The toughest of all calls to make

He was born in Brussells, but still hasn't
thought of a decent stage name

In this tropical heat wave, all I seem to do at the moment is blow up inflatables. As soon as I finish work on a friday, I get home, stick my mouth around something plastic and start blowing. I only stop when I have to go back to work on monday.
Paddling pools, blow-up hammers, pink princess inflatable chairs...well, that's all really, I am exaggerating a little bit about how much stuff I have to inflate.
But why the pics of muscle men?
I booked the World's Strongest Men for our local Diamond Jubilee celebrations in the park. They do all the best bits: Truck pull, Atlas stones, testicle shrinking etc. Unfortunately, the money ran out, and I've just had to ring the World's Strongest Men and tell them that they've been replaced by an exotic pet show.
This weekend is not turning out as I had planned, my main plan being not ringing up the World's Strongest Men and replacing them with a frog and a spider.

According to his autobiography,
his favourite milk brand is...Fussells

Interviewer: 'What's your favourite green vegetable that you
like to eat with your christmas dinner?"
Muscle man: 'I love cock'

The Perfect Storm

Two days ago I put my car in for its MOT. I appreciate that this is not the most exciting news, it is only noteworthy because I was trying out a new garage.
The new garage guys are regular cafe customers; I thought this would create a circle of trust - they shave £80 off the bill, and I give them bigger sandwiches...nudge, wink.
The test revealed that my sweet ride needed a new pair of boots
(street slang for: the Vauxhall Astra 1.4 hatchback saloon needs two new tyres) and I bimbled off to work, surfing the tarmac on my fresh new rims.
Arriving at the bikini factory, I exited the vehicle and noticed that my new rear boot (tyre) was as flat as a pancake. The fucking cunts, I thought to myself...no more big sandwiches for you.
I pulled out the foot pump and started pumping, unfortunately, this repetitive leg action resulted in some anal chafing. The pain radiating out from my sore cheeks was momentarily suspended when I saw a big fucking nail sticking out of my pancake boot. Then something dawned on me: the previous evening, for the very first time, I had left my car out on...the street.
All the elements were combining to create a perfect storm. Had my new boots been turned into pancakes deliberately? And if so, by whom?
The theories:
Was this an overly complicated scam by the new garage guys to drain more money out of me?
I have a disgruntled ex-employee who lives over the road...was it the sacked, disgruntled ex-employee?
I also have some gays who live over the road...was it the gays?
Finally, I've upset all the local horny teens by pulling down the shagging shed...was it the horny teens?

In other news:
MG60 had a stroke in the cafe. He spent one night in hospital, then he was back in the cafe two days later.

I'm too sexy for this cafe...poor pussy, poor pussy cafe

Milan, New York and Japan...and Calverley.

Well, it's finally happened. At 2pm today (Sunday) my nine year old son overheard me and my missus talking dirty to each other, while we were pretending to change the sheets in our bedroom. What makes it worse, is that he was stood next to his best friend at the time, who had come round to play on the Wii.
This happened because recently we've been hosting night-events at the cafe, and we've found it hard to schedule dirty talk into our diaries.
Normally, like any other married couple, I would ask my missus to suck my cock between the hours of 7-8pm weekdays, 9-10 pm on weekends and via two texts on a Wednesday afternoon. But owning a cafe means you've got to go with the flow.
We had our grandest night-do at the cafe last night. We co-hosted the event with our good friend Mr Critch, who owns Fish& - fish and chips with a twist. He parked his fish van outside the cafe and the revellers bounced between tea, cake and fish all night.
The party was in honour of two of our staff who have invented...something...not sure what it is. They took whatever their invention is onto the Dragon's Den, secured funding, and are now on their way to securing generational wealth...and good luck to them.
This is proof positive, that as a modern, 21st Century shopkeeper, you shouldn't be spending all your time trying to look at your waitresses' arse while she rings out the mop; you should use this time more constructively, by encouraging them to invent things. I can't wait to see what Pepsi and Shirley come up with.
This may sound flash, having two famous inventors working in our little cafe at the weekends, but we've been outdone by Mr Critch, whose got the drummer from Groove Armada covering his saturday shift. I may have to raise my game and get Right Said Fred to do wednesday afternoons.

Coffee, tea or...me?
Wednesday afternoons in the cafe are going to
look a little different from now on.

Revealed! What really happened in the Judge's private chambers.

What do you do if it's 1986; you're in Tenerife,
you've got pale skin and you've run out
of suncream?
You stay in your hotel room and
have a wank...don't wrap yourself up in towels. 

Many important things have happened in the cafe, which I have neglected to mention...simply because I have been unable to put a funny slant on it; this is the major problem with trying to be funny.
Once, we had an incident with a poached egg which made three people leave - another time,  the local hairdresser stood up and said he was mortified by the lack of mushrooms in his bacon and mushroom baguette and threw it at Shirley; we also had to sack a woman who then went on a revenge mission...the list goes on, but try as I might, I couldn't squeeze out the funny, so it was left on the cutting room floor.
This was the situation with the house repossession, but a few people have asked me what happened, so here goes; if it's not funny - don't blame me.
We found out that Pepsi's mum knows a few things about housing law, and with me stuck working at the bikini factory, we asked her to accompany Lisa when she had to visit the judge...thankfully she agreed, and off they trotted to Bradford court.
We also found out, when Lisa and Mrs Pepsi shuffled through the court's metal detector, that Pepsi's mum always carries a mini tool kit with her in her handbag; complete with: screwdrivers, pliers, adjustable wrench and gaffa tape. Red lights flashed, buzzers buzzed, and body parts were frisked.
Lisa and Al Capone were then ushered into the Judge's private chambers, where they were confronted by the mortgage lender's solicitor.
He stated his case, Lisa got up and fought for us, with the help of Mrs Pepsi, and it turned out that the mortgage lender's solicitor had made a big fuck up.
When you evict a tenant you have to choose which law you are using to kick them out. You do this by checking the tenancy agreement. One law gives you two months to get out, the other lets you stay till the end of the contract. The lawyer is basically choosing which shoes to kick you in the head with...pumps or dockers? Either way you're out. Unfortunately, he hadn't made his mind up...he was switching between ballerina shoes and hob nails when the judge got angry with him, and told him to go home and think about it; adjourning the case for 6 weeks.
Depending on what type of shoes he is wearing in 6 weeks' time, determines how long we have got.
There, you see...I told you it wasn't funny, so I've attached a pic of Rich Morley sunbathing just to lighten the tone.
(ps. Thanks Pepsi's mum)

Annual Jolly to the Seaside

As we waved goodbye to the cafe and set off on our family holiday to Cornwall, leaving the business in the safe hands of Vinegar Tits and my two teenage waitresses...Pepsi and Shirley, I felt slightly nervous.
Any problems and I told them to call us immediately...but what could I do about a problem 500 miles away? It's a frustrating scenario all us shopkeepers have to deal with while we are trying to enjoy ourselves on the beach; that's why we all look so miserable.
Our cottage was in St Agnes which boasts three pubs, two Chinese restaurants and zero mobile reception.
To check on the cafe I had to walk a mile up a steep hill to get just one bar on my phone, until after three days I discovered that if I stood in a wardrobe in the back bedroom...I couldn't get a signal in there either.
Each night, without fail, I had an intense nightmare; it was always the same scenario: I hit the landlord of the cafe (who is a chemist) round the back of the head with a plank of wood and he fell majestically, in slow motion, down the stairs to his death; I then ordered my staff to get rid of the small chemist's body. Vinegar Tits immediately slipped into a rubber apron, lit up a fag and chopped off his limbs with a large meat clever while Pepsi and Shirley stood around dropping plates.
My nights were taken-up with nightmares but during the day I found time to devise a new game called: Day-Out Roulette. The cottage had a raft of brochures for fun-packed days' out such as: The Eden Project, go-karting, The Lost Garden's of Heligan, The Owl Sanctuary etc all with beautiful pictures of the facilities...but there were some excursions that had no pictures...just drawings. I would usually avoid the no-picture-day-out adverts but this time I picked three of the shittest looking adverts, blindfolded Brodie and made him pick one... and he chose... The Hidden Valley; which turned out to be a version of the Crystal Maze set on a farm.
The farmer had filled his sheds with furniture, and clues were sellotaped underneath chairs and behind picture frames. Twenty clues per quest and each quest would yield a coloured crystal; the more crystals you won, the more time you got in...The Vault. We ended up with 5 minutes in the vault (dark shed) and waited our turn.
We were ushered down a dark corridor with a red light at the end; when the red light flashed it was our turn to go in. We rushed in and stood before us was a large digital scoreboard counting down from 5 minutes; we set about the five puzzles with gusto.
Task one had me pulling wires in and out of circuits to make a link which lit up a bulb, then we had to match the latin flower name to the correct picture, and on the third question two numbers flashed up on the screen for 4 seconds and we had to subtract A from B then take away 370, find the square root and type it into the keypad on the wall safe...we failed.
To be honest it was a great day out and we returned home to find the cafe in tip-top condition. The only problem was that the landlord of my house has not been paying the mortgage and it is getting repossessed on the 18th April, so we have 8 days left to find somewhere to live. I rung the landlord up and he was in Malaysia and explained he'd stayed over for a few weeks after watching the Grand Prix but would ring us back and sort it out as soon as he got back in the country...on the 19th. I was dreaming about killing the wrong landlord...close but no cigar.

Don't set yourself on fire.

Randy Fusselbusslegardner JNr the III

Tony the local village ace fireman who we have nicknamed Randy Fusselbusselgardner jnr III (as it sounds like a crack yank firman's name) came in the cafe seeking advice today.
This happens occasionally and we are only too pleased to help. The whole cafe put their thinking caps on and as a unit we dispense some common sense advice.
His predicament was that a woman accidentally set herself on fire and Radio Leeds were coming round to interview him to talk about the precautions one should take with regards to storing petrol etc.
The woman had stocked up her jerry cans due to the impending fuel shortage and was happily decanting them in her kitchen while she had the oven on, she then set on fire.
Say: " Don't set yourself on fire" was our advice. He thanked us and left.
I will soon be releasing a coffee table book featuring some of the sage advice that has been dished out in our cafe beside some pretty spectacular meal deals ( hot sandwich, brownie, pop and crisps only £4.99!)
Here's a taster:

'Use botty not cunty' by Nigerian safe sex singing sensation Timi Korus
'Don't set yourself on fire' by Randy Fusselbusselgardner jnr III.


Out soon...The Cafe Village Think Tank. (Hardback £6.99) Solutions to questions you didn't know needed answering.

Help! I'm surrounded by people having sex

As you may know, when I am not in the cafe or writing bikini copy for Swimwear 365 I usually spend my free time trying to stop teenagers having sex.

My garden backs onto an old, abandoned allotment which is overgrown and deserted aside from one dilapidated shed. Due to the hot weather several local wide-eyed teen boys have been taking their girlfriends in the shed for some heavy petting and light fingering, so I chopped it down. I took the day off, scaled the fence and sawed it to pieces.

The virgins of Calverley are now being fingered behind the cricket hut. 

I sat back, relaxed in my favourite armchair and congratulated myself on a job well done when I recoiled in horror at what I saw directly opposite the front of my house. 

Two gays (nothing wrong with that) live opposite me. They have just moved in ANOTHER GAY, that makes three gays in one house (something wrong with that). It is unclear which gay is having sex with which gay but as soon as I find out you can rest assured I'll put a stop to it.

some teens

Some gays

some shed