouble with the PC sheriffs? Did you want to drink? They sell them at the bar. Did I say very sensible arrangement? Don't you think?

I certainly do. Kate told him to calm down and ask astro-ginn and tonic. Neil was glad of the opportunity to leave the snog and gather his thoughts. Like Kate said, he needed to calm down. Why not? I didn't see that coming, I didn't think that was the point where he'd made that. When Neil returned to the snog, he was disappointed to find that two young men had seated themselves at the other side of the fireplace. It was Leeds footballers, Patrick Bamford and Jack Clark.

Their presence was only going to make it more difficult for Neil to act naturally, but he had to give it a go. So Katie, tell me a little bit more about yourself. As you know, I'm a local nonsense potter. I specialize in crackled glazes and freeform vase technique. I'm an active member of the local rowing club though, I don't actually row anymore because my prostrate is the size of a fucking lemon. Excuse my Portuguese. At this moment, he was interrupted by Patrick Bamford.

Are you on a date month sense potter. How hilarious! You hope you get your grip. I could think of nothing worse than being groped by your rough grubby unkempt hands. Haha, that's quite a jive, isn't it Jack? Yes, Mr. Patrick, you've jabbed him right up there right nicely. Yes, I have. Yes, I haven't had just.

He must feel very hurt and embarrassed, but it's his own fault for swearing in front of the lady. Look, you two just leave us in peace. I don't know who you are, what you want, but I'd rather you left us alone in here. You don't know who I am. I'll have you know, I'm Mrs. Patrick Banff for this squire, and choir and I'm right large dar, perhaps it's you and your bow that should exit. This man's an ass, don't you think so Jack? Yes Master Patrick, he's a right-gragly stomp. Oh, just get out will you, the snuggies from a Ture adult who wants an intelligent conversation

is no place for thickest, pick shit out of lessons! How dare you take that tone with me, you ignorant ramass! I have a good man to rough you up you ignorant bumkin! That's quite a barb I've just delivered, isn't it Jack? Yes Master Patrick, I doubt there's any comeback from that that would suffice to exact revenge. Listen Kate, why don't you go and powder your chest whilst I deal with this? Kate did a shiaspin, Neil was left alone in the snog with his two combatants. But who would prevail? Too soon?

I will double up then. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm will thrash you like a chambermaid who spit the saffron into a ditch. Right, that's it, that's fucking it, let's fucking do this. Neil removed his V-neck and shirt and stood there naked from the waist up facing Bamford. Go on, make a move, make a fucking move, I fucking dare you! At this point Bamford took a step toward Neil and slapped him on the face with the palm of his hand. Take that potter and there's plenty more on offer if you're foolish enough to continue. I bet that's done him. Don't you think so Jack? Yes, Master Bamford, that was quite a blow. There's few could recover from that level of impact. But no sooner had Jack finished speaking, the Neil landed a perfect left hook on Bamford's temple.

Ha! Take that you fucking satchel of quicksia! You fucking show-bony! Now you and your little ton, buddy! Better get out of here before I fucking wind up another pelta! Jack was knelt down by Bamford, cradling his head in his arms. What have you done? What have you done to Master Patrick? Speak to me, Master Patrick, I beg of you, indicate that you are in hurt. Bamford opened his eyes and whispered the words. Get David, fetch him quick. Jack shouted out the name David at the top of his lungs. David David, come and help us. David,

Master Patrick is down. Master Patrick is down. Within seconds, a figure appeared at the doorway of the snug. It was ex-footballer David Batty and he was armed with a shotgun. You'll be causing trouble again, young Mr. Patrick. Get him cleaned up Jack, I'll deal with this prick. Who are you? Who the fuck are you and what business of yours is this little fracker? I'm David Battie and I fuck I'm David Battie and I'm a fucking nightmare I'm afraid you picked a fight with a wrong bloke because I'm charged with looking after him Why has he gone some a set? Well I don't know what's your auction? Your auction your David Batti. I'm David Batti. I'm a fucking nightmare

I'm afraid you pick fight with wrong book because I'm charged with looking after him by father. I'll take no pleasure in this At that batty cracked the butt of the shotgun into Niels Jor sending him to the floor What the fuck what the shotgun into Neil's jaw sending him to the floor. What the fuck, what the actual fuck, fuck! He started it, I was just here on my first fucking date in 9 years and he ruined it and now you've broken my fucking beautiful jaw. How can this fucking happen to me? I've got a bible sign by Cliff Richard and so fucking Barker! Yee-ee! David's just his boot booted for into Neil's grind and started to press and mold his private.

Ah, are you fucking animal? That's nine years worth of gunk in there! Yee-ee! Fucking agony! Ha-ha-ha! You dropped two condoms out of your pocket mates! So what, so fucking what? I'm not going to get my grip now, am I?

Just say no, two condoms, leads would definitely have brought more. I'll say that. Kate never returned to the store and deleted her account from the nonsense party chat room. Neil began to suspect that he would never ever meet the lady of his dreams. Oh, that was sad and violent! An exciting! So that's that better that's what I'm saying! Crime files! The Northumberland Hamler of Grafenbridge lay in the bottom of the Harthort Valley, with its 12th century church and characterful houses, it presents as a quintessential northern village, peaceful, friendly and picturesque, but all that was to change on the 4th of March 2018. You could be more bang on with them, couldn't you?

The High Street pub, the Cross Keys, was the social hub of the town where people met to gossip and socialise and enjoy its three crowned tourist board dining experience. On this particular evening, the cross-keys darts team was playing a match against a team from the village of Curfield, a village full of the super-rich and local celebrities. Their team included the Premiership Footballer, John Joe Schelvie and the renowned fisherman and actor, Robson Green. The home team included local nonsense potter, Neil Holmes and Jed Baker, owner of Baker's failing shoe shop. I always hit it when we play a Kelfield, you know, saw full of themselves with a fancy jacket and

expensive darts. I'll tell you what, Neil, I hope we can beat them for once. Yes, the right bunch of strutting peacocks coming in here like they own the place laughing and talking. Who do they think they are? The Harlem thing? Glove trotters. Oh, watch out he even come. Rob's and Greene. Rob's and Greene Rob's and grain entered the room. Oh, yes! Oh, you're diddling!

Ready to get beat again! I'm only joking! Just pulling your legs like Ozzy Nonsense, putty go and meet! Absolutely fine, thank you! Now shall we toss for who goes first for nearest the bowl? John Joe, shall we, spoke? Yes, we must, and I insist that we use this gold blue, that my great-great-grandfather used to button up his cape.

I call heads. JJ Shelby tossed the coin, caught it, and placed it on his wrist. It had indeed landed on heads. I win and declare that the Kalfield arms shall throw first. Just admit it, show me the other side of that coin. Nobody may gaze upon my drablune. It's job done except your defeat. Look, just show me the coin. Just show me the fucking coin. It's probably heads on both sides, I insist you show me the drablune.

Or we toss again using our good old others, UK coin. So you want to make an issue of this? You doubt my integrity, do you, Mr. Nonsense Potter? Yes, that's a yes on both counts. At this point, JJ Shelby leapt onto the pool table and started flapping his hands up and down. There's only one count in here and you're looking at him, fancy making a move, buttery nonsense.

Robson Green intercepted. Oh yeah, that's just you know calm down here. Get down from there, J.J. and let's toss again so we don't have no idea how it'll feel in Lake. The toss was repeated and this time the cross-keys called it correctly. Nonsense Potter Neil Hunt took his sports back to the Jens toilet to change into his match shirt. As he stood looking in the mirror, J.J. Shelby appeared out of nowhere. So, no, sorry. I thought that was it. Any time you like? So, no, since Potter, it's just you and little old me. Let me ask you, are you a virgin? How dare you ask such a poor school,

quite a fucking dare you! What business is it of yours anyway? At this point, Shelby lunged at Neil, grabbed him by the neck and lifted him clean off the floor as if he was just a child. I ask you again, are you a virgin little nonsense pottery man? What are you doing, you such a luff-shit? Put me down, you fucking hell! You won't get away with this! Jesus! I'll hardly breathe! Are you insane? Are you literally fucking insane? Shelby, tightened as grip. Answer the question, my precious little potter!

Alright, I'm fucking right! Yes, I'm a virgin! But I've watched my brother do it! And you might just want to know, right now that he owns a sword shop and it won't be happy about this Shelby released his grip and nail fell into a heap on the floor The sword holds no fear for me you may to boy be a different matter if he was a fence post wholesaler Hold on just fucking hold on are you some sort of fucking night creeper? Some variety of vampire or something equally fucking daft? I'm actually a hybrid. My father was a Mr. On. And my mother and an adult wolf that had gifted blood to a vampire around the back of a college company in Budapest.

Fucking typical! So fucking typical of me! That I pick a body with a fucking hybrid blood snatcher. Honestly, why fucking me? I go to church most weeks and I display charity leaflets in my nonsense fucking pottery! Oh, stop whimpering you fart of a man and prepare to deliver up to me your virgin potter's blood. Oh shit, sorry. Neil knew he was about to meet a fate worse than death. Then his eyes caught sight of his dart shirt poking out at the top of his sports bag. It was a long shot, but it just might work. A shelvee made his lunge towards him. Neil pulled the shirt out of his bag and thrust the large

embroidered cross-keyed image towards the oncoming shelvee. Shelvee was stopped in his tracks immediately. No, no, not that fucking shape. It hurts my mind like a thousand bees sticking my thought chambers. Put it away, I can't fucking bear this. I beg of you. How fucking are, fucking yes! Get out of here you midnight fucking nudity! I'm Neil fucking hot and I'm fucking loving my life right now.

I don't think the local Darts Committee won't hear about this fucking bullshit. Shelby ran out of the toilet and the pub and was not seen again at night. The Kelfi'd arms were forced to forfeit the match. Later that evening, Jed spoke to Neil. So, what exactly happened in the toilet like? Your local so-called nonsense potter kicked a vampire's ass so hard his screams could be heard on the fucking moon! Hey, what do you call a vampire that can lift up cars?

I don't know. Jacular! And the two friends laughed as if every single drop of fear in the pub was in fact the punchline to an incredible joke. Oh, good job! Oh, yeah. Is that the end? Yeah, that was quite hard.

Yeah, that's enough. You want a crime file? Oh, God, do I? You do one, Mom? Yeah. So, are you ready with the door? I'm pretty much, you know. Let's start with one.

Crime files. I'm Hang on. Er... You said you're ready, I'm ready now. I'm ready now. Crime Files. No, I'm ready. Fear is irrational.

Fear does not respond in a sober and measured way, based on factual information. It's primal. It's animalistic. For the most part, we fear things that don't make sense. Monsters in the dark waiting for their turn. We fear the depravity of man and what can happen when it's unleashed. But there are fears that are real and are actually based on fact and observed behaviour. Welcome to crime files. Welcome to Crime Files. It wasn't ready.

The Hertfordshire town of Cuffley has a population of around 4,000 people, the majority of whom are law-abiding on a citizens, but in recent years crime rates have soared due to the arrival of the phenomena known as the rural gang. And one gang in particular has caused havoc to this once peaceful on-clave. Yeah, good. Like Simon John, the big word. The White Hearts gang and its leader, Mr Harry Kane. Alright, W. Sunday, the 2nd of March 2019 and local nonsense potter Neil Hunt was sat in his nonsense pottery

glazing a small water jug whilst his latest unsealable pottery whimsy pieces were firing in the kiln. Suddenly his double barn, double barn-style doors flew open and there stood three of the notorious glorious white-hark egg thugs. Harry Kane, Eric Dyer and Song Hong Min. Harry was the first to speak. Is this the nonsense part of the... Yes, it is, but we're shut! Can't believe and come back tomorrow! But we need some nonsense pottery today. Debbie is bought an air rifle and we want some nonsense tipped up to fire that. My pottery pieces are not for target practice. There's hours of work goes into each piece. How dare you suggest such a use for them. What an insult. Just please leave and don't bother coming back. How dare you talk to our boss like that, says Debbie.

Have you had an argument with your boom par? Is your hurting or something? Excuse me, but what's in the fucking name of everything normal and civilized as a fucking boomer? It's Eric Dyer, he keeps in. It's a street name. Fucking hell Eric. It's a street name. Fucking hell, Eric. For girlfriend.

Well, I haven't got one of them, so no, I haven't had an argument with my fucking boom bar. Now, go will you, you morons? Excuse me, nonsense, Potter, but you are being very coarse and ill-mannered. In fact, you are bordering on cantankerous. It's very upsetting and unpleasant to boot. Debbie, Chiptin.

You better watch yourself, Potter. If Harry gets into a fluffery buffery, there will be hell to pair with a cream horn on top and a cocktail sausage for Addedonth. Look, I don't know what you two and your slow-meter. I don't know, sorry. Look, I don't know who you and your slow-meter, but I'm Neil fucking hunt and I don't put up with your fucking time. Now leave before I phone the police.

At this juncture, the three white hearts move into the workshop and start towering above Neil, sat at his glazing table. Harry is the next to speak. Do you want to feel our fursh's hate, Potter? No, I want you to feel the breeze as you fuck off out of here and leave me in peace. For Christ's sake, I was at church this morning taking my time to fucking pray for morons like you. Harry. Right that's it. What you have said is very upsetting and disagreeable. I am now

fully buffery fluffed. Apologize to our you are in for it. You heard the man says Debbie. Apologize our you are being very serious trouble? We might even tell your parents about your behavior? Apologize! A fucking apologise! You can stick that idea up your ass with a fucking role it been! I'm not scared of you! And did I tell you my brother owns a sword shop? Yes, a fucking sword shop! Right? Sorry. Right, Derek, go over to that sink and fill up a jug with lukewarm water. Eric. Yes.

Fucking hell out. Bus. Harry, Debbie takes some of that kitchen towel and dampen it with cold water, make it really soggy and be careful not to drip it on your trainers though though What are you what are you fucking what are you fucking doing? That's my sink my water and my four ply paper Toweling roll how dare you how fucking dare you Last chance Potter you won't like it when you get splashed with tepid water and feel soggy kitchen towel on your apron I mean who would? It's an awful thought. Hold on. You've got a fucking chin on you. I tell you what. I apologize

when you don't you co- Oh sorry. I tell you what. If I am put- I tell you you what I apologize. Why don't you come over to right? Okay, then I tell you what I do apologize Why don't you come over to my kill and have a look at my latest whimsies? You could select a few for your target practice And you he would see sense the threat of warm water has made him realize his error Neil took Harry over to the killn door and opened it fully so that the heat from inside hit Harry in his face like a jet engine on a runway. Harry's magic chin immediately ignited. Debbie helped me! My magic chin is up fire. That was it quickly our season will be in tatters Ericun Debbie use the jug of water and the soggy tissue to extinguish the magic chin flames

Fucking you trio of fucking Todd warriors go on get out. I'm Neil fucking on nonsense potter and lord of the fucking kill Come back here again under these and I'll destroy that fucking chin for good The white hearts left Debbie and tears But do you think your chin has lost much power, howie? I doubt it Debbie because you and Eric were very quick to respond when I get home I'm going to fashion bravery medals for you both out of tin file and liven. Debbie replied, Asair Boss you really felt the ferocious heat there didn't you? And all three of them laugh as if every individual poor on Harry's face was blowing a raspberry. That's crime filed!

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