Believe it or believe it not a rag and bone cart was in our vicinity yesterday.

Apparently, this modern day Steptoe is simply taking away unwanted items.

There is no quid pro quo; he’s not even offering a donkey stone for your front step. He just removes your junk for free.

“God knows how he collects anything,” said a neighbour. “He moves too fast for anyone to catch him.”

Another told me he has a loud hailer attached to the roof of his Transit van, which is why I could hear him from several streets away. One resident said he drives a flat-bed truck but no one could show me a photo.

He’s starting to appear like Dick Turpin except, sadly, there is no report of a horse which is a shame as I was looking forward to chasing after it down the street with a juicy apple (and a bundle of Mrs B’s old bloomers).

Perhaps this swashbuckling, rag and bone man will appear on the town hall steps, remove his mask and reveal his identity.

No one in Wilmslow reported hearing his booming cry and he’d hardly yell ‘Pots for Rags’ around the streets of Alderley Edge. (‘Pot for WAGS,’ maybe?) Knutsford is probably too posh for a rag and bone man with a battered truck. I did, however, hear of someone opening a pub on the heath.

You don’t suppose?



I’ve been very worried recently about Mrs B. She’s never been a quick starter in the morning. I’m often marching through the fields with the dogs before she surfaces but things changed.

Suddenly she was up at the crack of dawn buzzing around the house tapping and humming like she had some form of compulsive disorder.

I noticed a sudden weight loss and some very strange body movements.

She seems bright enough but she’s definitely acting odd. Then there’s the screaming.

It’s quite frightening when your wife suddenly screeches ‘wiggle, wiggle, wiggle,’ at Sainsbury’s deli counter.

It’s like accompanying someone with Tourettes.

I made an appointment with a medical friend on some spurious excuse and asked her to observe Mrs B’s strange behaviour. It was going quite well until Mrs B jumped up yelling, I’m sexy and I know it.

Flushed with embarrassment I headed for the door.

“I’ll speak to you later,” my friend said sticking her right thumb in her ear and mouthing at her little finger.

By the time she phoned I was close to panic and answered in a nano-second.

“What’s wrong with Mrs B?” I stuttered.

“I’ve seen it before and there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about! Are you serious?”

“Your wife is suffering from a severe case of...Zumba.


“There’s a lot of it about.”

“There is?”

“Yes, I’ve got it!”

“You’ve got Zumba?”

“Yes, look at my body, look at my body.”


“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

"Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle."

I put the phone down just in time to see Mrs B shimmying across the lounge shouting, “I’m sexy and I know it.”

Personally I think she’s smoking something dodgy.


Shh...can you hear it? The first sign of summer...a hosepipe ban.

I rely on it to tell me it’s time to buy a cagoule. Then there’s the first sighting of Men In Shorts, usually the spotted variety, often seen coming out of the bookies or sitting outside local pubs.

They hop from watering hole to watering hole in search of females who attract MIS by their display of tattoos, commonly referred to as tramp stamps. Tibetan writing is very popular, especially among the illiterate. Zodiac tattoos are good as they help women in bottle fights identify their victims.

Spitting is a must among MIS looking for classy females. It’s a symbol of virility usually accompanied by expletives and an unsteady gait.

Anyone intruding during this mating ritual is likely to be set upon by males desperate to demonstrate their masculinity in front of their tattooed females.

While similar rituals take place in most towns during the summer months, some females in Wilmslow attract their males by a lengthy display of orange legs. Once hooked the Wilmslow male (Wallet Warbler) will boast of his wealth and order champagne.

In Alderley lurks the WAG, a predatory creature intent on sucking the lifeblood from any unsuspecting male.

She selects her habitat with stealth, preferring country clubs, bars and gyms where Toffs In Trousers (TITS) can be easily snared.

Once hooked Alderley males build huge nests, often at great expense, but are seldom monogamous.

As summer fades into autumn tattoos disappear, WAGS migrate to Dubai and TITS play football.

Isn’t nature wonderful?

By our columnist Vic Barlow