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The Postbag

impsTALK.co.uk
>> Postbag

Ok, we're going to be upfront here - this page hasn't been updated for about four years now and all this stuff is leftovers from our Southwark Crown Court live updates. The truth is that we don't get much mail outside of the live updates we do, but if you do fancy writing us some words then feel free.

We'll consider all e-mails for publication on these hallowed pages, unless they're from an irate ITV correspondent ripping us a new one for bad-mouthing him on the pages of Cod Almighty, in which case we'll just brush the thing under the carpet and sheepishly go about our business as if nothing happened.


Too many visitors?

I'm not sure that the British Penal System is ready for the arrival of Mr Evans. How will the visitors rooms cope with all the celebrity visitors as his entourage of famous best friends arrive to see him on an almost hourly basis?

Anon, via email

Dial F for fraud, fat and football

Mr Evans stepped off the train at King's Cross railway station, platform 9 3/4, thanking the good Lord above that his hellish ride had come to an end. After standing up on a train for 53 mins and witnessing a rather rowdy gordie gentleman throw up in the vestibule end in which he was standing, Mr Evans reflected that he may have a complaint or two for the lovely people at GNER. Upon serious reflection, however, he noted that he could record this less than delightful journey as expenses, charge it to the taxpayer and maybe keep the VAT for himself. His mind wandered -- if he made the complaint he could reclaim the £94 spent on the trip from GNER, pocket that, and pocket the fare as expenses and the VAT he would claim back. "Oh Stevo, you've done it again; you're an absolute genius" he thought as he wandered down the platform and began planning the snotty letter he would write replete with child-like stick drawings to illustrate his concern.

Mr Evans walked into the underground and to the ticket counter. He considered for a moment. Did he need a return? "Why not?", he thought, "what's the worst that could happen?" Mr Evans ordered the ticket in what he believed to be his manly Scottish baritone voice, but which sounded to the ticket clerk to be the sound of a hundred bagpipes playing out of tune. He borded the next train and counted the stations: Angel, Old Street, Moorgate, Bank and finally London Bridge. Mr Evans popped out of the station and glared furiously down Borough High St. at the offices of Her Majesty's Customs and Revenue in the belief that his mighty football brain would cause an almighty explosion which he would later blame John Blackwell. Much to his dismay, his superpowers failed him so Mr Evans turned towards London Bridge only to be barged out of the way by a rushing city trader. "och, 'scuse me" uttered Mr Evans only to be greeted by "Christ! why are all the homeless drunks in this city Scottish?". Mr Evans hung his head in shame.

Mr Evans wandered worrying along Tooley Street past the ominious London Dungoen and a Smart Car that was probably bigger than a cell at Pentonville Prison. The usual hordes of 'London Light' newspaper muggers parted in his path and a black cat spat at him as he turned into More London Place. There in-front of him was Southwark Crown Court, that hideous brown brick modernist building home to everything he hated (Inland Revenue officers, the police and the judge). Mr Evans, head still bowed, walked straight through the metal detectors whithout setting them off, in-spite of his pockets being full of change. Mr Evans arrived at the open lift door to be greeted by Droopy, the cartoon dog. "going down, sir?" asked droopy. "Going up" answered Mr Evans. "We'll see, sir" replied droopy.

In his effort to present a stong and unworried front to anyone who may see Mr Evans stepped purposefully towards the lift door, only to stub his nose straight into it, not realising that the lifts opened on the opposite side to entry. His nose red and eyes watering Mr Evans exited via the correct door and stared down the corridoor to the looming court 14. Outside he spied 3 spooks from the revenue, 4 barristers, 15 Daggenham fans on parole brandishing knives and a lonely bespectacled young journalist who would later sell garbled and misleading accounts of the proceedings to Boston's favourite newspapers.

Mr Evans walked into the court and sat in the dock noting that it had shrunk since his last visit. The judge sat atop his burnished throne and glared omniously at Mr Evans. "Mr Evans, will you rise please?". "Mr Evans, you have pleaded guilty to cheating Her Majest's Customs and Revenue out of £323,000 between the years 1997 and 2001 in the world's simplest tax fraud. You have also been found guilty of making the fattest town in the world fatter by your mere presence; crimes against good football; being Scottish and wearing bad aftershave. For these crimes, not only against the Revenue, but also against humanity, I sentence you to 2 years' of being Mr John Blackwell's slave including: Regular trips for family buckets of chicken from KFC, bed bathing every monday and wednesday, sensual massage every thursday, car washing, toe nail clipping, arse scratching, and of course nose-picking. You, Mr Evans, are a very bad man. Take him down please baliff"

Fin.

Agatha Gee Christmas, via e-mail


View from an Imp

Tough call for me. we could continue with this fantastic comedy watching a once proud club descending even further into the green stuff under town bridge but then several of my friends are Pilgrims and I well remember visiting York Street in happier times with my mate to see United in the NPL. I was at the Baseball Ground where United nearly pulled the shock of the cup off and at the replay in the afternoon when they didn't.

My prediction: Six months. Evans is gone and Rodwell resigns and the club goes into administration. 10 points deducted. The club is taken over by a Swedish consortium led by Mij Weldrol. A mercurial manager emerges from Swedish non league, Ege Vanse and quckly the teams fortunes are turned around with the signing of David Beckham who reveals that he once visited York Street by mistake thinking he was at Peterborough during the infamous Poshgate episode.

"I just wanted to see what this Posh lot were about when Victoria was suing them. They got thrashed by Southend but I could see that the manager who was returning from a totally unjustified exile was the best thing since sliced bread which incidentally we don't get much in Spain. We became great friends and I could see that Evans was a genius. I love Boston United and I'm willing to sign for expenses only,cash will do nicely."

Promotion was achieved via a 35-0 thashing of Lincoln City in the playoff final in front of 250000 Bostonians. A steady progression though the league see Boston into the Premiership. Mij Weldrol steps aside and the new chairman is sinister Swede Noj Stokinc. Ege Vanse decides the time is right to move on and accepts the post of director of football at Fishtoft Youth. The club look for a new manager and a familiar figure emerges from the swamps around Ely............ (Fades out to the theme tune to Groundhog Day)

Keep up the good work ImpsTalk this is the funniest website I've seen in a long long time.

An Imp convinced I'll wake up soon and it was all a dream, e-mail


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