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An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
Book Details

Although Mr Clops was extremely disap­pointed that Mr Balls wouldn’t be driving a car, it certainly didn’t dampen his own enthusiasm. He forgot all about Mr Balls, as he arrived at the garage, and was given a white disposable balaclava and a black crash helmet. The anticipation increased tenfold as he caught sight of the racing cars on the grid. They were a bit smaller than he’d imagined, with a choice of colours: red and white, green and white, or blue and white. The nine cars were in rows of two, with a single car right at the back. The strong smell of petrol fumes only added to the excitement. The impatient drivers were all stood around, waiting for the stewards to allocate the cars, when suddenly three of the drivers scattered like crazy ants.

They obviously knew the drill and were desperate to get in a car near the front. The curly-haired man, who’d now replaced his size thirteen boots with a pair of tatty trainers, shot off like an Olympic sprinter to the front row of the grid, and dived into car 14. Seconds later there was a scuffle, as the other two drivers both tried to get into car 6. They were both determined to get on the front row. Mr Clops was astonished when he realised one of the drivers was Winnie, the eighty-five-year-old. She must have known the other driver as they began swapping insults.

‘I was here first Peter!’ she shouted ‘You know I always have this car! I don’t like any of the other cars, you idiot!’ Peter was showing no mercy. ‘Not this time Winnie! You always get your own way but not this time, you silly old bugger!’ Just when it looked like it was about to turn nasty, an angry looking steward called Jeremy intervened. He’d encountered these two before. ‘Right that’s enough…..! I’m sick to death of having to deal with you two! Peter, let Winnie have the car please. I don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway, the cars are all the same.’ Peter, who had one leg in the car and one on the tarmac was livid.

‘Oh yes! I thought as much! I knew you’d take her side! She always gets her own way, just because she’s a blue rinser! And the cars aren’t the same! Some of them are that old, they rattle when you get past fifty! Just like her!’ Peter was still remonstrating, as he very reluctantly removed his leg from the car and went looking for another one. Winnie clenched her fist in victory, as she carefully climbed into the car. Jeremy adjusted the seat until she was comfortable, before strapping her in. ‘I wish you’d behave yourself Winnie,’ he said smiling. ‘You’re always upsetting Peter. Sometimes you’re more trouble than Old Ma Baker.’ Winnie, who had already removed her false teeth, wrapped them in a paper towel, and put them in her trouser pocket for safe keeping, gave Jeremy a cheeky flash of fleshy gums. ‘He’ll survive,’ she said. ‘He’ll be even more upset when I beat him on the track.’

— The rift between Winnie and Peter had been bubbling away for quite some time. It all started a few months ago, when Peter acciden­tally clipped Winnie’s car from behind, as they approached the first bend on the warm-up lap. The car was sent spinning out of control and crashed into the safety barrier. No one was injured, but the marshals failed to restart the car, so Winnie’s race was over before it had even started. She accused Peter of deliberately causing the accident, and they’ve been at each other’s throats ever since.

All the cars had now been allocated by the stewards. Mr Clops was given car number 2, the one right at the back of the grid. He was actually quite relieved to be at the back, as he knew there were some experienced drivers in the field, and no doubt they would be setting off very fast, and trying to overtake each other. He certainly didn’t want to be involved in any accidents, and especially not on the first few laps. His intentions were to get used to the car during the warm-up laps, and then take it from there. He walked over to the car and gave it the once over, before putting on his balaclava, and squeezing his head into the black helmet. It was tighter than two coats of paint, and needed several twists and adjustments, before it felt relatively comfortable. Jeremy then helped him into the car. His skinny body easily slotted into the cockpit, with his backside firm and snug on the seat. His legs were almost stretched out fully, with his feet resting on the pedals. Jeremy strapped him in, before showing him the layout of the car.

Mr Clops was surprised at just how low down he was, no more than a few inches from the ground. There were no fancy dials or controls either. Just a push button to start the engine, a speedometer, a rev counter, a clutch, break and accelerator pedal, a tiny steering wheel, and a 4 speed gear box, with a small chunky gear stick poking out. He was a bit disappointed, as he’d seen Lewis Hamilton on TV, sat in his own cockpit on race days, and that didn’t look anything like this one. He began fiddling around with the clutch, break, and accelerator pedals, followed by the steering wheel and gear box, trying to get a feel for the car. He’d done a bit of go-kart racing in the past, but he’d certainly never driven at high speeds before. He was sat in the car waiting for the warm-up laps to begin, when something caught his eye in the car mirror. The next thing he knew, Mr Balls was standing right in front of the car, holding up his smartphone taking pictures.

‘Oooh….. look at you Mr Clops, thinking ya Jenson Button. I thought I’d take a few pics on mi phone before you start the race, to show the lads down at The Old Peacock.’ Mr Clops, who was never one to miss a photo opportunity, willingly obliged and began to strike several poses. He unclipped his seat belt and sat on the side of the car with his arms folded, trying to look cool. He then noticed Jeremy marching towards him, and he didn’t look pleased. He was annoyed with Mr Clops for removing his seat belt, moments before the race was about to start. ‘Excuse me sir! Can you get back in the car immediately please! Or you’ll be disqualified!’ Mr Clops didn’t argue and quickly sat back down in the seat. Jeremy strapped him in once again, before turning his anger onto Mr Balls. ‘Who are you!? What are you doing here!? No one is allowed in this area, except for the marshals, the stewards and the drivers! If you want to take photographs you need to stand behind the safety barrier!’

Mr Balls didn’t take kindly at being shouted at. ‘Well I am one of the drivers if ya must know! Or rather I’m not but I should be!’ Jeremy was keen for the race to start and in no mood for silly conversations. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Either you are one of the drivers or you’re not. And con­sidering all the cars have drivers sat in them, I assume you’re not.’ ‘Well I am one of the drivers, but I can’t drive cos I’m too fat. I’m just over the eighteen stone limit. I should be driving a car, cos it’s mi fiftieth birthday, and coming here was a birthday present from Mr Clops, and now it’s all gone tits-up.’ Jeremy tried to show a little understanding, but failed miserably. ‘Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that sir, but I need you to leave now, so we can get this race started.’

‘Yeah Whatever!’ said Mr Balls, feeling a little aggrieved. He then bent down to give Mr Clops a little encouragement. ‘Good luck Mr Clops, av a good’un, and make sure ya come back in one piece,’ he said, tapping him on the shoulder a few times. Mr Clops, who now had his visor down ready for action, raised up his thumb, and nodded in appreciation. Seconds later Mr Balls was gone. Finally the race could now get under way. Then….. just as the marshals were about to instruct the drivers to start up their engines, Philip James the driving instructor, appeared on the grid. Once again an enraged Jeremy rushed over to see what the problem was. He calmed down slightly when he realised it was Philip, who he knew fairly well. ‘Alright Philip, is there a problem?’

‘Oh hello Jeremy, sorry to trouble you but I’ve lost someone, I thought he may be around here somewhere. He’s a rather large man with a beard, wearing white trousers, an Hawaiian shirt, a panama hat and sunglasses. You can’t miss him, he’s a bit conspicuous to say the least. I don’t think he would get on the short list for MI5, that’s for sure. He also smells of Lynx Excite deodorant. Anyway, he seems to have disappeared into thin air. Have you seen him?’ Jeremy’s calm was wearing pretty thin. ‘Yes, you’ve just missed him Philip, try reception, he might be there. Now we really must get this race started.’ Philip apologised once again, before heading off to find Mr Balls.

The cars were split up into two groups for safety reasons. There were five cars in the first group and four in the second. Each group had a pace car, which was a tuned up Renault Clio, driven by a professional driver. The drivers pushed in the ignition buttons to start the cars. The sound of the engines was deafening. Some of the inexperienced drivers increased the decibels to an ear popping level, as they revved the engines recklessly. Mr Clops, who was in the second group, pushed the clutch pedal down with his left foot, and put the car into first gear. Both his hands were firmly on the steering wheel, as he waited for the pace car to pull away, so he could finally get to drive the car. He was only seconds away from releasing the clutch and stepping on the gas, when he felt someone banging on his helmet. He looked up to see Mr Balls shouting at him, desperate to be heard through all the noise.

‘I’ve lost Philip the driving instructor! I was told he was here! Av ya seen him!?’ Before Mr Clops could answer, Jeremy, who was right at the front of the grid, sprinted over at great pace. He flipped his lid big time as he tried to manhandle Mr Balls towards the safety barri­ers. Suffice to say he wasn’t very successful. Mr Balls was furious. ‘Hey…..! What do ya think ya doing…..!? Get ya hands of mi…..! Who do ya thing ya are!?’ ‘Look sir! Can you leave please!? The race is about to start! Why have you come back!?’ ‘If ya must know I’m looking for Philip, the driving instructor! I was told he was here!’ ‘Well he was here sir and now he’s not! So can you leave please…..!? PLEASE!!’

This time Mr Balls didn’t argue and trotted off with his tail well and truly between his legs. Moments later both pace cars pulled away to begin the warm-up laps. The stewards instructed each driver to slowly move away in a single file. All the drivers in the first group left the grid without any hitches. However, three of the four drivers in the second group, (including Mr Clops) stalled their cars. The stewards dashed over to assist, and began to shout out instructions: ‘Give it more revs! And let the clutch out slowly!’ said one steward. ‘Make sure it’s not in gear when you start the engine!’ said another. It took one driver five nervous attempts before he finally got the message. Eventually all the cars got away safely.

For the first two warm-up laps, Mr Clops cruised along at the back, learning the corner lines and breaking points, and mainly getting familiar with the car. But by the middle of the third lap, he was becoming increasingly frus­trated. His top speed was no more than 20mph, and he’d not even been out of second gear. For safety reasons the pace car was pur­posely going slow, as it allowed the drivers to get used to the cars and the circuit. However, Mr Clops was being slowed down ever further by the car in front. The car in front was at least ten meters behind the main pack, and Mr Clops couldn’t understand why it was going so slow. ‘Bloody hell!’ he screamed through his helmet. ‘We’ve got a well seasoned Sunday afternoon driver on the track! And I’m stuck right behind him! This guy must think he’s driving a bleedin milk float or summat! I’d be going faster in a tailback on the M25! Can you speed up pal!?’ Mr Clops, who was normally a mild-mannered man and not one for swearing or losing his cool, seemed to be turning into a road rager.

— You were allowed to overtake on the warm-up laps, but only on the straights. Normally, the marshals would hold up a blue flag to the slower car in front, who would then be expected to move across to the right, so the faster car behind could drive past on the left hand side. In any case, Mr Clops was far too busy learning how to drive the car, without being distracted by marshals and blue flags. On the final warm-up lap, the top speed had only slightly increased to 30mph. All the cars were led back into the pit lane. The pace cars disappeared, and the nine racing cars lined up on the grid. Finally the drivers would be let loose on the track. Now the real fun would begin…..

The marshal who was stood at the front of the grid, slowly released each car one by one. Although the drivers were told in the briefing, that it wasn’t so much a race, but more of a personal driving experience, that certainly didn’t resonate with several of the drivers, in­cluding Mr Clops. They were all very competi­tive, and determined to cross the line in first place, and also claim the fastest lap. The milk float driver in front of Mr Clops set off like a snail in the annual garden race. Mr Clops followed behind, stalking his prey like a hungry cheetah ready to pounce. All nine cars were now out on the track. As the milk float driver came around the first bend and onto the straight, Mr Clops made his move. He stuck his foot down and breezed past the car, like an angry gust of wind. It certainly wasn’t the best overtaking manoeuvre ever seen on a race track, as the milk float driver was only going 28mph. Nevertheless, Mr Clops screamed out like he’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix. ‘Come OoooooN! Bye-Bye Mr Milk Float Man! Go and deliver your red top! Seven more cars to get past!’

That seven became six, then five, as two cars collided with each other halfway down the back straight, leaving debris all over the place. Both cars spun off the track, with one crashing into the car tyre safety barrier, and the other into the advertising board. Both drivers raised an arm to the marshals to confirm they were ok, but their race was over. Because of the accident, the yellow flags were out immediately, so the seven remaining cars had to slow down. Moments later the safety car appeared. For the next four laps, the seven cars trundled along behind the safety car, so the stewards and marshals could clean up the accident scene.

At the end of lap five, the safety car pulled off the track, and the cars set off once again. However, cars 8 and 16, who were in front of Mr Clops, for some reason followed the safety car back into the pit lane. The drivers must have lost concentration during all the slow laps, and looked a bit foolish as their race was ended prematurely. That meant five cars were now left on the track. Mr Clops knew there could be no more than a few laps left. He’d spent half the time following the pace car, and the other half following the safety car. He’d not driven faster than 35mph, and considering he was driving a so-called racing car at Silver­stone, he was a little disheartened to say the least. He knew if he wanted to win the race, he had to make his move quickly.

Leading at the front was car 14, driven by the curly-haired man. Behind him were the two arch-rivals: Peter in car 12, followed by Winnie in car 6. Mr Clops was next in car 2, and bringing up the rear was the milk float man in car 4. The curly-haired man throttled away from the rest of the pack. He was by far the most experienced driver in the field, and was comfortable driving at high speeds, even at 120mph. He was obviously going to win the race, and would no doubt be setting the fastest lap. Unfortunately for him however, he got a little cocky, and went too fast around the hairpin bend. He lost control of the car, locked up the breaks, and skidded for a good few meters, before coming to an abrupt halt on the grass. He made his situation worse by stalling the car. Although he eventually managed to re-start the car, by the time he got back on the track, he was way behind the field.

Peter was now leading the race. He could see Winnie in his mirror, only a few meters behind. He was certain she would try and overtake him on the next straight. As he came out of the bend and onto the straight, he purposely placed his car on the left-hand side of the track, ready to defend his racing line. He knew Winnie could only pass him on his left-hand side, and had no intentions of letting her through, even if the blue flags came out. As it happened, Winnie had a cunning plan of her own, as she came to within half a meter of Peter’s car. Both the cars were travelling at over 80mph, so Winnie’s plan was even more impressive.

She moved her car to the right, as if she was going to overtake. Peter cut her off. Then she moved her car to the left. Peter once again cut her off. She then played her joker card to perfection. In a split second, she moved her car to the right, then to the left, then back to the right again. She completely flummoxed Peter, as he didn’t know which racing line to defend. He left a gap on his left-hand side, just wide enough for Winnie to squeeze through. It was a move Michael Schumacher would have been proud of. Winnie raised a fist in the air for good measure, as she pulled away from a very disgruntled Peter, to began her final lap.

Mr Clops had a bird’s eye view of the whole incident and now prepared to put his own plan into operation. He was only a meter or so behind Peter’s car, as they both crossed the line for the final lap. He stuck to Peter like a rash, as he stalked him around the track, waiting for his opportunity. As both cars came off the hairpin bend and onto the home straight for the final time, Mr Clops made his move. He pulled out from behind Peter’s car, and floored the accelerator pedal. He shot past Peter faster than Bernie the Bolt, doing 90mph. Peter, who had now been overtaken twice, tried to respond but the fight had gone. He just didn’t have the nerve or the heart to go any faster.

Winnie thought she’d already got the race won, and began to slow down halfway down the home straight. She never even looked in the mirror to see Mr Clops closing in. Mr Clops tried to keep his car in a straight line to gain maximum speed. Seconds later he was half a meter behind Winnie, as he caught site of the marshal holding up the chequered flag. The adrenaline rush was palpable, as he pulled up at the side of Winnie’s car, only meters away from the finishing line. He was certain he was going to win the race. Then, on his left-hand side, out of the blue, like a flash of lightening, came car number 4. It was the milk float man. Superman would be more apt. Mr Clops was stunned, like he‘d just been zapped by a fifty thousand volt taser gun.

All three cars were now side by side, as each driver vied for glory. Moments later they crossed the line, with not a fag paper between them. Some of the stewards and marshals had been watching the race from various points around the circuit, and congregated at the finishing line to savour the moment. They’d never seen anything like it before. They all applauded vigorously as the three cars sped past. The marshal was waving his chequered flag that fast, it slipped from his hand and went sailing high into the sky like an arrow, before landing on the grass. There was some debate as to who had actually won the race. Mr Clops was convinced he’d won, and was absolutely ecstatic, as he began to beat his chest like a mad gorilla. ‘Yeah! Come On! You Little Beauty!’ Winnie was convinced she’d won. ‘No one gets passed little old Winnie! Not that loser Peter! Not anyone!’ she said, before popping her false teeth back in, ready to give her victory speech. The milk float man on the other hand, didn’t seem all that bothered. He was cooler than the coolest cucumber, as he quietly chewed on his gum.

The five cars slowly pulled into the pit lane in single file, and were directed by the stew­ards to park up on the white grid lines. The stewards then released the seat belts, and helped the drivers exit the cars. Mr Clops was still buzzing, as he ran over to Winnie and gave her a great big hug, while lifting her off the floor and swinging her around a few times. ‘It’s the flying Gran!’ he shouted laughing. Winnie removed her helmet. The sweat was pouring off her face and neck. She was wear­ing a rather odd-looking black hair net around her head, and looked like a happier version of Ena Sharples. ‘I bet you’ve not been in many close finishes with an old wrinkly like me,’ she said. Mr Clops then went over to the milk float man to congratulate him. ‘Well done! That was an incredible finish! I never even saw you coming! You were like a bat out of hell!’ The milk float man’s unassuming demeanour never altered, as he patted Mr Clops on the shoulder. ‘Not bad for a milk float man,’ he said.

The three of them handed in their crash helmets and balaclavas, and headed off to the debriefing room. By the time they got there Peter and the curly-haired man were already sat around the table. They each found a seat and sat down in anticipation of the result. The other four drivers who didn’t complete the race, had all left the experience centre before the race had even finished. Philip James the driving instructor, walked in and stood at the foot of the table. ‘Hello everyone I’m Philip James, one of the driving instructors.’ He then noticed Mr Clops.

‘Oh hello there Mr Clops, I saw the finish, everyone’s talking about it. It’s one of the best finishes we’ve ever seen. By the way, Mr Balls is waiting for you in reception.’ Mr Clops, who was that engrossed in the race, completely forgot about Mr Balls. He felt a little guilty for having such an exhilarating experience on the track, when Mr Balls wasn’t even allowed to drive a car. ‘Did Mr Balls have a good time Philip?’ ‘Oh yes…..! No doubt he’ll tell you all about it when you see him.’ Philip then shouted out the car numbers, and handed the printouts to the drivers, with their individual lap times. The drivers were busy mulling over the information, as Philip prepared to announce the results. ‘Let me just say something before I announce the results. In my eyes you’re all winners. It takes some bottle to get on a race track.

Anyway, without further ado here are the results.’ (None of the drivers seemed that interested, except for Mr Clops and Winnie, who were like two giddy children playing pass the parcel, hoping to win the prize.)

‘In 5th place………. Car 14.’ (That was the curly-haired man.) Everyone clapped, even the curly-haired man, sarcastically it has to be said.

‘In 4th place………. Car 12.’ (That was Peter, who angrily mumbled something under his breath.) Again everyone clapped. Mr Clops and Winnie were both getting anxious, hoping their car wouldn’t be called out next.

‘In 3rd place………. Car 2.’ (That was Mr Clops. His expression said it all. He looked like he’d lost his wallet and found a quid.)

Winnie was getting nervous and excited at the same time. ‘Come on little Winnie,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You can do it lass.’

‘In 2nd place, and also the prize for the fastest lap, with an amazing time of 57.5 seconds. Car number………. Wait for it………. Car number………. 4.’ (That was the milk float man. He just sat there chewing his gum, very matter-of-fact.)

Winnie screamed out in sheer elation.

‘YESSSSSS! YESSSSSS! YOU’VE DONE IT LASS! YOU’VE DONE IT! WELL DONE!’

‘And in 1st place, your friend and mine, in Car number 6, the one and only………. Winnie.’ Everyone applauded, even Peter, as Winnie punched the air with both fists. The top three drivers all received a certificate, with the milk float man getting an extra one for the fastest lap. It was an experience none of them would ever forget. Mr Clops said his farewells to the drivers and Philip, before making his way to the reception area to find Mr Balls.

An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
Book Details

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An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
Book Details

The sun was beating down as the temperature hit ninety degrees. Mr Balls had two really large distinctive sweat bombs under both his armpits and stunk of B.O. ‘It’s very hot Mr Clops, I’m sweating like a good’un, and I stink like a pig. Can I borrow some of your deodorant please?’ Mr Clops took out a can of Lynx Excite deodorant from his bag, handing it to Mr Balls. Mr Balls removed his Hawaiian shirt and used it to wipe away all the sweat from his body. A cool refreshing breeze crashed against his bare skin. He lifted up both his arms, and let the wind dry his sweaty smelly armpits. He then sprayed a large amount of deodorant all over his body, paying particular attention to his fat belly, his fat back and under his arms.

Just then, two teenage girls walked past on the opposite side of the road. One of the girls gave Mr Balls a wolf-whistle. ‘Oooh…..! Look who it is…..?! It’s Arnold Schwarzenegger!’ she shouted. ‘Show us ya muscles Arnold!’ Mr Balls stood upright like a proud peacock, raising his arms up high to his side and tensing his muscles, (well his bingo wings to be more precise). ‘You’d better believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s not every day you get to see a body like this.’ The girls were still giggling as they continued down the road, before fading into the distance. Mr Balls’s enormous man boobs and bingo wings, sat proudly on his obese body. He didn’t give a stuff what anyone thought, and because of his size, he got a lot of attention, which he rather enjoyed.

His shirt was soaked in sweat, so he turned it inside out and held it high, to let the wind blow it dry. He then gave it a good old shake before putting it back on. ‘That’s better,’ he said, handing the deodorant back to Mr Clops. ‘Ya can’t beat a bit of Lynx Excite on a fat sweaty body Mr Clops, that’s what I say.’ Five white taxis were lined up in a row. Mr Clops and Mr Balls got in the first one, with Mr Clops in the front seat and Mr Balls in the back, so he could manoeuvre his large frame into a comfortable position. ‘Where to?’ asked the driver. ‘Silverstone please,’ replied Mr Clops.

‘We’re on one of those experience days,’ said Mr Balls. ‘It’s a present from Mr Clops for my fiftieth birthday.’ ‘Oh that’s very nice, many happy returns,’ said the driver, as he caught a good whiff of Mr Balls’s deodorant. ‘Is that Lynx Excite I can smell? You can’t beat a bit of Lynx Excite. My mum always gets me some at Christmas.’ Mr Balls roared with laughter. ‘That’s just what I was saying. I always get Mr Clops a large can for Christmas and birthdays, don’t I Mr Clops?’ ‘Yeah, he never misses, he buys it for me and then uses it himself, don’t you Mr Balls?’ ‘Yeah that’s true, I do that sometimes.’

Five minutes later the taxi was approaching Silverstone on the perimeter road, just meters away from the famous race track. Mr Balls was overcome with excitement. ‘Look Mr Clops! You can see the race track!’ Mr Clops was just as excited. ‘Yeah…..! How great is that!?’ The driver then made a left turn and headed towards the bridge. As he drove over the bridge, he slowed the taxi right down to a snail’s pace. ‘We’re right over the Hangar Straight,’ he announced proudly. ‘Wow…..!’ screamed Mr Balls. ‘Right over the Hangar Straight!? Whatever next!?’

— The Hanger Straight is one of the iconic parts of the race track, with speeds of up to 300 kilometers per hour. Silverstone was once used as a royal air force base and was home to two large hangars, (hence the name: Hangar Straight). The taxi pulled up outside the experience centre shortly after. ‘Here we are,’ said the driver. ‘That will be twelve pounds please.’ Mr Clops reached into the side pocket of his bag and pulled out fifteen pounds, handing it to the driver. ‘There you go, keep the change.’ ‘Thank you very much Mr Clops, and best wishes to you Mr Balls for your birthday.’ ‘Oh thank you,’ said a grateful Mr Balls, as he freed himself from the back seat of the taxi.

Mr Clops and Mr Balls walked into the ex­perience centre and up to the reception desk. They were like two kids on a day trip to the seaside, (that initial rush of excitement you get, when you first spot the sea through the coach window). They were greeted by a smart looking man, dressed in blue stylish tracksuit bottoms, and a red t-shirt with: “Silverstone The Home Of British Motor Racing” splashed across the front in bright yellow letters. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked with a warm generous smile. Mr Clops noticed the man’s name badge pinned to his t-shirt: “Simon Spencer – Team Coordinator”

‘Hello Simon, we’re here for the Silverstone experience,’ he said, as he handed over the tickets. ‘Oh….. two more for the single seater thrill, that makes ten in total. Can I see your driving licences please?’ Mr Clops handed over his and Mr Balls’s driving licence. After a quick check, Simon handed them back along with the tickets. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Your experience starts at three o’clock, you’ll hear the announcement through the tannoy. You then go to the briefing room, located through the blue double doors next to the cafe. You’ll have a thirty minute briefing from your driv­ing instructor, who will go through all the procedures. This will include safety regula­tions, the layout of the track, braking, turning techniques and overtaking. After the briefing, you’ll go to the Stowe Circuit for your single seater drive. Don’t worry about all the minor details, your instructor will tell you all you need to know.’

Mr Balls looked a little confused. ‘The Stowe Circuit…..? Don’t we drive around the proper Grand Prix Circuit?’ ‘I’m afraid not sir, but I think you’ll find the Stowe Circuit, just as thrilling and exciting.’ ‘I doubt that very much,’ said a sarcastic and somewhat annoyed Mr Balls. Mr Clops also looked a bit puzzled. ‘I thought we drove around the Grand Prix Circuit? How can it be called a Silverstone Single Seater Thrill, when you don’t even drive around the Silverstone circuit? That can’t be right.’ Simon went into one of his customer service statements, that he’d no doubt said a million times before to disgruntled customers. ‘I think you’ll find sir, it clearly states on our website, that your particular experience, namely the single seater thrill, is a drive around the Stowe Circuit and not the Grand Prix Circuit. However sir, the Stowe Circuit is almost a mile long and features fast chicanes, hairpin corners, and two high-speed straights for overtaking. I think you’ll find it just as thrilling and exciting as the Grand Prix Circuit sir.’

Mr Clops wasn’t impressed one little bit. ‘Well, I didn’t buy the tickets directly from your website, and I certainly never read anything about the Stowe Circuit. And like Mr Balls said, I very much doubt if it’s anything like the real Grand Prix Circuit.’ Simon quickly defused the situation with a calming friendly smile, before switching his attention to the elderly lady stood next to Mr Clops. ‘Hello madam can I help?’ he said. Mr Clops and Mr Balls were still peed off as they wandered around the centre looking for somewhere to sit.

They soon found a couple of empty chairs in the waiting area, and sat down next to a middle-aged man, supporting a mass of brown curly hair. He was kitted out in a bright red all-in-one racing suit, and black leather biker boots with five velcro straps. The boots went right up to his knees, and must have been at least size thirteen. It was a wonder he could lift them off the floor, let alone walk in them. He also had a jazzy blue and white crash helmet, nestled neatly on his lap. The helmet was turned upside down, with a pair of tatty old leather gloves peeking over the side. ‘You look smart,’ said Mr Balls. ‘I bet ya here for the racing aren’t ya?’ The man swept his curly hair away from his face. ‘Yeah how did you guess? Are you waiting for the three o’clock single seater thrill?’ ‘Yes we are,’ said Mr Clops. ‘But I wouldn’t call it a thrill. You don’t even drive around the proper Grand Prix Circuit.’

The man looked surprised. ‘Have you been here before?’ ‘No it’s our first time, it’s a present for my fiftieth birthday,’ said Mr Balls. ‘Oh many happy returns. Well I’ll tell you what, you’re in for a real treat in that case. The Stowe Circuit may not be as fast or as famous as the Grand Prix Circuit, but it’s just as exciting. You can do well over a ton on the straights, and the corners are scary as hell, assuming you like that sort of thing. And the adrenaline rush is incredible, especially when you’re overtaking someone. I come here four or five times a year, and I’ve never once been disappointed.’ Mr Clops and Mr Balls smiled gleefully, as they got all excited once again. ‘By the way,’ said the man. ‘Is that Lynx Excite I can smell? You can’t beat a bit of Lynx Excite, that’s what I say. My wife always gets me a gift set for Christmas, shower gel and deodorant.’ Mr Clops was beginning to wish he’d left the deodorant at home. Five minutes later an announcement came over the tannoy:

‘Can everyone with tickets for the three
o’clock single seater thrill, please make
your way to the briefing room, situated
through the blue double doors next to the
cafe. Thank you.’

Several people got up from their seats, (including the curly-haired man with his size thirteen boots), and began walking towards the blue double doors. Mr Clops and Mr Balls tagged along at the back. A few minutes later, they were all sat around the wooden oval table in the briefing room. There were nine men (of varying ages), and an elderly lady who was sat across from Mr Clops. He heard her talking to the man sat next to her. ‘Hello I’m Winnifred,’ she said. ‘Everyone calls me Winnie. I’m eighty five and I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember.’ Winnie reminded Mr Clops of his late mother Mavis, who’d passed away peacefully in her sleep the year before. She was very active and adventurous right up until her death, and would have relished the opportunity to drive one of the cars at Silverstone. The driving instructor was stood in front of a large whiteboard. ‘Hello everyone, I’m Philip James, and I’m your driving instructor for today.’

— For the next forty minutes Philip went through everything in great detail. He gave clear and precise instructions on how to han­dle the car, and how to manoeuvre the tricky corners. How and when to overtake and where the best racing lines and breaking points were. And most importantly of all, how to get around the track safely. He also warned that anyone ignoring the flags, or instructions from the marshals, or driving without due care and attention, would be immediately pulled off the track and their race would be over. After the briefing was finished, they all left the room and eagerly followed the steward to the Stowe Circuit garage, to be fitted with a balaclava and a crash helmet. Mr Clops and Mr Balls were walking down the corridor to the garage, when Mr Balls was tapped on the back from behind. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. Philip the driving instructor was stood there looking slightly concerned.

‘Excuse me sir, can I ask how much you weigh please? Only there’s a maximum weight limit of eighteen stone for the single seaters.’ Mr Balls wasn’t amused. ‘I beg ya pardon!?’ he said frowning, shocked that anyone would ask him such a personal question. Philip could see Mr Balls was annoyed and tried to use a little diplomacy. ‘Oh I’m not trying to be funny sir. It’s just that safety is paramount, and we do have a maximum weight limit of eighteen stone for the single seaters.’ Mr Balls got very stroppy. ‘Yeah…..! So what ya telling me for!? Are you suggesting I’m over eighteen stone!?’ ‘I’m not suggesting anything sir, I’m just saying it’s a possibility you may be over the weight limit. I’m afraid I can’t let you drive a single seater, unless you can prove you’re under eighteen stone.’

Mr Balls was losing his patience, and could feel himself boiling up inside. It was bad enough being asked intimate questions stood in a corridor. It was even worse, when the per­son asking the questions, was a pipsqueak like Philip James. He was only in his early twen­ties, and as far as Mr Balls was concerned, couldn’t possibly be a proper driving instruc­tor. ‘And just how am I supposed to prove I’m under eighteen stone!?’ said an angry Mr Balls. ‘Well, I’ll have to weigh you sir.’ ‘Oh will ya now…..!? Well ya can do that, but I’ll tell ya right now ya wasting ya time, cos I’m certainly not eighteen stone. I’m about seventeen tops,’ said a confident Mr Balls. Philip wasn’t convinced. ‘Well I’ll have to weigh you sir just to be on the safe side. I need to follow the health and safety regulations. As you can appreciate we must take safety very seriously.’

Mr Balls and Mr Clops followed Philip to a small room at the end of the corridor to be weighed. Mr Balls slipped off his brown loafer shoes and jumped on the scales, determined to prove Philip wrong. All three of them gazed at the needle, as it shot around quicker than a mechanical hare at the greyhound track, be­fore resting on 26 stone 10 pounds. There was silence in the room for a good few seconds, be­fore Mr Balls erupted. ‘What the bloody hell!! That can’t be right!! There must be something wrong with the scales!!’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with the scales sir. Jump off, let me get weighed, I should be just over twelve stone.’ Philip got on the scales. He was right, the scales were working perfectly. He was twelve stone three pounds.

‘Let me try again without mi clothes on,’ said a desperate Mr Balls, as he began to quickly undress, hoping for some mysterious intervention. He removed his shirt, trousers and socks, and stood there in his Leeds United boxer shorts, and his panama hat. ‘Is that Lynx Excite I can smell?’ asked Philip. ‘You can’t beat a bit of Lynx Excite, that’s what I say. My girlfriend always gets me a can at Christmas.’ ‘Oh for god’s sake!’ snapped Mr Balls. ‘Not another one!’ ‘Yes it is,’ smiled Mr Clops. ‘He always gets me a can or two for Christmas and birthdays and then uses it himself, don’t you Mr Balls?’ Mr Balls was in no mood to respond, as he got back on the scales. This time he was 26 stone 2 pounds. His man boobs and bingo wings alone, must have weighed at least a stone each. Philip was now adamant.

‘I’m sorry sir, you’re over the eighteen stone weight limit. So I’m afraid you can’t go out in a single seater.’ Mr Balls, who was normally reserved and laid back, was now becoming increasingly irate. ‘I don’t bloody well believe this! It’s my fifti­eth birthday and I’ve come all the way from Leeds! I’m a massive Formula One fan, and now I’m not even allowed to drive a bleedin single seater! What about one of ya other cars? Can’t I drive one of those?’ ‘I’m afraid most of the other cars have the same eighteen stone weight limit,’ said Philip sympathetically. Mr Balls was like a pressure cooker at boiling point, just about to let off steam once again. ‘How come I wasn’t told about this when I first arrived!? Or before the briefing!?’ ‘I’m not sure sir, it is a sensitive issue. I can only assume they must have thought you were lighter than eighteen stone. Let me go and see what I can do sir,’ said Philip, as he put a reassuring hand on Mr Balls’s right shoulder, before leaving the room.

‘Bloody hell Mr Clops! What a mess! Didn’t you know about the eighteen stone weight limit!?’
‘Yes I knew Mr Balls, but if you remember, I asked you last week how much you weighed, and you said you were around seventeen stone.’ Mr Balls snapped once again. ‘Well, I haven’t weighed myself in ages, so I assumed I was around seventeen stone! To be honest, I never gave it much thought! Why didn’t you tell me about the eighteen stone limit!? at which point I would have found out my exact weight!’ Mr Clops was trying really hard to remain calm, and not get into a heated argument, especially on Mr Balls’s birthday. ‘I couldn’t tell you about the weight limit, as it would have spoiled the surprise. That’s why I asked you how much you weighed, and you said around seventeen stone.’ ‘You can see I weigh more than seventeen stone Mr Clops!’ ‘Well I don’t know what seventeen stone looks like Mr Balls, now do I? Don’t worry, I’m sure Philip will sort something out.’

Philip returned ten minutes later. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’ Mr Balls, who was a glass half-empty kind of guy, opted for the latter. ‘Go on give us the bad news.’ ‘Right, I’ve checked all the other cars and it’s just as I thought, they all have a maximum weight limit of eighteen stone. So I’m afraid you can’t drive any of our cars today sir.’ Mr Balls looked dejected and resigned to the fact, that his birthday had been well and truly ruined. ‘I can’t think what possible good news there could be, but let’s have it anyway,’ he said. ‘Well Mr Balls….. I can take you out in a Ferrari F430 Coupe around the proper Grand Prix Circuit. You won’t be able to drive it, but at least you’ll have the thrill of going around the famous Silverstone Circuit. You can also have your picture taken on top of the winners podium, and we’ll have a bite to eat in the res­taurant afterwards. After all, it is your fiftieth birthday. How does that sound?’

Mr Balls’s demeanour changed quicker than a chameleon’s skin colour. His cheesy smile returned in abundance. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say Phil. I’ve got to admit, I’m desperately disappointed not to be driving a car. However, I can do that in the future, once I’ve shed some of this weight. In the meantime, to be driven around Silverstone would be absolutely brilliant, so thanks for that.’ Mr Clops agreed. ‘Yeah, a big thanks for sorting that out Phil, it’s  a very kind gesture.’ ‘Don’t give me too much praise,’ said Philip. ‘I do have an ulterior motive you know. I’ve never driven a Ferrari F430 Coupe before, so I can’t wait to get out on the track.’

Mr Clops made his way to the Stowe Circuit garage, to be fitted with a balaclava and a crash helmet, while Philip and Mr Balls went to the Silverstone Circuit.

An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
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An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
Book Details

The taxi pulled up outside the house at nine on the dot, and sounded the horn twice. Mr Clops opened the front door and gave the thumbs up to the driver. ‘Two minutes pal!’ he shouted, before pushing the door closed. He picked up his house keys and black leather man-bag from the small oak table in the hallway, and stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘The taxi’s here Mr Balls.’ The toilet flushed and seconds later Mr Balls appeared, wearing white baggy trousers, brown loafer shoes, a multicoloured Hawaiian shirt, a panama hat and black sunglasses. He strutted downstairs like Tom Selleck from Magnum P.I. Mr Clops was a little shocked.

‘We’re going to Silverstone Mr Balls, not a beach party for the eccentrics.’ ‘Yav got to look smart on ya fiftieth birth­day Mr Clops. Do ya think I look like a big fat Tom Selleck?’ ‘More like a big fat Tom Jones with those glasses,’ quipped Mr Clops. Mr Balls then burst into his rendition of Delilah:

‘Why oh why Delilah
I’m so high Delilah
So before….. you come
To brick up my door
Forgive me Delilah
I’m not there anymore’

The singing was ended abruptly, by another blast on the horn from the taxi driver. ‘Right Mr Balls, come on let’s get going.’ ‘Av ya got the tickets Mr Clops?’ Mr Clops held up his man-bag. ‘Yes I’ve got the tickets and the driving licences, now come on or we’ll miss the train.’

Ten minutes later, the taxi dropped them off outside the train station. They walked through the gates and made their way to plat­form 15. The train was stationary and passen­gers were already boarding. ‘This is ours,’ said Mr Clops, as he began walking towards the front of the train, where the first class seats were. As he stepped onto the train, Mr Balls looked slightly bemused. ‘This is first class Mr Clops, I don’t think we should be in first class.’

Mr Clops stopped and turned to face Mr Balls. He stood proudly in the doorway, before putting his right hand into the slit of his shirt, pretending to be Napoleon Bonaparte. ‘We are first class Mr Balls! First class seats! For first class people!’ His French Yorkshire accent wasn’t brilliant, but it certainly seemed to tickle Mr Balls. ‘I don’t believe it Mr Clops! Are we really first class…..?! Whatever next?! Yav pulled it off once again!’

Mr Balls got on the train, while Mr Clops began looking for their reserved seat numbers: C24 and C25. He found them shortly after. ‘Here they are Mr Balls,’ he said, as he removed the reserved cards from the top of the seats, and handed them to Mr Balls to keep as a souvenir. The two single seats faced each other, with a shiny polished wooden table in the middle. The large stylish reclining seats were in royal blue, with white cloth hung over the top, and “FIRST CLASS” printed on the front in fancy blue letters. Blue swish curtains hung from the windows, and the train carriage was fully air-conditioned. There was also power sockets for mobile phones and laptops, and Wi-Fi for internet connection.

Mr Clops sat down, placing his bag on the floor between his legs. Mr Balls on the other hand was struggling. Despite the seats being extra large with plenty of leg room, he only just about managed to squeeze in. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’m getting a right big fat bugger, I’m gonna have to go on a diet.’ ‘Another one?’ laughed Mr Clops. On the table were blue paper napkins, two white mugs, a selection of cutlery, and a large white dish. The dish was filled with sachets of milk, brown and white sugar, salt, vinegar, and a range of sauces. There was also two blue menus with: “First Class All-Day Menu” written on the front in white letters. The menus instantly grabbed the attention of Mr Balls. He picked them both up with intrigue, handing one to Mr Clops. ‘So much for the diet,’ said a smiling Mr Clops. Inside the menu was a list of gourmet treats:

Main
Premium Roast Beef Sandwich
With sliced onions and melted cheese, on soft white bread.
Scottish Smoked Salmon Sandwich
With cream cheese, red onions, capers and black pepper, on soft malted bread.
Chicken Tikka Masala With Spiced Rice
Tandoori baked boneless chicken, cooked in oriental spices and tomatoes.
Caramelized Onions, Smoked Gouda and Pecan Rice Tart
Served with green mixed salad.

Dessert
Black Forest Gateau
Banana Caramel Cream Cake
French Ice Cream With Glace Fruits
Tea, coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice are served throughout your journey, with a selection of sweet and savoury snacks.

Mr Balls was like a kid in a sweet shop, as he pondered over the menu. ‘I’ll tell ya what Mr Clops, this is top nosh this ya know, none of ya processed rubbish here.’ — Mr Balls’s normal culinary experience, consisted of endless takeaways, anything out of a tin, and regular large multipack crisps, (4 cheese and onion, 4 salt and vinegar and 4 plain), all consumed in one sitting. ‘Yeah, apparently it’s all freshly made too,’ said Mr Clops who was also impressed. Mr Balls scrunched up his face and scratched his head, looking a little puzzled. ‘Well that’s funny Mr Clops….. there aren’t any prices on the menu.’ ‘It’s all free Mr Balls, it’s all part of the first class experience.’ Mr Balls couldn’t believe it as he smiled with sheer delight, (flashing his crooked yellow teeth, top and bottom). ‘It’s all free? Does that mean I can order anything?’

‘Well you can’t order the whole menu Mr Balls. You can choose one item from the main section, and one from dessert.’ Mr Balls spent the next five minutes with his face buried in the menu, but couldn’t make up his mind on what to order. ‘It’s not an easy choice to make Mr Clops. I mean, yav got to av a bit of smoked salmon on ya birthday. But what about the roast beef? And ya know I could never resist Chicken Tikka Masala, especially when it’s cooked in oriental spices. Ya can’t turn ya nose up at Chicken Tikka Masala, when it’s been cooked in oriental spices. Do ya think I could order more than one item from the main section Mr Clops?’

Mr Clops wasn’t paying much attention and didn’t respond. He was busy on his smart­phone checking out the weather forecast, wondering what it would be like driving around Silverstone in wet conditions, should it rain later on. Mr Balls tried again. ‘I’m just asking Mr Clops, do ya think I could order more than one item from the main section?’ Mr Clops finally put down his phone. ‘I’m not sure Mr Balls, I don’t see why not, after all, you are celebrating your fiftieth birthday. Tell that to the waiter when he comes to take the orders.’

‘Yeah, I’ll do that Mr Clops, I’ll do that.’
‘I bet you aren’t that hungry anyway, after the belly-buster breakfast, are you?’
‘Well I am a bit peckish Mr Clops, ya know I’ve got a big appetite.’

— Mr Balls certainly did have a big appetite. Ever since his divorce from his wife Brenda two years ago, he’d piled on the pounds. He must have put on at least seven or eight stone, and he seemed to be getting fatter by the day. His face and neck had quadrupled in size, and with his silver hair and greying beard, he had an uncanny resemblance to Kenny Rodgers, the country music singer, (albeit a larger ver­sion). Ironically, his favourite karaoke song was The Gambler by Kenny Rodgers. He may have looked like Kenny Rodgers but he cer­tainly didn’t sound like him.

Ten minutes later the waiter arrived push­ing a trolley. He was serving fresh ground cof­fee, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a selection of biscuits, cakes, crisps and savoury snacks. He was smartly dressed in black trou­sers, a black waistcoat, a white shirt with a black bow tie, and black shoes. He was a small chubby man in his early forties, with a wet dour look on his face, (as if he didn’t really want to be there). He also had a really funny looking ginger comb-over, which failed to hide the large bald patch on the top of his head. He looked like a cross between Friar Tuck and Bobby Charlton.

‘Would you like anything sir?’ he asked Mr Balls. Mr Balls began to order from the menu, before being interrupted by the waiter. ‘I’ll be taking menu orders in thirty minutes sir, this is the free refreshment trolley.’ Mr Balls raised both eyebrows and twitched his nose repeatedly, (which he often did after receiving a nice surprise). ‘Free refreshment trolley and the menu!? Wow! this gets better by the minute.’ He picked up one of the white mugs from the table, and held it out to the waiter. ‘I’ll have a coffee please.’

The waiter carefully filled the mug with piping hot black coffee. ‘There’s the milk and sugar sir,’ he said, pointing to the white dish on the table. ‘Would you like anything else sir?’ The eyes of Mr Balls were feasting over the tempting treats on the trolley, (especially the selection of small mini cakes).

‘What are those?’ he asked pointing with his right forefinger.
‘Mini cream slices sir with apple, pear and blueberry.’
‘Mmm….. I’ll have two please….. and what are those?’
‘Mini cheesecakes sir with black pepper.’
‘Great, I’ll have two of those as well please, and what are those?’
‘Mini orange meringue tarts sir.’
‘Go on I’ll have two of those. Can I also have two bags of salt and vinegar crisps, and err….. err….. I’ll have two packs of those chocolate biscuits, and two packs of jammie dodgers please. Yav got to av a jammie dodger on ya birthday haven’t ya?’ The waiter gave Mr Balls a little wry look. ‘I suppose so sir,’ he said, before addressing Mr Clops.

‘Would you like anything sir?’ ‘Just a tea please,’ replied Mr Clops. By the time the waiter left, the table looked just like a school tuck shop raid. Mr Balls demolished the lot in ten minutes flat, and looked rather disappointed. ‘They’re not very big those mini cakes are they Mr Clops?’ Mr Clops took a sip of his tea. ‘Well, they’re certainly not big enough for you.’ Mr Balls wiped his mouth and then his face with a napkin. ‘When do we order from the menu?’ Mr Clops looked amused. ‘Are you still hungry?’ ‘Am I still hungry!? I could eat a horse! Those mini cakes weren’t big enough to feed a mouse!’

Mr Clops burst out laughing. ‘And what about the crisps? The chocolate biscuits? The jammie dodgers? And the full English belly-buster?’ Now Mr Balls burst out laughing. ‘Blumin eck Mr Clops, am I a gannet or what?’ Mr Balls had an unmistakable, very loud and hearty belly laugh, that seemed to be contagious. Whenever it surfaced, it sparked a domino effect, as anyone nearby couldn’t help but join in. That’s just what happened on this occasion, as a few people from the other tables also began to laugh. Before you knew it the whole carriage was laughing. ‘Now they’re all at it Mr Clops! Whatever next!?’ shouted Mr Balls.

Thirty minutes later the waiter arrived to take the menu orders. It was the same waiter from the refreshment trolley. ‘Would you like anything sir?’ he asked Mr Balls, who was looking through the menu. Mr Balls looked up at the waiter and smiled gen­erously, to try and get on his good side. ‘I’ll have the premium roast beef sandwich please.’ ‘Premium roast beef sir,’ said the waiter, as he scribbled down the order on his note pad. ‘Would you like anything else sir?’ ‘Oh….. erm….. erm….. Would it be ok if I ordered the smoked salmon sandwich as well please?’ The waiter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not sir. It’s only one item from main and one from dessert.’

Mr Balls wasn’t deterred. ‘Oh go on be a sport, I’m celebrating my fiftieth birthday today. Yav got to av a bit of smoked salmon on ya fiftieth birthday,’ he said cheekily. The waiter looked a little flus­tered, he’d never been put on the spot like this before. ‘Well….. the thing is sir….. Well….. Normally you would choose one item from the main section, and one from dessert….. I’ll go and ask my manager sir.’ He then walked down the aisle and disappeared out of the carriage.

He returned a few minutes later…..

‘I’ve had a word with my manager sir, and you can order anything from the menu. After all, it is your fiftieth sir.’ ‘I can order anything?’ asked an excitable Mr Balls, as he looked eagerly over the menu. (He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by.) ‘Right then….. I’ll have the premium roast beef sandwich….. The Scottish smoked salmon sandwich….. Erm….. let me see….. The chicken tikka masala….. The black forest gateau….. and the French ice cream with glace fruits please.’

By the look on the waiter’s face, he obviously thought Mr Balls was taking advantage, big time. Nevertheless, he quickly scribbled down the order on his pad without saying anything, before turning to Mr Clops. ‘Would you like anything sir? I assume it’s not your fiftieth as well is it sir?’ he asked sarcastically. Mr Clops looked up from the menu. ‘I’ll have the Scottish smoked salmon sandwich please, no dessert thank you.’ The waiter smiled before moving to the next table.

The food arrived fifteen minutes later. It was the same waiter once again. By the time he’d put the last dish on the table, Mr Balls had already scoffed half of the beef sandwich. There was melted cheese all down his shirt. ‘I’m a right messy sod,’ he said, cleaning himself up with several napkins. He spent the next twenty minutes indulging himself in his favourite pastime.

— Mr Balls absolutely loved food and couldn’t get enough of it. He’d eat anything and everything, and was always at his happiest when he was eating. He was also a noisy eater, and had a bad habit of talking with his mouth full, and spitting food all over the place, (something Mr Clops had learned to ignore). Mr Balls would also regurgitate his food, which he started doing as a young boy to annoy his little sister. He would half swallow his food, and then bring it back up to his mouth. He repeated this several times, before finally swallowing the food properly. At times he looked like a deranged frog swallowing a golf ball.

‘Mmm….. mmm….. mmm….. This chicken tikka is absolutely delicious,’ said Mr Balls, while making his usual chomping noises with his teeth, and spitting particles of food in the direction of Mr Clops. ‘Glad you’re enjoying it,’ smiled Mr Clops, as he tried to dodge the spit and food coming towards him. Fifteen minutes later, every last morsel of food on the table had been eaten. All except for a small piece of smoked salmon sandwich, on Mr Clops’s plate. Mr Balls was hovering over the plate like a vulture. ‘Aren’t you going to eat that last bit Mr Clops?’ ‘No I’ve had enough.’ ‘Waste not, want not,’ said Mr Balls, as he picked up the remains of the sandwich and shovelled it into his mouth.

‘I hope you’ve left enough room for a slice of birthday cake,’ said Mr Clops. Mr Balls looked stunned. ‘Birthday Cake…..?! Who’s Having Birthday Cake…..?!’ Just then, an announcement came over the tannoy: ‘We have a very special guest on the train today. The one and only Mr Balls, who’s celebrating his 50th birthday. Congratulations Mr Balls and all the very best from Mr Clops, Tipsy and Kojak the cats, and all the lads from The Old Peacock pub. And best wishes from everyone here at MidRail Trains.’

Just as the announcement finished, the waiter appeared once again. This time he was holding a large double chocolate birthday cake, with fifty lit candles. He presented it on the table in front of Mr Balls. ‘Happy birthday sir,’ he said. Mr Balls looked genuinely shocked, and was quite emotional. ‘Oh thank you, I don’t know what to say,’ he said, as he leant over and took in a fair amount of air, before blowing frantically as if his life depended on it. He blew out all the candles at the first attempt. Mr Clops then started a rendition of happy birthday. Most of the people in the carriage sportingly joined in.

After the singing had finished, Mr Balls tried to stand up to say a few words, but he got trapped in his seat. He was squashed between the seat and the table, (just like a fat sausage dog stuck down a rabbit hole). ‘I can’t get up Mr Clops, can you help me please?’ Mr Clops came to the rescue. He got hold of Mr Balls around the waist, and tried to pull him out of the seat. Considering Mr Clops was a slight man, and didn’t have much in the way of strength, it was a thankless task. He was pulling and pulling and getting nowhere fast. Mr Balls didn’t move a single inch.

Then, a very large lady from one of the other tables offered to help. ‘Would you like me to have a go?’ she asked in a deep voice, as she stood in the aisle towering over Mr Clops. ‘By all means love,’ replied Mr Clops, who was breathless from all the pulling. The lady was at least eighteen stone and over six feet tall. She looked like she could have been a Russian shot putter, or a hammer thrower, or maybe a Russian spy. One thing’s for sure, she definitely wasn’t a Russian ballet dancer. She had a face like a dog’s dinner and dragon’s breath to go with it. You certainly wouldn’t want to meet her on a dark night, or any night for that matter. She grabbed Mr Balls by his shoulders. ‘Right young man,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you out of there.’ She began to pull him forcefully. Mr Balls wasn’t at all impressed. ‘Take it easy love!’ he said abruptly. ‘You’ll pull mi head off if ya not careful!’

After several twists and tugs, she managed to move him just a few inches, before losing her balance and falling on top of him in a heap. The ladies pink baggy bloomers were on show for everyone to savour. The carriage was in stitches. ‘It looks like you’ve really fallen for him this time!’ a voice shouted. ‘Nice knickers!’ someone else screamed. The lady got back to her feet with an extremely flushed face, but was determined to finish the job. After several more twists and tugs, she finally managed to free Mr Balls, to rapturous cheers. Mr Balls stood up and was now ready to address the passengers.

‘Thank you so much for making this a very special birthday, and a big thank you to my dear friend Mr Clops for arranging it. I hope you’ll all have a bit of birthday cake with me.’ Mr Balls then cut the cake into slices, placing each slice on a napkin. He cut two extra large slices handing one to the waiter, and the other to the large lady. ‘Oh thank you sir,’ said the waiter. ‘I’ll eat it later when I’m off duty if you don’t mind.’ ‘Thank you,’ said the large lady. ‘I’ve always been partial to a bit of chocolate cake.’

Mr Balls spent the next ten minutes handing out slices of double chocolate birthday cake, to the twelve or so passengers in the carriage. He then sat back down in his seat with his legs hanging over the side, so he wouldn’t get stuck again. There was one slice of cake left on the table, as the inspector arrived to check the tickets. ‘Tickets please,’ he said. Mr Clops removed two tickets from his trouser pocket, and handed them to the inspector. The inspector checked and then clipped the tickets, before handing them back. ‘Would you like a slice of my birthday cake?’ asked Mr Balls, holding up the cake to the inspector. ‘Oh that’s very kind of you sir. I don’t mind if I do, and many happy returns.’ The inspector was still eating the cake, as he clipped the final passenger ticket, before moving to the next carriage.

The train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly at 11.40am, only six minutes later than the scheduled time. Mr Clops was extremely em­barrassed as he looked down at the table. ‘Look at the state of this table Mr Balls, you’d think a family of five had been sitting here.’ The table looked like the end of a chil­dren’s party. There were empty mugs, biscuit wrappers, crisp packets, bits of chocolate cake, dinner plates, dessert bowls, sugar and milk sachets, spoons, knives, forks, and dirty nap­kins. Mr Balls wasn’t concerned in the slight­est. ‘Don’t worry about it Mr Clops, the staff will clean it up, that’s what they get paid for.’

‘Yeah, you’re right Mr Balls, we certainly wouldn’t want to deprive anyone of their work.’ Mr Balls was sat in his seat as the pas­sengers walked passed him to get off the train. Most of them shook his hand and wished him all the best. As the last passenger left the train, Mr Balls raised his right leg and let rip. He let out the most enormous fart that seemed to ricochet off the seats, and reverberate right around the carriage. Mr Balls and Mr Clops exploded into laughter simultaneously, just like a pair of silly school kids. ‘Guess what Mr Clops? I’ve been waiting to do that for the past twenty five minutes.’ The smell was disgusting. It was like a thousand sweaty feet, stale cheese and rotten eggs all rolled into one.

‘Whooo…..! Smell that Mr Clops!’ Mr Clops (who was now laughing hysterically), put an empty crisp packet over his nose to try and block out the smell. ‘It’ll take a lot more than a bag of salt and vinegar to stop that smell!’ shouted a jubilant Mr Balls, who began to waft the stale air with both his hands, in the direction of Mr Clops. Mr Balls then raised his right leg once again, and this time let out his full armoury. It was a loud prolonged fart, followed by several silent-but-deadly mini farts. ‘I’ll tell ya what Mr Clops, I’m definitely on form today.’

The rancid smell was more than Mr Clops could take. He sprang up from his seat and hurriedly ran towards the exit door, still laughing hysterically and still holding the empty crisp packet to his nose. Mr Balls was right behind him. ‘I would hurry up if I were you Mr Clops, I’ve got another one brewing.’ They got off the train still laughing loudly and set off to find platform 5. They arrived at platform 5 a few minutes later, by which time they’d both calmed down.

‘Our train is in Mr Balls.’
‘Is it first class again Mr Clops?’
‘First class it is Mr Balls.’
Once again Mr Balls couldn’t quite believe it. ‘I’ve never travelled anywhere first class before, and now I’ve done it twice in a day. I didn’t think I’d be saying that when I woke up this morning, I can tell ya.’ ‘Well you can double that Mr Balls cos don’t forget, once we get to Silverstone we’ve then got to come back. So that will make it four first class journeys in a single day. Now that will be something to tell the lads down at The Old Peacock.’

They got on the train and found their reserved seats. The train was similar to the one they’d just been on. It had cushy reclining seats, (this time green not blue), curtains on the windows, air conditioning, WiFi, and another all-day menu. ‘Would ya believe it? Another all-day menu,’ smiled Mr Balls, as he sat down wriggling about in his seat to get comfortable. He sat back and let out a mammoth yawn, that seemed to go on forever. His mouth was wide open, stretching his face to the limit, revealing several silver fillings. He looked like a very sleepy hippo about to crash out.

‘I don’t know about you Mr Clops but I’m knackered, all that laughing has taken its toll. I think I’ll have forty winks. Will you wake me up please when the waiter comes?’ Before Mr Clops could answer, Mr Balls was out like a light. Seconds later, he was fast asleep snoring away like a demented pig. His head was tilted backwards and his mouth was open wider than the Mersey tunnel. He could be heard all throughout the carriage, annoying some passengers and entertaining others.

Mr Clops was also feeling a little tired. He’d been up since seven that morning, preparing the belly-buster breakfast, and making sure the birthday celebrations ran smoothly. ‘I’ll just rest my eyes,’ he said quietly to himself, and before he knew it, he was also out like a light. For the next two hours they were both dead to the world. They slept through all the passengers getting on and off the train. They slept through all the tannoy announce­ments. And they missed the refreshment trol­ley and the waiter taking the menu orders.

Eventually, Mr Clops was woken up by the ticket inspector, who gently shook him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me sir, can I see your tickets please?’ Mr Clops was at sixes and sevens, as he quickly rummaged through his pockets to find the tickets. He handed the tickets to the inspector, while looking out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, looking and sounding a little confused. ‘Wolverton sir,’ replied the inspector, as he handed back the tickets, and made his way down the aisle and out of the carriage.

Mr Clops hurriedly shook Mr Balls. ‘Wake up Mr Balls we’re here, wake up.’ Mr Balls began mumbling: ‘Who’s that? What do you want? You want what? Get away, go on get away. I’ll have the smoked salmon, the beef goulash and…..’ Mr Clops shook harder. ‘Wake up Mr Balls we’re here! Wake up!’ Mr Balls was finally raised from the dead and back to civilization. He woke up rubbing his face with both hands, before giving his head a good scratch. It took him a few moments to get the gist of the situation. ‘Where are we Mr Clops? I was having a lovely dream. Has the waiter been? Why didn’t you wake me?’ ‘I fell asleep Mr Balls, I’ve only just woken up myself. We’re at Wolverton, this is where we get off.’

Shortly after, they got off the train and headed out of the station to the taxi rank, to get a taxi to Silverstone.

An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
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An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
Book Details

The alarm clock went off at precisely 7.00am. Mr Clops leapt out of bed, like a kid on Christmas morning. He’d been planning this day for several weeks, and now it had finally arrived, he couldn’t contain his excitement. He strode over to the window and drew back the curtains. It was a bright and sunny day. He opened the side window, pushing it outwards as far as it would go. He then stuck his head outside and took in a big gulp of air, filling up his lungs, before bursting into song:

‘Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what a beautiful day
I’ve got a wonderful feeling
La, la, la, la, la, la, day.’

He noticed his next door neighbour coming out of the garden gate. ‘Alright Mr Benrose!?’ he shouted. ‘Are you off for ya papers!?’ Old Mr Benrose looked up, quite surprised that Mr Clops was hanging out of the window so early on a Saturday morning. ‘I am love,’ he replied, as he closed the gate. ‘You sound cheerful, have ya won the lottery or summat?’ Mr Clops smiled, as he spit on his right forefinger, and wiped away a smidgen of pigeon shit from the windowsill. ‘You don’t need to win the lottery to be cheerful Mr Benrose.’ Mr Benrose nodded in agreement. ‘That’s true lad, but I bet it would help.’ Mr Benrose then set off down the street. He was hunched over, as he shuffled forward inch by inch, with the support of his two walking sticks. I’m sure without the sticks he would have toppled over, quicker than a flimsy two-man tent in a tornado. Mr Clops watched him carefully, hoping that he wouldn’t fall again, like he had done recently.

Mr Benrose made it safely to the end of the street, before turning right towards the newsagents. Mr Clops closed the window and stood there for a few moments, wondering whether or not to nip down to the newsagents, to make sure Mr Benrose was ok. Mr Benrose, who was well into his nineties, had only recently been released from hospital. He’d fallen in the back garden, while he was filling the bird table with seed and stale bread. He lost his balance and went crashing to the concrete floor. He was there for over an hour, before the postman heard him crying out for help. The postman sprinted down the garden path, and found him lying on the floor in a great deal of pain and distress. He tried to calm him down the best he could. ‘Now what exactly have you been up to Mr Benrose?’ he asked, as he knelt down beside him. Mr Benrose carefully reached out and put his purple shaking hand on the postman’s arm.

‘I think av fallen….. Av I got any post?’ The postman smiled. ‘More brown envelopes Mr Benrose, bills no doubt. I’ve put them through your letterbox.’ It took Mr Benrose a good few seconds to process the information. ‘More bills…..!? Bloody hell…..! Can you help me up please?’ The postman gently took hold of Mr Benrose’s hand. It was colder than ice. ‘I’d rather you stay there Mr Benrose, you might have broken something, I’ll ring for an ambulance. I’ll stay with you until it arrives.’ Poor Mr Benrose looked even more distressed. ‘An ambulance…..!? Oh bloody hell…..!’

The ambulance arrived shortly after and took Mr Benrose to the hospital to be examined. He had a fractured shoulder and a badly bruised leg, and spent six weeks on ward B1. God only knows what would have happened, if the postman hadn’t found him.

— Mr Benrose had lived on his own, ever since his wife Doris had passed away from a stroke several years ago. He was incredibly independent and refused any help from the council or from the neighbours. Even home help were sent packing when they came to visit him. He made sure the front and back doors were always locked, so they couldn’t let themselves in. Preferring instead, to commu­nicate with them through the window:

‘What do you want?’
‘Oh hello Mr Benrose, we’re here from home help, are you ok? Can we come in please?’
‘Bugger off! I don’t need anyone’s help! How many more times do you lot need telling!?’
‘We only want to make sure you’re ok Mr Benrose.’
‘You can see I’m ok can’t ya!? Now bugger off! and stop poking ya nose into other people’s affairs!’ There wasn’t much more home help could do, but to their credit they continued to visit Mr Benrose, even though they most definitely weren’t welcome.

Mr Benrose’s distrust of home help was partly down to Babs Whitaker. She’d told him that the council were trying to get him into an old people’s home, and he would have to sell his house to pay for it. Babs was a close friend of Mr Benrose, and did some of his shopping. She lived on the next street and was often seen going into Mr Benrose’s house carrying groceries. Everyone knew Babs Whitaker, and she was very distinctive. She had a blonde beehive hairdo, that was at least a foot above her forehead, and often wore a short leather skirt, high heels and bright red glossy lipstick. She also had an ample cleavage that was on show most of the time, and she was always caked in a variety of multicoloured heavy-duty make-up, that had no doubt been applied with a builders trowel.

Considering she was in her seventies, she certainly made an impression, that’s for sure. You could often hear the sound of stilettos clobbering down on the concrete pavement, as the blonde bombshell strutted down the street. The neighbours often had a good giggle at her expense: ‘Here she comes look, Lilo Lill after the old man’s money.’ ‘She’s here again, owd Droopy-Drawers, as common as muck with the looks to go with it.’ The one thing she didn’t do for Mr Benrose was go for his newspapers. He insisted on walking to the newsagents each morning himself. It was the only time he left the house. He had the same three newspapers every day: The Daily Mirror, The Daily Mail and The Sun. He’d often be sat in the garden reading his newspapers, quite content with life, (what was left of it).

Ever since Mr Benrose’s fall, Mr Clops had kept an eye on him whenever he could. He was still stood at the window, and couldn’t decide whether or not to nip down to the newsagents to make sure Mr Benrose was ok. ‘I’ll give him fifteen minutes,’ he muttered to himself. ‘If he’s not back by then, I’ll go and see what’s happened to him.’ Fifteen minutes was just enough time for Mr Clops to do his morning exercises. He’d done the same routine religiously every day for the past five months. He’d put on half a stone over the Christmas and New Year period and was determined to get rid of it. To look at him you would think he needed to gain weight not lose it. He was as skinny as a toothpick, with hardly any fat on him. His routine consisted of five minutes on the exercise bike, peddling like a maniac. Three sets of ten arm curls and shoulder presses, with the 10kg dumbbells. Fifty sit-ups, fifty press-ups and twenty star jumps.

He’d become a lot more health-conscious ever since his mild heart attack six months ago. He’d completely changed his lifestyle. He’d stopped putting sugar in his tea and on his cornflakes. He’d cut down on the takeaways and processed meals, and he’d even completed a course on cooking and nutrition. On top of all that, he also did his fitness routine every morning, went for long walks three times a week and jumped on his bike at the weekends, cycling around the streets and the local park. The heart attack was a big turning point for Mr Clops, and it shook him up quite badly. His attitude towards life had also changed dramatically. He now lived every day like it was his last. He was convinced that stress was partly to blame for his heart attack, which is why he’d changed jobs.

Previously, he’d been working in the oil industry for a large multi­national company. It was a high-pressured, very stressful job with long hours, and al­though it was very well paid, he was no longer enjoying the work. The heart attack was the final straw, and he accepted a redundancy package shortly after. His new job was work­ing at the local B&Q Warehouse on the help desk. Although he was on a lot less money, he loved the work and thrived on helping the general public sort out their DIY problems. Most importantly of all, it was a lot less stressful than his previous job.

Just as he finished his last star jump, he heard next doors gate open and then slam shut. He rushed to the window to see Mr Benrose tottering down the path, with his newspapers poking out of his jacket pocket. ‘That’s a relief,’ he said, as he put on his blue silk dressing gown, that was hanging on the back of the door. He pulled the chord tight around his waist, before pushing his size nine feet into his tartan slippers. He then began rubbing his hands together vigorously.

‘Oooh….. this is gonna be a brilliant day,’ he said, with a big cheesy grin on his face. He then walked across the hallway to Mr Balls’s bedroom. He flung the door open and burst in. It was just like a police raid on a drugs den. The door belted the side of the wardrobe. ‘Wake up Mr Balls! It’s time to get up!’ he shouted. ‘The big day has finally arrived!’ ‘Get lost!’ screamed Mr Balls, as he pulled the duvet right over his head, still half asleep. Mr Clops opened the curtains and then the window. A fresh summer breeze blew into the bedroom, as he burst into song once again:

‘Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what a beautiful day
I’ve got a wonderful feeling
La, la, la, la, la, la, day.’

Mr Balls wasn’t at all impressed and began swearing angrily from underneath the duvet. Mr Clops wasn’t deterred. ‘Come on birthday boy it’s time to get up!’ he shouted once again, as he pulled the duvet off Mr Balls and slung it onto the floor. Mr Balls was livid, (not to mention butt naked). His enormous fat body was straggled across the king size bed, like a stranded beach whale. He used both hands to cover up his meat and two veg, before erupting like a volcano. ‘You bloody tosspot!! Give me that bleedin duvet back now!!’ he blasted. Mr Clops wasn’t in the least bit fazed. ‘There’s no need to be like that Mr Balls. It’s your birthday, the big Five-O and I’ve got some surprises lined up.’ Mr Balls’s already red face, turned purple with rage. ‘Surprises lined up!? Are you mental or something!? I can’t stand birthdays! Give me the duvet back and get out of my bedroom! And close that bleedin window! I’m freezing mi nuts off here!’ Mr Clops still wasn’t fazed.

‘Forget the duvet Mr Balls, get dressed, breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. I’m cooking your favourite meal: A full English belly-buster, the full works. It’s one of your birthday surprises.’ Mr Balls was instantly impressed. His mood changed from anger to excitement in a matter of seconds. ‘A full English belly-buster!?’ he shouted grinning. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

— There were only two reasons in the whole world, that would make Mr Balls get out of bed at 7.15am on a Saturday morning. The first reason was a midday kick-off at Elland Road, where his beloved Leeds United football team played. He would meet up with the other loyal Leeds United fans, at The Old Peacock pub at 8.00am. That gave them time to get sufficiently boozed-up before kick-off. The second reason was a full English belly-buster, (especially if Mr Clops was cooking it). Mr Clops was a great cook, (thanks to his evening classes), and was partly responsible for Mr Balls being so overweight.

Before long the house was engulfed with the aromas of fried food. Mr Clops was in his element, as he stood over the frying pan, occasionally turning over the rashes of bacon, sausages, mushrooms and fried bread. He opened the small top window to let out some of the fumes, before setting the table, ready for the big breakfast feast. Mr Balls was still upstairs having a shower. The smell of fried bacon and sausages always made him happy, and soon he was singing away, as he washed himself down with a large car sponge soaked in Lynx Excite shower gel.

‘Food glorious food
Hot crumpets and mustard
We’re all in the mood
A pint of lager with custard
Marshmallows and turkey roast
Carrots mash and gravy
Everyone loves a Sunday lunch
Even those in the navy.’

After his shower he hurriedly got dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. The full English belly-buster was waiting for him on the table. It was a breakfast fit for a king, (a very fat king). It consisted of four sausages, six rashes of bacon, three hash browns, two fried eggs, two fried tomatoes (sliced in half), ten fried mushrooms, three pieces of fried black pudding, two slices of fried bread, two slices of buttered toast, and a pint mug of tea with five sugars. At one thousand six hundred calories, it was a definite heart attack waiting to happen, (if ever there was one).

Mr Balls sat down and couldn’t wait to get stuck in, salivating uncontrollably, as he looked down at the mountain of food on his plate. ‘Where’s the baked beans!?’ he snapped. ‘It’s not a proper belly-buster without baked beans!’ Mr Clops, who was sat in the armchair reading the Guardian newspaper, chuckled to himself. ‘We’re out of baked beans Mr Balls, you’ll have to do without.’ ‘Do without baked beans Mr Clops!? You can’t do without baked beans!’ ‘Well I’m afraid you’ll have to do without baked  beans on this occasion Mr Balls, cos we don’t have any.’ ‘Never mind,’ said a disappointed Mr Balls, as he took a sip of his sweet tea and prepared to demolish his breakfast.

He started off by making a bacon and sausage toastie butty. He picked up a slice of hot buttered toast from the side plate on the table, and carefully added the six rashes of bacon, (three on the bottom and three on the top, criss-cross style). Next, he positioned the four pork sausages neatly on top of the bacon, before applying a large dollop of tangy brown sauce. He then placed the other slice of hot buttered toast on top, and squashed it all together with his massive shovel hands. The tangy brown sauce and hot melted butter dripped over the sides and onto the table top.

Mr Balls held up the butty an inch away from his face, and fixated on it with his big green eyes. ‘Oooh….. I would definitely die for a bacon and sausage toastie butty,’ he said drooling. He looked across at Mr Clops, who was reading a story about the ex-footballer Paul Gascoigne. ‘What do you say Mr Clops? You like a good butty don’t ya?’ Mr Clops’s head peeked over the top of his newspaper. ‘I see Gazza’s been drinking again,’ he said, showing Mr Balls the large headline. Mr Balls tutted and shook his head. ‘Oh dear not again, I wish he could sort himself out. Anyway what about the butty Mr Clops? I bet you’d die for a bacon and sausage toastie butty wouldn’t ya? Go on admit it.’

Mr Clops glanced at the butty, (that still had tangy brown sauce and melted butter dripping from it). ‘I would have said yes before my heart attack Mr Balls, but not now. I need to shed at least half a stone, and I’m not going to do that by eating bacon and sausage toastie butties.’ Mr Balls smiled. ‘Look at ya Mr Clops….. I’ve seen more fat on a sparrow’s kneecap. You should be putting weight on, not trying to get rid of it. I’d give ya some of mine if I could, I’ve plenty to spare ya know.’

— Mr Balls was right about that, he did have plenty to spare. In fact, he had enough to spare for the whole street. However, unlike Mr Clops, the last thing on Mr Balls’s mind was shedding the pounds, (despite the fact that he was grotesquely overweight and clinically obese). He loved his food far too much to be thinking about dieting. He dunked his butty aggressively several times into the two fried eggs, before taking an enormous bite. At least a quarter of the butty quickly disappeared into his mouth. There was egg yolk all over his greasy lips and on his greying beard, (which he’d specifically grown to try and make his face look slimmer, although it didn’t seem to be working).

He began chomping away making his usual grunting noises, while grinding his teeth together. ‘Mmm….. Mmm….. cooked to a tee as usual Mr Clops,’ he said with his mouth full, as par­ticles of food and spit flew in all directions. In no time at all he’d devoured the butty, fol­lowed in quick succession by the hash browns, black puddings, fried eggs, mushrooms, toma­toes and fried bread. He’d scoffed the lot in under ten minutes. He picked up the plate and licked it clean, before letting out an enormous belch. He sat back in his chair very content, now that his belly was full.  ‘I’ll tell ya what Mr Clops, baked beans aside, that was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.’ That was sweet music to the ears of Mr Clops, who loved his cooking and saw himself as an accomplished chef, even a connoisseur. ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ he said proudly. ‘I always like to see a clean plate.’

Mr Clops then got up from his armchair and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet. He removed two envelopes, handing them to Mr Balls, while wishing him a very happy fiftieth birthday. Mr Balls looked surprised and also a little annoyed. ‘I told you not to bother Mr Clops, you know I hate birthdays,’ he said, while opening up the first envelope. He pulled out a birthday card with a black and white cat on the front. An enormous grin suddenly appeared on his face, as he realised the cat was Tipsy.

Tipsy was Mr Balls’s cat, which he’d had from being a kitten. He got him from Feline Friends, the local cat shelter. His other cat Kojak, (named after the famous bald-headed New York detective, on account of losing all his fur in a house fire), had disappeared over a year ago and hadn’t been seen since. Mr Balls thought Kojak (who was also from Feline Friends), must have either got lost somewhere, been stolen, or been in some kind of accident. Either way he was devastated, and ended up going to the cat shelter and bringing back Tipsy, in an attempt to try and lessen the pain he was feeling. He named the cat Tipsy as he was always licking Mr Balls’s beer glass, when he wasn’t looking. Always in the back of Mr Balls’s mind, was how Kojak would react if he came back home one day, and found Tipsy lounging around the house, as if he owned the place.

Mr Balls was moved by the birthday card. ‘Thanks for that Mr Clops, that’s a very nice thought,’ he said, as he stood the card on the table. He then bent down and gave Tipsy a real good rub. Tipsy (who was snoozing away in his usual place under the chair), didn’t take much notice. ‘Thanks for the card Tipsy,’ said Mr Balls in a childish voice, as he tried to pick him up, and sit him on the dining table next to the card, so he could take a few pictures on his phone. Unfortunately however, Tipsy was in no mood for a photoshoot and quickly legged it into the living room and hid behind the settee. ‘Not to worry,’ said Mr Balls. ‘We’ll do it later. He’s always been a bit camera-shy has Tipsy.’

Mr Balls then opened the second envelope and slowly pulled out a gift voucher. It was a Silverstone Single Seater Thrill for two people. His face lit up. He was a big Formula One fan, and had always wanted to go to Silverstone to see the British Grand Prix, but had never actually been, due to the cost. ‘Is it alright Mr Balls?’ asked Mr Clops. ‘Alright!? It’s brilliant!’ yelled a jubilant Mr Balls. ‘But what’s a Single Seater Thrill?’ he asked, staring curiously at the voucher.

Mr Clops (who was also a Formula One fan) got all excited. ‘Well….. a single seater is a racing car with one seat, a bit like a Formula One car. It’s obviously not as fast or as powerful as a Formula One car, but it’s the closest you’ll ever come to driving one. And it has a top speed of 145 miles per hour. The thrill bit comes, when ya bombing around Silverstone like Lewis Hamilton. At least that’s what it says on the website.’ Mr Balls sat there with his mouth open, still staring at the voucher, imagining what it would be like driving around the famous Silverstone circuit, just like Lewis Hamilton. Mr Clops had a cheeky grin on his face, as he looked over the right shoulder of Mr Balls, and glanced down at the voucher. ‘Oh, I see it’s for two people Mr Balls. Who will you be going with?’

— Mr Clops knew what the answer would be. After all, he and Mr Balls went everywhere together. The only two exceptions were when Mr Balls went to watch Leeds United play football, or when he went to The Old Peacock pub every Thursday night to play darts. Mr Clops couldn’t stand football or darts. Mr Balls finally put the voucher down on the table. ‘Oooh now let me see….. Who will I be going with? That’s a tough one Mr Clops. Well….. erm….. erm….. would you like to go?’ ‘That’s very kind of you Mr Balls, I accept.’ ‘So when shall we go?’ asked an eager Mr Balls, who was now starting to enjoy his birthday. Mr Clops pulled out the chair from underneath the table, and sat down directly across from Mr Balls.

He had a slightly mis­chievous look on his face, as if he’d done some­thing unexpected and couldn’t wait to spill the beans. ‘Today!’ he replied. ‘We’re going today! It’s another one of your birthday surprises.’ Mr Balls couldn’t quite grasp what Mr Clops had just said. ‘Today…..?! What do you mean today…..?! How can we go today…..?!’ Mr Clops was bursting with enthusiasm, like he was about to explode any second. He was more animated than a mad professor on cocaine, as he went into one of his famous speech-like statements. He was always mak­ing statements was Mr Clops, especially when it related to health issues, like how to prevent a heart attack. (Although not in the case of Mr Balls it has to be said.)

‘We’re going today Mr Balls, it’s all been arranged. We’re travelling down by train. I’ve already bought the tickets. The taxi’s picking us up at nine, and taking us to the train sta­tion. We then go to platform 15 and get on the 9.46 to Manchester Piccadilly, arriving at 11.34. We then change trains and go to plat­form 5 and get on the 11.55 to Wolverton Rail Station, arriving at 13.46. From there we get a taxi to the Silverstone circuit, arriving at ap­proximately 14.15. In layman’s terms, quarter past two this afternoon.’

— As always Mr Clops was incredibly or­ganised, and had planned the trip down to the last minor detail. He was the one who made sure all the household bills were paid on time. He paid the mortgage, the home and car in­surance and did all the food shopping. He even bought and sent out Birthday and Christmas cards to friends and family, on behalf of Mr Balls, who couldn’t be arsed to do anything, other than listen to his endless collection of Soul and Motown records, watch tv and foot­ball, drink beer, play darts and eat. Mr Clops even had a list on the kitchen wall, for daily, weekly and monthly household chores. None of which Mr Balls paid much attention to.

Mr Balls was gobsmacked to say the least. He sat there in complete shock, (as if someone had just asked him to be the next Leeds United manager). ‘Well….. I don’t know what to say Mr Clops. As usual yav pulled it off once again.’

— Mr Balls was referring to all the other times Mr Clops had exceeded expectations. Like the time when he rescued Mr Balls from a near-death experience at the hands of Lucifer, the American Pit Bull Terrier, that lived down the street at number 66. Everyone called him Lucifer, due to his uncanny resem­blance to Satan, not to mention an evil and vi­cious temper to go with it. He’d mauled a few cats in the past and was avoided like the plague. His real name was Doughnut, thanks to the small hole on the top of his head, after being in numerous fights with other dogs. His owner was the local thug Billy Jayson, also known as Billy Jay Virus, and Numbnuts, (on account of only having one brain cell). Lucifer had taken a big dislike to Mr Balls, ever since their infamous encounter with a Vespa scooter, a privet hedge, and an Albertine rose bush.

Numbnuts had tied Lucifer to the lamppost, while he went in the bookies to put his bet on. Mr Balls was riding down the street on his Vespa scooter. He was going to Pizza Express on the high street to pick up his order. He’d ordered a Calamari starter, a giant Pizza Margherita, a side order of Polenta Chips and Crunchy Coleslaw, and two Chocolate Brown­ies. He was so engrossed in his food thoughts and filling up his belly, he’d completely forgot to avoid the numerous potholes, that were scattered all down the road.

— Despite endless complaints to the local council, nothing had been done to the road for years, and the residents were extremely angry and at breaking point. They’d even threatened to withhold council tax payments until the road was repaired, (although that didn’t seem to make any difference whatsoever). The scooter’s front wheel suddenly hit one of the biggest potholes on the road, and sent it veering out of control, heading straight in the direction of Lucifer. In a split second, Mr Balls’s focus had gone from Polenta Chips and Crunchy Coleslaw to: ‘OH BLOODY HELL!!’

The Scooter was wobbling and swerving violently all over the road. Mr Balls was frantically holding on to the handlebars for dear life, while at the same time (and more importantly), trying to steer the scooter away from Lucifer. Lucifer (who was minding his own business, licking his private parts, enjoying himself), was oblivious to the imminent calamity. Just before the inevitable collision, Mr Balls screamed out in des­peration. ‘Luciferrrrrrrrrrrr……..!!’ was the last thing he said, before: CRASH! BANG! WALLOP!!

Poor old Lucifer couldn’t have been tied to the lamppost very securely, cos he flew through the air like a trapeze artist at Billy Smart’s Circus, right over Mrs Lansley’s privet edge. Mrs Lansley, who was in the garden hanging out the washing, thought she must have been dreaming or something. ‘Well….. I’ve heard of flying pigs before, but never flying Pit Bulls,’ she said. However, she soon realised it was no dream, as Lucifer landed head first right in the middle of her immaculately kept Albertine rose bushes, and yelped out in pain. She was well aware of Lucifer’s reputation and instantly went into survival mode. She dropped all the wet wash­ing and the peg bag, and pelted into the house locking the door. She peeked through the win­dow moments later, and was relieved to see Lucifer (who had a face full of rose thorns), jump back over the privet hedge barking and growling like a lunatic, baying for blood.

Luckily for Mr Balls, he’d vanished quicker than a toupee in a headwind. He was last seen bombing down the street on his scooter, with a missing front panel, two shattered wing mirrors and mangled handlebars. He managed to get to the end of the street and then disappear out of view, before Lucifer got hold of him. Although Lucifer wasn’t badly hurt, and was more shocked than anything else, he was extremely angry, and his big ego and reputation had been tarnished. From that point on, Mr Balls’s cards had been well and truly marked. Lucifer was out for revenge, and his big opportunity came a few weeks later…..

Mr Balls was staining the front garden fence in the afternoon. He’d just finished applying the second coat of Ronseal Exterior 5 Year Woodstain, in Antique Pine. He stood back a foot away from the fence admiring his work. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That looks great. I’ve done a good job as usual, I think I deserve a treat. I’ll nip down to the chippy, now what do I fancy…..? Right….. I’ll get two large battered cod and chips, large mushy peas, and a good helping of scraps. Yav got to av a good helping of scraps with fish and chips,’ he said to himself all excited. (As it turned out, scraps and fish and chips would end up being the last thing on his mind.)

At the same time, Numbnuts was walking Lucifer on the opposite side of the street. He stopped about halfway down to cadge a fag off his mate Ronnie Beetle. ‘Alright Ronnie? As tha gorra fag mate? Av come out without mine.’ Ronnie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of twenty Silk Cut and a cheap throwaway red lighter. He took out two cigarettes and popped them into his mouth. Hit lit them both at the same time and took a good double blast of nicotine, before handing one to Numbnuts. ‘There ya go pal. Av not seen ya for ages, what’s tha bin up to?’ he said, while blowing out an enormous amount of smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Numbnuts took a lengthy drag on his fag. ‘Oh nothing much Ronnie, the usual shit ya know. Trying to keep mi ed above water, what about you?’ ‘Much the same, nowt much changes does it?’ Numbnuts and Ronnie began chewing the fat, catching up on all the latest gossip and mishaps.

Lucifer (who still hadn’t forgotten about the scooter incident), was sat on the pavement, desperately waiting for Ronnie to disappear, so he could find the nearest lamppost or side of a car, and relieve himself. Then all of a sudden he got distracted. He shot up onto his hind legs, and stuck his nose in the air, sniffing out danger. His ears pricked up like two radars. He’d spotted Mr Balls. His cold black eyes zoned in on the target, and he began to growl quietly under his breath, as if not to disturb the enemy.

Seconds later he made his move. He shot off quicker than a bullet from a Smith & Wesson 500. The dog lead was ripped from the right hand of Numbnuts, and moments later Lucifer was a meter away from Mr Balls. He then leapt off the ground and flew into the air, like an Exocet missile. It was a direct hit. He sunk his gnashers right into Mr Balls’s fleshy meaty backside. Mr Balls, who seconds earlier was debating whether or not to add a large battered sausage to his order, bellowed out like a fog horn on a distressed ship. Lucifer’s jar was locked solidly onto Mr Balls’s right bum cheek. The pain was excruciating, as Mr Balls yelled out several times. He sounded just like a baby seal that had been clubbed over the head.

Numbnuts shot across the road, grabbed hold of the lead and began pulling it as hard as he could. Despite his best efforts it made no impact whatsoever. He started screaming at Lucifer to let go. Lucifer didn’t respond. He then grabbed hold of his collar and began yanking it violently. Lucifer still didn’t re­spond. The situation was now getting serious. Mr Balls was sprawled out on the pavement hanging onto the gatepost. He was in a lot of pain and distress, and he looked like he was about to pass out any second. In a desperate attempt to free Mr Balls, Numbnuts kicked Lucifer three times really hard near his chest area. It must have hurt Lucifer, as he made a kind of grunting noise after each kick, but he still wouldn’t let go of Mr Balls. Just then, (as luck would have it) Mr Clops, who was riding home from work on his ten speed mountain bike, turned into the street. He was aghast, to say the least, at the utter chaos outside his house.

Instincts took over and he began pedalling like a man possessed, as if he was in a sprint finish at the Tour de France. He got to within a few feet of Lucifer, before jumping off the bike while it was still in motion. The bike continued at great pace down the street, before eventually coming to an abrupt halt, as it hit the skip parked outside Mrs Bradshaw’s house. It somersaulted before landing upside down on top of an old black leather settee, with the wheels still turning at a rate of knots. Without a second’s hesitation, Mr Clops flung himself down to the ground, lifted up Lucifer’s tail and stuck his right forefinger right up his backside, as far as it would go. Understandably, Lucifer got the shock of his life, and his jar instantly unlocked from Mr Balls’s sore and bleeding buttock. Lucifer had a rather embarrassed look on his face, as he was quickly dragged away by Numbnuts, who gave him another solid kick for good measure.

‘Get that bleedin lunatic away from here!’ shouted Mr Clops. Numbnuts was all apolo­getic as he pleaded for mercy. ‘I’m so sorry Mr Clops, I’m so sorry Mr Balls, please don’t ring the police. I don’t want mi dog to be put down, he’s the only friend av got.’ Mr Clops was in no mood for a discussion about Lucifer’s life or death dilemma. ‘Just get him out of here!’ he screamed. Numbnuts, Ronnie Beetle and Lucifer then headed back down the street, chuntering and grunting to each other, before disappearing out of sight.

Mr Balls was in quite a confused state, as he sat up and rested his back against the fence. He put all his weight onto his left buttock as his right one was incredibly painful and still leaking blood. He was surprised to see Mr Clops stood right in front of him. ‘Oh hello Mr Clops,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Would ya like anything from the chippy?’ ‘Never mind the chippy Mr Balls! We need to get you to hospital straight away! You’ve been attacked by Mad Dog Lucifer!’ Mr Balls looked in a daze. ‘Me, attacked…..? By Mad Dog Lucifer…..? When…..?’ Mr Clops had heard enough. Mr Balls was obviously delirious and needed to go to hospital. Mr Clops rushed into the house and rang for an ambulance, which arrived fifteen minutes later.

They both spent the next four hours in the A&E department. Mr Balls was eventually patched up by a very pretty American nurse, (by which time he’d regained all his faculties). Nurse Jones talked a lot, and seemed to have a fascination with the British royal family, especially the queen. ‘Oh you’re so lucky to have a royal family Mr Balls,’ she said oozing with enthusiasm. ‘We don’t have anything like that in the states you know. And what about your lovely queen? She’s so amazing, still going strong at her age, you must be so proud.’

Mr Balls, who was lying face down on the treatment table, grimaced, mainly due to the pain, but also at Nurse Jones’s royal infatuation. He certainly wasn’t a royalist and relished any opportunity to explain why. He was just about to go into one of his rants, about how the royals are all parasites, and a waste of taxpayers money, when Nurse Jones asked him to loosen his jeans. He fiddled around with his button and zip for a good few seconds, before Nurse Jones pulled his jeans right down to his ankles, followed by his sky blue Y-fronts. His very large, sweaty and bloody bottom was now on display.

Considering Nurse Jones was the only person to ever see Mr Balls’s backside, other than his mother (when he was little), and his former wife, he didn’t seem all that perturbed. He was however extremely embarrassed about his Y-fronts, that he’d now worn for the past five days. He knew for a fact that the inner lining had a few brown stains, and he was angry with himself for not changing them that morning, when he had the opportunity. Mr Clops, (who did all the washing and ironing), put Mr Balls’s clean underpants and socks on top of the dresser in his bedroom. However, Mr Balls thought he could get at least another days wear from the Y-fronts. His motto was: ‘If ya chuck em at the wall and they don’t stick, they’re clean enough to wear.’

‘I’m so sorry nurse,’ he said. ‘If I’d av known I was coming to hospital, I would av put clean undies on. I feel sorry for anyone who has to look at my Y-fronts.’ He needn’t have worried, as the brown stains were well camouflaged by the blood. Nurse Jones couldn’t help but smile. ‘Don’t worry about me Mr Balls, it’s the dog I feel sorry for. I only have to look at your Y-fronts, the poor dog’s had them in his mouth.’ Mr Balls cackled with laughter, sending his whole body into an uncontrollable wobble. His buttocks seemed to take on a life of their own, as they quivered menacingly, like two ex­ceedingly large strawberry jellies, right un­derneath the nose of Nurse Jones. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

After Mr Balls and his buttocks had calmed down, Nurse Jones began to treat his wound. She used warm soapy water to carefully wash away the dried blood from both his cheeks. The blood had also seeped into his bum crack. She gently squeezed the water into the crevice, before giving it a good wipe with the cloth. Mr Balls (who hadn’t had much human physical contact for quite some time), was enjoying the experience, and was a little disappointed when the washing ended. The wound had completely stopped bleeding, and although the bite had penetrated the skin, it wasn’t that deep. Nurse Jones lightly dabbed the wound dry with a white rectangle pad, before applying a fair amount of antibiotic cream. Mr Balls’s buttocks tensed up, as the cold cream connected with his hot throbbing skin. ‘Sorry if it’s cold,’ said Nurse Jones. Mr Balls didn’t mind, it was kind of soothing and certainly eased the pain somewhat. ‘That’s ok nurse, just do whatever ya need to do.’

Nurse Jones then applied a sterile gauze dressing to the wound, and stuck it down with surgical tape. ‘Right Mr Balls all done,’ she said, as she removed the latex gloves and dropped them into the waste bin, followed by the rectangle pad, the damp cloth, and various cellophane bags. ‘The good news is the wound isn’t that deep. It should be healed in a few days.’ Mr Balls was relieved. ‘Does that mean I don’t need a tetanus shot nurse?’ ‘That won’t be necessary Mr Balls. I’ve cleaned the wound thoroughly, and treated it with antibiotic cream, that should do the trick. Apply the cream each time you change the dressing, once every two days should be fine. Your bum should be back to normal in no time. If it swells up or gets any worse over the next few days, go and see your GP.’ Nurse Jones then put the tube of cream, a few gauze dressings, and the surgical tape into a bag, for Mr Balls to take home with him.

‘I’ve put all you need to treat the wound in this bag Mr Balls. I’ll leave it on the table.’ Mr Balls was grateful he didn’t have to go to the chemist to buy creams and whatnots. ‘Oh that’s very kind of you nurse, thank you and thanks for all your help.’ ‘You’re welcome Mr Balls, that’s what we’re here for. Would you like me to cut off your Y-fronts? they’re covered in dried blood.’ Mr Balls instantly declined the offer, he didn’t want his meat and two veg bouncing around in his jeans, unsupported. ‘That’s ok nurse, I’ll leave them on if ya don’t mind. I’ll throw them in the bin when I get home.’ Nurse Jones then gently pulled up the Y-fronts over the dress­ing, followed by the jeans. ‘Ok Mr Balls all finished, look after yourself,’ she said, before disappearing through the door.

Mr Balls slowly turned over onto his back, swung his legs over the side of the table, and sat up. He zipped up his jeans, fastened his button and straightened his ruffled shirt. He sat there for a good few moments collecting his thoughts, thankful that it was all over. He left the room shortly after and made his way to the waiting area, to reunite with Mr Clops. Mr Clops was sat near the door and rang for a taxi on his phone, as soon as he saw Mr Balls coming towards him.

‘How did it go Mr Balls? Did you have a tetanus shot?’ Mr Balls shook his head, as he slowly sat down on the plastic chair next to Mr Clops, resting his good buttock right on the edge. ‘No, thank god, I didn’t need one. The bite broke the skin but it’s not that deep. I think Lucifer must have baby teeth or summat. You wouldn’t think so with the amount of pain he caused, not to mention all the blood.’ Mr Clops smiled. ‘Don’t forget Mr Balls, he was biting through quite a large buttock. He probably thought it was a really tough pork chop.’

‘Ya right there Mr Clops, ya could certainly get a few pork chops from my buttocks, that’s for sure.’ ‘So what did they actually do Mr Balls?’ ‘Well, I’ve had the wound cleaned up and treated with antibiotic cream. I need to change the dressing every two days. The nurse has given me all the stuff I need, like cream and gauze dressings, so I don’t need to go to the chemist.’ ‘Oh well that’s not too bad Mr Balls. Come on, let’s wait for the taxi outside, I can’t stand hospitals, poorly depressed people all over the place.’

Later that night, Mr Clops and Mr Balls were sat in the living room at home watching TV. ‘I’ve got to ask Mr Clops, what on earth made you think of sticking ya finger up Lucifer’s bum? It’s not the kind of thing you would normally do.’ Mr Clops thought for a few seconds….. ‘I think I must have read about it somewhere, or seen it in a documentary. I must admit, it most definitely wasn’t a very pleasant experience.’ ‘Well it certainly did the trick Mr Clops. Christ knows what would have happened if you hadn’t turned up. I think I’ll stick to cats, there’s not much danger of cats biting ya backside, and even if they did, you’d be there again, sticking ya shitty finger where it’s not wanted.’

In the end, they didn’t report the incident to the police. Instead, they came to an agreement with Numbnuts to put a muzzle on Lucifer, every time he went outside. From a physical point of view Mr Balls made a full recovery. However, he was mentally scarred by the incident, and avoided dogs whenever possible. He was even dubious about stroking Babs Whitaker’s dog Beanie, who was a little tiny Chihuahua. Lucifer most definitely left his mark on Mr Balls, in more ways than one.

An Extract From The Book: Mr Clops & Mr Balls – Silverstone By Kelvin Rush.
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An Extract From The Book: Fish – Operation Electric Man By Kelvin Rush.
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The next day I went to see Benny, who lived a few doors down from our house. He ans­wered the door in his pyjamas, and didn’t look well. ‘Are ya coming out Benny?’ I asked. ‘I can’t Fish, I’m made up with cold. Mum said I’ve got to go back to bed. Do ya want the paper round job?’ ‘Yeah I do Benny, what do I need to do?’ ‘I’ve told Mr Kirk I’ll be leaving at the end of the week. I said you might be interested. Go and see him, tell him you can start next week. He’ll show you the ropes.’ ‘Ok Benny, I’ll go and see him now. Thanks very much pal, hope ya get better soon.’ ‘Yeah, cheers Fish, see ya.’

Poor old Benny looked awful, and he loved his paper round job, and obviously didn’t want to give it up. Oh well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, at least that’s what gran always says. I went to see Mr Kirk all excited. I’d never had a paper round job before, in fact, I’d never had a job before. Mr Kirk was an oldish man with a distinctive mass of wayward grey hair, that had a life of its own, especially if the wind got hold of it. He wore thick round, black rimmed specs, and a white lab coat, that al­ways had a selection of pens attached to the lapel. We all called him the mad professor. He owned and ran Kirk Newsagents, si­tuated just off the main road. Just about eve­ryone on our council estate shopped there. You could buy newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, sweets, milk, and a few groceries. I knew Mr Kirk quite well, as I’d been going in his shop, for as long as I can remember.

He sold me cigarettes, and even fireworks on bonfire night, even though he knew I was underage. I always used to tell him they were for my dad, (which most of the time they were), and he never quizzed me once, which I thought was great. Sometimes his daughter Sammy would help out in the shop. She was a pretty girl with long blonde hair, and was always smiling at the customers, (especially the boys). I don’t know how old she was, but she looked about sixteen. Some of the boys would queue up at the counter, drooling all over her, as they bought sweets and cans of pop. Of course none of them ever stood a chance. Sammy would never be interested in any of the snotty-nosed toerags that lived on our estate.

I walked in the newsagents and straight up to the counter. Mr Kirk was serving old man Hargreaves, who was at least ninety years old. He was a bit on the fragile side, and could only walk at a snail’s pace. It took him ages to get to Kirkies for his newspapers every morning, even though he only lived across the road. He would set off after breakfast, and by the time he got to Kirkies, it was dinner time.

‘Hello Mr Hargreaves, how ya doing?’ I asked. He looked up and squinted a few times.
‘Alright owd love.’ He was a man of few words was Mr Hargreaves.
‘Hello Mr Kirk.’
‘Hello Fish, have ya come about the job?’
‘Yeah, is it still available?’
‘Yes it is. It’s yours if ya want it.’
‘Great…..! I do want it Mr Kirk.’
‘Now ya won’t let me down will ya Fish? Don’t be late, and make sure you deliver all the newspapers. I don’t want any complaints from the customers. I never received a single complaint when Benny was doing the round, so I expect the same level of service from you.’
‘Oh no worries Mr Kirk, ya can rely on me. I’m ya man. I won’t let ya down.’ Mr Kirk Smiled. ‘Do ya know how many times I’ve heard that Fish? Right, you can start next Monday. Be here for 6.30am.’
‘I’ll be here Mr Kirk, 6.30am on the dot.’
‘Ya know it’s three quid a week, don’t ya?’
‘Yeah, Benny told me Mr Kirk, that’ll do me. Ok Mr Kirk see ya.’
‘See ya lad.’
‘See ya Mr Hargreaves.’
‘Ta-ra owd love.’

I left the shop bursting with adrenalin, and ran all the way home with a big cheesy grin, plastered right across my face. I couldn’t wait to tell mum and dad and the rest of the family. The week flew past, and before I knew it Mon­day morning had arrived. The alarm clock went off at 6.00am. It was my first ever day at work. I leapt out of bed full of excitement. I quickly got dressed and went into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, and splashed a little cold water on my face, patting it dry with the towel. I then made my way downstairs to the kitchen. I opened the curtains, and then closed them again, as it was still dark outside. It was great being up so early, while everyone else was still in bed. I’d never known the house to be so quiet. I put two thin slices of white bread under the grill, turned on the gas, and lit the grill, using the matches on the sideboard. I removed a plate from the cupboard, and the margarine and strawberry jam from the fridge.

I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for the toast to be done. Five minutes later, I was tucking into hot buttered toast with strawberry jam, washed down with a glass of cold tap water. After breakfast, I put on my duffle coat and eagerly set off to Kirkies. It was freezing outside, and the cold wind bit right into my face. Luckily, I only had to walk to the end of our street and across the main road. I strutted down the street with real purpose. I was one of the workers now, a proper wage earner. Ok, I still had to go to school, but even so, I would be earning a wage packet, and that made me feel great. I walked in the shop and up to the counter. Mr Kirk was writing the street names, and house numbers on the newspapers. He looked a bit disheveled, like he’d been sleeping in his clothes. His hair was all over the place, as usual. I think his hair should be put in a museum when he dies.

‘Here I am Mr Kirk, all ready for action.’
‘Morning Fish, give me a few minutes, I’ve almost done.’ Five minutes later, Mr Kirk put the last newspaper into the delivery bag, and lifted it onto the counter, while yawning. ‘Right Fish, your round starts on Beacroft Road, followed by Meadow Hall Gardens. After that, go and do the Rockingham Estate, then Pepper Close, and finish off on Barbers Avenue. Is that clear?’ ‘That’s clear Mr Kirk, I know those areas.’ I picked up the delivery bag off the counter. It weighed a ton. I couldn’t lift it high enough, to get the strap around my shoulder. Mr Kirk chuckled, as he came from behind the counter. ‘Let me help ya lad,’ he said, as he lifted the strap over my head and onto my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry lad, it’ll get easier once ya get used to it.’ I felt a little silly. ‘Yeah, no worries Mr Kirk. Thanks very much Mr Kirk.’

I left the shop and turned right onto Grange Close, which lead onto Beacroft Road. The bag was so heavy, and the strap was ripping right into my shoulder. I could barely walk a few metres without stopping. As soon as Kirkies was out of sight, I bent down and lifted the bag over my head, before dropping it with a thud onto the pavement. I sat on top of the bag, and wondered if I was even capable of being a paperboy. It hadn’t occurred to me, that the delivery bag would be so heavy. How on earth was I going to finish my paper round? Just then, I noticed Gazza coming towards me on his go-kart. Gazza (who’s real name was Gareth Robinson), was a good mate of mine. We both went to the same school.

‘Alright Gazza, what ya doing up at this time?’ I asked. ‘Hello Fish, I’m off to Kirkies for mum’s newspaper and fags.’ ‘At this time in the morning?’ ‘Well there’s only me who can go Fish. Dad goes to work at five, and our Jimmy won’t get up at this time. Mum’s got to av her fags. Anyway, what are you doing up at this time?’ ‘I’m doing Benny’s paper round, he can’t do it anymore. If you remember, he fell asleep in the history lesson, and Mr Langdon sent a letter to his parents, so he had to pack it in.’ ‘Oh yeah, I remember that. I can’t stand that horrible Mr Langdon, he’s a right old tosser. Benny loved that paper round. How come you got the job then Fish?’ ‘Well, Benny asked me if I wanted it, and I said yeah. Simple as that really. This is my first day Gazza.’ ‘Oh, how’s ya first day going then Fish?’ ‘Not very good Gazza. I can only just about pick up the delivery bag, it weighs a ton. I’ve got over eighty newspapers to deliver, and some of them have a magazine inside.’ ‘Ya know what ya need don’t ya fish? Ya need a go-kart like mine.’

— Gazza’s homemade go-kart was made from an old wooden door. The four corners had been sawn off at an angle, to make it look more like a go-kart, and less like a door. There were two rather large pram wheels on the back, and two smaller ones on the front. There was also a piece of old red carpet glued to the top, so you didn’t get splinters in your arse or knees. Finally, it had washing line tied to the front wheels, so you could turn it left or right. That was it basically. It didn’t even have a brake. It certainly wouldn’t win any awards for enter­prise of the year, that’s for sure. But despite what it looked like, it was very effective and easy to drive. I knew this, as I’d driven it before on a few occasions. The best way to drive it, was to kneel down, with your legs hanging over the back. You then pushed yourself forward with your feet. It was a lot easier going downhill, as you simply jumped on and enjoyed the ride. However, because there were no brakes, it wasn’t always easy to stop. Sometimes you had to jump off the go-kart while it was still going, and hope and pray, that it didn’t smash into anyone or anything.

‘Can I borrow it Gazza?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that Fish.’
‘Go on mate, just for today. I’m struggling to pick up the delivery bag, and if I don’t get these newspapers delivered, Kirkie will go mad, and I’ll get the sack.’
‘Ok Fish, say no more. Now ya will look after it won’t ya?’
‘Of course I will Gazza. Nice one pal, thas done me a big favour. I’ll see ya right when I get mi first wage packet.’

I dropped the heavy delivery bag onto the go-kart, and was off like a flash. I was fuelled with pure adrenaline and excitement, as I went bombing down the street, just like James Hunt in his Formula One Car. I arrived at Beacroft Road shortly after, and pulled up outside the first house. I lifted up the flap on the delivery bag, and took out the top newspaper. It was The Sun, with the headlines: ‘BEEB ON THE BLINK’ splashed across the front page. It was something to do with the BBC. There was also a story about the pop singer Rod Stewart, who was trying for a baby with his girlfriend. All boring stuff really.

My first delivery was 6 Beacroft Road. I sat on the cart, and stared at the newspaper for a few moments, savouring this momentous occasion. I then neatly folded the newspaper in half, and then in half again. I got up from the cart, opened the gate at number 6, and proudly walked down the path to the blue front door. I pushed the newspaper through the silver letter box, and smiled to myself as it hit the floor. I’d just delivered my very first newspaper. I felt a sense of pride, as I walked back up the path and closed the gate. There was over seventy houses on Beacroft Road, and I must have delivered a newspaper to at least half of them. It was a good thirty minutes, before I pushed the Daily Mirror through the final letter box on the street. I felt great, and all the initial worries had quickly disappeared. It was as if I’d been a paperboy all my life. I was jumping over gates and fences, nipping through gaps in hedges, and flying around the houses like a whippet on speed. I left Beacroft Road and headed off to Meadow Hall Gardens.

Meadow Hall Gardens was a large complex of houses and flats, with quite a few roads and side streets. To get to it, I had to go right to the very bottom of the infamous Fenton Road. Fenton Road was long, steep and dangerous. It had a sharp, right hand bend near the bottom, known locally as The Devil’s Corner. This was where all the accidents seemed to occur, and one accident in particular, made the name even more chilling. Seven year old Jessica Piper, who lived at 234 Fenton Road, was going to see her best friend Holly Jenkins after school. Holly only lived a few doors down, on the other side of the road. Jessica was crossing the road near the right hand bend, when suddenly out of the blue, came a souped-up Ford Cortina MK3, speeding towards her. The boy racer skidded around the bend, lost control of the car, and sent little Jessica flying through the air. She travelled a fair distance, before landing head first on the concrete floor. According to the local news reports, she died instantly, and didn’t suffer any pain. That was the only saving grace, if you can say that. The boy racer, who had only just passed his driving test, received  a lengthy prison sentence.

If anything, the death of Jessica only made Fenton Road even more of an attraction, to the thrill seekers. Because it was so long and steep, it was ideal for driving down at high speeds. People (mainly boys and young men), would race down it in cars, on motorbikes, bicycles, go-karts, scooters, and anything else they could lay their hands on. Even me and Goody had been down it, on an old car bonnet in the snow. We set off from the top, pretending to be the British bobsleigh team, doing our final run for an olympic gold medal. However, we only got halfway down, before the car bonnet spun around a few times, hit the curb, and crashed into the lamp post. Me and Goody went hurtling across the ice on our backsides. The onlookers thought it was hilarious. Luckily we didn’t get hurt, (apart from our bruised egos). Other people weren’t so lucky though, and there were many broken arms and legs, and numerous other injuries.

The police were often seen driving on Fenton Road, trying to catch the joy riders. There was even a demonstration by the local residents committee. They marched into the town hall, demanding that the council install a zebra crossing immediately, before there were any more deaths. I don’t know if the demonstration did any good or not, but there still isn’t a zebra crossing on Fenton Road.

Wisely, I decided not to ride down Fenton Road on the go-kart. Instead, I walked slowly down, pulling it behind me. By the time I got to Meadow Hall Gardens, time was pushing on, so I needed to speed things up. Now that the delivery bag wasn’t as heavy, it was quicker for me not to use the go-kart, so I hid it behind the garages on Studmoor Road, and delivered the rest of the newspapers on foot. I belted around the houses and flats, and completed Meadow Hall Gardens, the Rock­ingham Estate, and Pepper Close, in about forty minutes. The final leg of my paper round was Barbers Avenue, and there was only six more papers to deliver. It was an amazing feeling, as I pushed the final newspaper through the letterbox, at 134 Barbers Avenue. That was it. I’d completed my first ever round as a paperboy.

It took about an hour and twenty minutes to finish the round, which I don’t think was too bad, considering it was my first time. I retrieved the go-kart from the garages on Studmoor Road, and sped back home ecstatic, like a bat out of hell. I was back in our house for eight o’clock, in plenty of time to get ready for school. Over the next few weeks, the paper round got a lot easier, and I didn’t need Gazza’s go-kart anymore either. I got used to the weight of the delivery bag, even at the weekends, with all the Saturday sports additions, and the Sunday gossip magazines. Before long, I was completing the round in under an hour. I timed myself every morning, to try and beat my record, which currently stands at 57 minutes, 48 seconds.

I’ve been doing my paper round for a few months now, and I really love it. So far, I haven’t missed a single day, and I’ve not been late once. I’ve managed to pay back all the money I stole from the electric meter, and dad was able to pay the deposit on the rented house at Scarborough. I also gave Benny a quid, for getting me the paper round job in the first place, and I gave Gazza fifty pence for lending me his go-kart. I even lent Goody some more money, to get Psycho Sid off his back. Guess what…..? He still hasn’t paid me back. Oh well….. some things will never change.

I’ve got enough money saved up to buy Christmas presents for all the family. It’s kind of an apology on my part, for all the trouble I’ve caused. I think my New Year’s Resolution should be:

‘FISH….. STAY WELL AWAY FROM TROUBLE!’

If only…..

An Extract From The Book: Fish – Operation Electric Man By Kelvin Rush.
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