Athletico Mince - The Crime Files Collection Vol. 4

Episode Date: December 24, 2025

A compilation of tales from Neil Hunt’s nonsense pottery from February 2022 to March 2023. (Originally released to Club Parsnips subscribers on 27th Feb 2025) Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Got a crime files. Okay. I haven't sent it to you. Am I in it? I don't really know. I don't think so. But you'll just have to instinctively feel your way around the tension moments.

Do you know what I mean? That's a bit fun, isn't it? Yeah. Crime files. The Northumberland Village of Martin is renowned for its 16th century market cross and its close proximity to the open expanses surrounding the Keelder Reservoir. The nearest police station is located in Hexham some 40 minutes away.

Fortunately for its residents, there has been virtually zero crime for nearly 10 years. That was until the 24th of April 2019 when everything changed. Yeah. All right, okay. Was it? Situated in a converted standard. just off the main street lies the workshop and display space of local nonsense potter Neil Hunt. On the morning of the 24th of April, Neil was alone in his workshop, putting the finishing touches

to a utility vase decorated with screaming children and neglected dogs. He was listening to David Bowie tape on his portable stereo unit. He was singing along. Fashion move to the left. Fashion move to the right. We are the good school. and we're coming to town. Beep, beep!

At this moment, the door to the nonsense pottery opened and in-warked, Newcastle United manager, Eddie Howe. Nice. And Bob Dudea for fashion. For fucking fashion. Absolutely fucking wicked lyrics, squire.

Makes the change from all the modern Crest bang, boing, All-up source pen music. Neil turns off his stereo. For Christ's sake, I was enjoying that. Did you say something, matey? Did you actually say something without any indication

that it was required of you? Well, did you? I was just singing along to the fucking lyrics, mate. I've never had to ask permission to do that before in my fucking lash. That's because you've never been in my nonsense pottery

before. Now, what is it that you want? What do you actually want? And back in with the swearing there's a church, not a quarter of a mile from here. As you wish, Squiret, I'm looking for a central piece to go with all the tats in the

trophy cabinet at St James's Park. Something a bit fucking different. Something with fucking attitude. Oh, I do beg you fucking pardon, by the way. I don't fashion trophies. I'm a hotter. Now, if that's all you want, kindly leave so I can listen to Ashes to Ashes.

Oh, I love that one. My mum said to get things done, you'd better not mess with Mr. Fawkes-Tong. There you go against singing, without permission, I might add. Like a simpleton begging for scraps. And it's Major Tom, not Mr Tom. What about that vase there? That's a fucking whopper. couldn't afford that, matey. I think you'll find my fucking can. My club is the richest in the world. It's not for sale.

Why fucking not? Because I don't like you. Why for you not? Because you're a choir boy in adult clothing. Haven't I seen you on songs of fucking praise? Say that again, mate, and I'll take your fucking miserable face. and turn it inside, fucking out.

You're a choir boy in men's clothes. At this point, Eddie Howe removes a prison shank fashioned from a toothbrush from his pocket and lunges towards Neil. He grabs him by the collar and places the point of the shank into Neil's nostril. A small line of blood drips into Neil's mouth. Oh shit. Sorry, I was too engrossed. Get off me! Get as fucking you can shone.

Shut up as well. Get off me. Get off me. Do you not know who I am? No, who are you, squire? King's fucking shit house. I'll have you know. My niece's husband's gardener has the largest collection of Stanley knives and vintage shears in the Thumberland.

And my son's wife's best friend has the telephone number of the Ministry of Defence. Yeah, and I've got a fucking shank position halfway up your fucking nostril. So who's fucking winning here, squire? Okay, okay. You are. Why is it always little old me? I polished every single tin donation at this year's harvest festival. And I once calmed an annoying baby by dangling my keys in its face.

I don't fucking deserve this. Perhaps you would like to withdraw your remark. Yes, yes, I will. You're not a choir boy. So what am I then? An inexperienced, but potentially average football manager. Correct. Now, about that pot.

Yes, okay, you can have it. I'll give it to your half price if you just leave me alone. Just £30,000. 30K of the Queen's singles, no fucking worries. That is just a drip of piss in an ocean of farts from our clients. I'll take it and wish you all the fucking rest with your nonsense fucking pottery and good fucking luck with your future fucking plans.

Eddie leaves the shop with the neglected dog's vase. A smile comes over Neil's face. Ha, fucking ha! That vase was a failed bake. I was going to try and shift it in the charity shop. 100 quid max. I'm Neil Hunt and I'm loving life. there's a star man

skating in me die he'd like to come and greet us because he knows it's all worse while and that's the end then Jim so there you are but you know that was what went on in the small not humbling town of Martin

Crime Files Andy there's a new episode of Crime Files out um here it comes Crime files, The North Yorkshire Village of Yarm is well known for its lively pubs, high-end restaurants, artisan shopping and its wide cobbled High Street. Its May Day parade is renowned for its tulip hurling and traditional lardy cake competition.

On several occasions, it has been voted the best place to live in the north of England. That was until April 22 when the reputation of Yarm was. to change forever. Situated just off the high street is an old coaching lane with the workshop and sale room of nonsense potter Neil Hunt.

That morning he was busy firing nonsense miniature tulip brooches, tulip pendants and tulip motif vases, tulip-handled mugs for the upcoming tulip festival. Neil was on the phone to his clay supplier. The last batch of clay is tainted and won't fire properly.

It crumbles and weeps. I might as well be selling jabby fucking dodges to... Listen to... No, you listen to me, young man. If you hold yourself out as a supplier of clay, then you should be able to supply clay.

If you can't supply clay, then close your fucking business and move to Newfoundland where you can sandpaper shit off the fucking fishing boats. It's near Canada, which is a good deal nearer than my fucking clay appears to be at the moment. Now get it.

sorted, or you will have Neil Hunt to deal with, and that could get messy. Goodbye. At that moment, the door to the sale room opened, and in walked the Newcastle United manager, Eddie Howe. Yes.

How do you fucking do, Mr Potter? And might I say, what a beautiful fucking pottery you have here. It's absolutely fucking nailed on tremendous. Oh, cut the crap, sunshine. What do you want? What is it you actually?

want. This is an actual workplace, not a talking shop for lonely choir boys. So, I'll ask you once again, what is it that you actually want? Oh, I swear, keep you a fucking hat on. I'm after a nice fucking gift

for her in fucking doors, for the tulip festival, you know. Have you got any money? Any actual cash, or have you just got a few pennies from your piggy bank? If there's anyone funnier than me and this God forsaken country than I haven't met them. How much do you want to spend? How much do you actually want to spend?

I'm not worried about the price, said John, just so long as it's special enough to keep me in favour with her in fucking gorgeous, you know. What about this intricate little brooch depicting a yellow and red tulip and twined around a tiny rose branch? Rosebrents, you're having a fucking laugh, aren't you? Looks more like a fucking twigerokee. and one that's had a good licking at that. The brushwork is fucking atrosis, like something a wonky child would do. There's only one child in here, and that's you, my choir boyfriend.

I suggest you take your little pink head out of here and go and spend your pocket money on some fucking bubble gum. Call me a child again, Squiret, and I'll rip your fucking head off and kick it over Sherwood Forest, which is fucking miles away. You're a fucking child in a child's body. Eddie lunged forward as if to grab Neil Hunt.

But Neil was too nimble for him and managed to run to an area of the workshop that was a different area to where he was previously standing. An area where he hung his nonsense tools for shaping his nonsense pottery. He started to throw them at Eddie, but they just bounced off him, like he was the owner-operator or maybe Lisa. Lisa, you know, who's got a lease of a specialist force field. Actually, he probably

hadn't leased it on reflection and that market is largely limited to military use. Only possibility would maybe be Infinity Rocket would be Infinity Rocket Plaskets but they're fucking hard

to get old of these days. So I'm guessing it was an outright purchase. Eddie walked straight toward ignoring the impact of the nonsense tools and grabbed him around the throat. Nobody calls me a child twice, you little shit potter. How about I destroy every fucking tulip put in here and use the fraction bits to line the new carp pond and putting in in my fucking garden?

Get off me, get off me! Do you not realise who and what you are dealing with here? No, pray, do you fucking tell me, you horrible fucking melt. I'll have you know. The PE teacher, my nephew's school, has an archery set that he has said I can borrow any time I want. Well, I'll phone him up then, you fucking can't, can you? Because I've got you wax up like a mouse here, fucking vice.

Now, apologise, and maybe we can proceed with a tulip-set section. I'm still well fucking up for that. All right, all right. Why is it always little old me? I help paint the church minibus and I've never euminated in the outdoors. Listen, I'm sorry. You are a great big, fully grown man.

Is that what you want? Yeah, that's fucking super. Now, how much for that large tulip bars with the cricket balls on the fucking side? And there £2,000. I'll fucking take it. The wife loves cricket. Guess what's an excellent choice, sir.

Well, Oswell, it ends well. May I wish you all the fucking best and good luck with all your future endeavours. As Eddie left the shop, a broad smile appeared across Neil's face. That vase is a

piece of shit. It's made from the faulty clay and won't last more than 24 hours. but best of all, those are not cricket balls, but miniature e-dam cheeses. His wife is in for a gut-wrenching shock. I'm Neil Hunt and I'm loving my life. So, shenanigans in your arm, Andy. Very good. Always good to hear from Eddie Howe.

Can I do a crime files, Andy? I suppose you could. Yeah? Crime files. Crime files. That's a voice in it. Really? Crime files. Who's that? Crime fails. Anyways,

the peaceful Leicestershire Village of Market Harborough is a small thriving community, famous for its music, theatre, and of course its twice-monthy market held in the beautiful Georgian town square. Recently it was voted the best place to live in the whole of the UK.

That will undoubtedly change, however, following the terrible events. of June the 15th, 2020. A little bit like a Tommy squeaker that one, wouldn't it? Hidden just off the town square, in a narrow alley, you will find a nonsense potter, Neil Hunt, manufacturing and selling his nonsense pieces in his nonsense pottery. On June the 15th, he was sat in the front shore

and mixing a glaze for his nonsense goblets decorated with images of fox's pointing crutches at baby strollers. The doorbell rang, and into the shop strode Mr Wade Rooney. Neil took one look and responded, I don't need any cheap potatoes, thank you, and nor do I need any tiles replaced on my roof. Thank you and goodbye.

Hey, old on, old on, old on and that and that and that. I'm a customer, and I'm looking for a nice bit of nonsense pot to celebrate the wife's victory in court and that and this and them as well. Do you have any money? You know, actual real money, not bits of old scrap and vegetables that you want to barter with. My pieces aren't cheap, you know.

Yeah, I'm as flush as a rabbit's pouch. I'm an ex-footballer, and I've just won't a big cut case and that and that, and what and how and why, and then, and that. Interesting. What sort of piece are you after? The biggest, most expensive,

a nonsense that you have in the shop and that this one went and yesterday, you know, but that'll do nicely. It's a shame you didn't come in a month ago. I had a huge nonsense pottery prawn holding a microscope in its largest hand, over three foot high and costing 10,000 pounds.

Sold it to some bloke with a fancy attitude and an east-facing chin. Ah, that's a shame. Colleen loves large prongs and microscopes. That would have been perfect, At that moment, the doorbell rang and in walked Leicester City, channel running striker, James Vardy.

Oh! In his arms, he was carrying the three-foot nonsense pottery prawn vars. Wade spotted him and shuffled sideways to hide behind one of the display cabinets. Neil, What do you want, and you'd better want something as I'm busy with a rich bloke who likes his nonsense pots? Vardy.

Yeah, calm down, Mr Potter, you know, live in the moment. Be present. Let's really listen to each other and feel each other's energy. Those words are sickening. Have you broken the prawn piece or something? Because I don't do repairs, too time-consuming, and there's no profit in it. No, the vase is fine. It's just as it left the shop, but I've had a bit of a financial hiccup this last week,

and I wondered if I could give you it back and have a refund, you know, because at the end of the day, we're all brothers under the chin, you know. I'm not your brother, and I haven't got a wayward chin. It was printed quite clearly on your receipt that there are no front refunds ever given, even if the piece dissolves just as you leave the shop. Now, get out of the studio and go and poke your chin down some other hole. Vardy approaches Neil Hunt with the prawn. Held high, he grabs Neil around the neck and starts to force the long eye pipe of the prawn into Neil's nostril.

Listen, Mr. Nonsense. Oh, my words may sicken you, but I have youth and strength on my side. If you don't agree to a refund, I will force this long eye thingy right up your snout, and the microscope attachment will be rubbed against your eye until you plead for chin given us. I stop that you're hurting my potting eye. Do you not know who I am? Have you know my brother's dentist has access to titanium drill pieces? And my cousin is a forester who can get me, you know, those ants that bite the living shit out of you.

Do you hear me? Vardy forces the long eye thingy further up Nail's nose. Yeah, but they're not here now, are they, Monsieur Pot Pot? Now, how's about that refund? Why is it always little old me? Every second Sunday I give out reconditioned Bibles to the Wayward and the Fallen, and I once looked after a neighbour's bin collection when he was shitting pork crackling for a month. I'll give you £5,000 refund. That's as far as I could go.

That's a deal, Mr Potpots. You see, that wasn't so difficult, was it, in the largest sphere of things? Neil transfers the money to Vardy on his phone app. And at that moment, Wade Rooney pops out from behind the display cabinet. So, Vardy, we meet again for the first time without the constraints of the courthouse and that and that. And I must say, you're looking a little bit worse for wearing that. At that moment, Santee Kuzola pops his head around the door. Santee,

balloons, squeezy string, luminous shit ape hands, big fingers, who wants a party? I love to party. Fuck off, fancy. Okay, why so serious though? Honestly, life is too short to not party. Losers. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Party, party. I love it. I have nothing to say to you other than I expect all that you have achieved and bear no malice towards you and your loved ones, may everyone and everything rest in peace.

How much do you want for that prawn pottery, man? £10,000, it's in perfect condition, exactly as it left the shop, apart from a bit of potter snot on the long-eye thingy, which in my eyes only adds to the seafoodness of the piece. I'll take it a lad, and that and that and that and then some. Wade picks up the prawn, raises it above his head and smashes it onto the floor,

breaking it in over a hundred and forty-two pieces. Vardy looks on, shocked, as Wade says. I've enjoyed doing that in front of your easterly chin. Seems like a waste of money, but it was worth every penny and that and that. And don't pass to Vardy and his useless channels. Listen, we'll meet again, Wade, and next time I hope we are on our own away from the prying eyes of journalists, Bob Mortimer, and Nonsense Potters.

Goodbye for now. Hey, Potter, I've just... had a great idea for Colleen, could you knock up of ours in the shape of a pointy three-foot easterly based chin with for sale written on it? Yes, if you have £5,000 to spare. All I do are. After Wade had left the shop, a tear began to form in the potter's eye. That's £15,000 I've made today, enough to buy a 2019 Octavia estate.

I'm Neil Hunt and I'm loving my life. So that was crime in Market Harbour. Yeah. Andy, I've had a crime files in. Okay. You ready? Crime. I wasn't ready.

Ah, shit. I'm not ready. Crime files. Nasty little ones. I'm in this at all. No, you are in some stuff that I haven't sent you. Wait, it might be this. There's a bit of a nasty one this, Andy, any ways up.

The small Buckinghamshire Market Town of Cheshem lies in the Chiltern Hills some 25 miles northwest of London. A quiet commuter town known for the 4Bs, sorry, 4Bs, boots, beer, brushes and Baptists. The TV weatherman Francis Wilson used to live here, but he doesn't anymore. Chesson boasts one of the lowest. crime rates in southeast England and is considered one of the top 10 places to live in the UK. That Andrew was until the 4th of October 2022 when the reputation of the town changed forever. Shit, hang on. It's not ready. No, it's ready. There it goes. That's like a moped coming from the distance.

It came and faded in for some reason. All right. Tucked behind the market square in Lewin's yard was the latest studio of nonsense Potter, Mr Neil Hunt. It was a quiet Tuesday lunchtime, and Neil was sat at his desk reading the daily mail and applying TCP to a saw on his left thigh. Suddenly the front door opened and in walked the apprentice frontman Sir Alan Sugar. Goetcha! From this place, you couldn't throw a wobbler, never mind throw a pot. Alan holds up his phone, which plays a short blast of canned laughter.

Now, I have this candelafter here, Andrew. Yes. I think. Right. Good luck with that. Poh. You sound like the moped there. Are we editing this show?

Oh, man. Alan holds up his phone, which plays a short blast of canned laughter. Let me have a butcher's at your business plan, boss, says Alan. Excuse me, but who the hell do you think you are, waddling in? here demanding business plans. And don't call me boss unless you work for me. And I assure you I wouldn't employ an old walnut like you

even if my toilet was blocked and you were the only plumber with working arms left standing on planet Earth. Get out of my nonsense pottery. Listen, park down. Just shut it for a moment. I don't want to hear any more.

I don't want to hear any more. I'm interested in investing in shitty local businesses. and this dump caught my eye. I'm looking to invest £100,000 pounds, so today could be more like the lottery

than pottery for you. Then I have to try and find that sound effect. Okay. That's good. Neil. Oh yes, and where did you get that sort of money to throw around willy-nilly? You look more like a scrap dealer

than a wheeler dealer. Neil gets out his phone and plays his trombone sting. Well done, Neil. If you want the money, just give me a quick elevator pitch. Now, from the look of you, you need a facelift more than a lift to the boardroom. Candle after, Andy. Okay, okay, I'll do it. My name is Neil Hunt, and I operate the UK's most responsible.

expected nonsense pottery, selling nonsense pieces at nonsense prices. It's a market that's flourishing and will continue to grow as the public demand more nonsense in their lives. There, that's it. That's my pitch. And by the way, if you needed a lift, it would probably be to a walnut farm to chat with your mates. What, what? What? So, what's your turnover this year to date? I don't. mean the amount of times you've turned over in bed due to your septic thigh. Laugh for that beat. Oh, they like that one. It's doubled every single year since 1976. And might I say, the only thing you seem to have doubled is your chin?

You know what's coming, Andy. Yeah. There is. I think this is actually pretty good. No, I'm enjoying it. Very good. news and what are your capital costs and I don't mean how much have you spent on oyster cards attending topless bars in London? Canlough there we go. I don't have any

capital costs everything's paid for and depreciation is claimed against profits. Grab hold of that with your sausage fingers. Alan grabs hold of a nonsense pottery vase featuring a hazelnut with an arrow through it and the words, I'm nuts for you written on it. What's a markup on a piece of nonsense like this? Cause, I must say, I think you would have to be nuts to buy it. 90% and it retails at £40,000. Very impressive.

I'm tempted to invest right here and now. At that moment, the door opens and in walks Karen Brady. Lord Sugar, a car is waiting for you outside. take you to Alexander Palace where you have a meeting with Daffy Duck. But Cameron, I'm about to make a deal here and when I say deal I don't mean the town in Kent. Come on, let's seal a deal and when I say seal I don't mean the pop singer, you know with the facial scar. The door opens again and in walks Tuka Suleiman from Dragon's Den. Yes.

D-D- Oh. Yes. Oh. Just hold your haughties. I'm willing to give you £150,000 for a 2% cut in your nonsense pottery. I can get you a lockup for your stock, import your clay from China at a quarter of the price, and put billboards up in places that they will be seen. And when I say seen, I don't mean that bit in Harry Possa,

you know, where the Ford Angu ends up in the tweet. SFX, Tadar. I think I'm going to go. with Tuka. That's a much better offer. And when I say offer, I don't mean offer tits. Before the sound effect has even finished, Karen has walked over to Neil and thrust her ballpoint pen into the sore on his thigh. I think you should go with Lord Sugar. Oh my God, what are you doing? Ah! Ah! Ah! Do you not know who you're dealing with here? I'm My daughter-in-law's piano teacher has access to wires so thin and sharp they could cut you open like cheese.

I also have a ray gun on order from infinity rocket plastics. Though I must admit there'd be several delivery deadlines. Karen digs the pen in deeper. Just say you will go with Lord Sugar and the pain stops. Bloody hell, Karen, you've got a lot of pent-up aggression. There, canned laughter. Okay, okay, I'll take the deal with the Sugar Man. Christ, why is it always little old meat?

Just last week I cleaned a strained dog's eyes so that its sight returned and every week I help repair the fences of the donkey sanctuary. Tuka. Well, right, I'll get back to the den and I don't mean the home of Millwall Football Club. Tuka leaves the shop. Pleasure doing business with you,

son, says Alan, and if you don't mind, I'll purchase one of these hazelnut vases. I've got a fresh one out of the kiln here. You can take it now. Alan points at the vase that's fresh out of the kiln. That's fired. Karen, come on Lord Sugar, Daffy Ducks waiting for you. Okay, just send in voice to my head office. Karen and Alan leave. Neal is left alone. That vase he took on a floor in the glaze that renders it worthless.

That's 140K I've taken in one morning. I'm Neil Hunt and I'm loving my life. I'm sorry Andy that was a bit of a mess but I think it could be fun. I think it's, I enjoyed it.