Nobby Dee’s Diary

Today marks the debut of guest contributor Nobby Dee, the voice of the rebellious 21st Century Sans Culottes. His motto – “à bas des bollocks” – is heard upon barricades around the world, drowning out the durge of Build Back Better as Good Ol’ Boys across the globe give the reverse-fingered greeting to harpies, pharmas, spooks, lockdowns and fish.


Before the madness of Covid19 my life was relatively straightforward. I’d get up, avoid the gaze of my tormentor of forty seven years and go fishing for Barbel. Unlike many who go down to the river, I deliberately avoided trying to think like a fish because no good comes of it. Many do and many sad poor souls never make the return journey back to normality because they’ve succeeded in being able to think completely like the fish and are then rendered incapable of undoing the damage that Thinking Like The Fish can bring. Basically, everyone should know that you never ever go Full Fish.

Anyways, after I’ve finished my pursuit of Barbel, I’m in the Ale House with the lads playing three card brag, discussing which women we’d like to consensually kiss and getting absolutely blasted out of my brains.Thereafter, I’m into the car and unlike many irresponsible drink drivers who ignore their intoxication and are quite rightly labelled irresponsible drink drivers, I take full responsibility for the state I’m in and I drive very slowly and responsibly on the road home. This is essentially behaving like a responsible drink or drugged up driver. Then, once I’ve done the impossible, arrived home and negotiated with my tormentor to cross our threshold and avoid getting hit in the face with the larger of her three frying pans, I crawl up to bed and pass out.

Before Covid and during the first lockdown I’d have the usual perfectly normal vivid dreams. Basically, the dream plot is I’m the most desirable man in the world and women can’t keep their hands off me. The usual dream scenario is I’m laid in bed minding my own business feasting on a platter of Clams or chewing my way through a kilo of pork rind harvested from the arse end of a Razorback Suckling Sow, when I’m disturbed by a throng of forty two women who’ve gathered outside my bedroom window demanding, ‘let us in you gorgeous man. We want to make romance with you’. Sometimes, depending on how I feel, I’ll invite three or four scantily clad wanton strumpets to scurry up the drainpipe, join me in acts of depraved love and permit them to violate me in anyway they wish. That said, other nights I’ll emerge at my window, draw back the curtains and scream, ‘why don’t you all fuck off. I’m trying to get some sleep’, and then, if they won’t fuck off and leave me be, I’ll equip myself with a four pound wooden mallet and chase them all away.

Now, since we’ve done another lockdown and the Ale Houses are closed, my dreams have all undergone a distinct change. Instead of these woman hanging about in my back garden, they’ve managed to somehow get into my home and secrete themselves in the attic. Then, in the dead of night, probably around two in the morning, or maybe slightly later, they come scurrying out of the attic surrounding my bed and over a period of two or three hours they repeatedly violate me until I can no longer remain aroused. Worse, because I can’t continue the lovemaking, they take on a sinister role that generally involves them, some thirty six of them, beating me with pointy sticks until I howl, ‘fuck off back up into the attic or else I’ll call for the Constable’.

Oddly enough, very recently – probably because of Covid 19 taking its toll on my mental health – my dreams have evolved into dream scenarios that can never possibly happen. For some reason, best known to our omnipresent God, he has bestowed on me supernatural powers that enable me to fly about at incredible speeds seeking out purveyors of bollocks.

Basically I’m sat at home sharpening a bag of hunting knives and a couple of axes chanting, ‘I want to kill everyone. Satan is good. Satan is my pal’, when I get wind of some twat who’s authored some more bullocks and managed to convince the people that Covid 19 has mutated and from here on everyone of us who’s had the first injection and isn’t screaming, ‘let me fucking die. My brain is on fire’, will now need thrice weekly injections to avoid death.Quick as a flash, because my supernatural ears have locked on to the bollocks and located the source of the undiluted codswallop, I suddenly spin about until I become Stop Talking Bollocks Man. I suddenly whizz through the window dressed in a red satin cape that carry the letters S.T.B.M and I’m off to sort it out and save humanity from another pile of shit.

Then, after what seemed to be an extraordinary flight of only seconds, which is pretty much nigh on impossible to explain to anyone, I tip up at the house of the man or the woman, both sexes are equally capable of talking bollocks and they say, ‘You must be Stop Talking Bollocks Man’, to which I reply, ‘Yes I am’. Then after deliberately displaying my weapons, namely the hunting knives and the two axes and they are clearly cognisant that Lockdown has fucked me up and I’m as mad as a ships cat and there’s a good chance I will carry out terrible violence, they quickly submit to my will and pledge, ‘you’ll never hear me talking bollocks again.’

And to conclude all this rancid pigswill, tonight, in my dreams, and they are my dreams, I’ll be visited by Liz Hurley who tips up at the Bakery and spots me kneading dough. Quite taken with me being a kneader, a kneader of dough, she orders a crusty cob loaf, half a dozen custard slices and slips me her private phone number that reads, ‘for the love of God. Please phone me’.