The Team

by MH team

intro-2nd-and-6th

This is the column where, to the palpitating hearts of its female followers and the (understandably) green-eyed jealousy of its male readers, the four administrators responsible for this august organ cast aside their assumed persona and reveal their true identities.
At fastidiously observed, regular sporadic intervals, MH will feature one of its dedicated team along with a true likeness of their real self and a brief glimpse into their awe-inspiring lifestyle – this to be followed up with a more complete profile when they can be arsed.
After the enlightening foreword to Duncan’s story of his entry into the world, it’s now time to introduce you to another unbelievably amazing MH team member – NobblySan – a man who leads a lifestyle that is sure to be the envy of . . . well, I dare say. . . somebody, somewhere.

Hold on to your seats, readers . . .

 

Dear readers,

I am known to millions, and loved by at least half a dozen, under my nom-de-plume of NobblySan.

However, in the interests of promoting their policy of transparency and accountability, I have been requested by my employers, Nottinghamshire County Council, to make public my true identity and job title – together with details of my role within the council.

My real name is Mr James P. Kirk, and I hold the position of Senior Traffic Enforcement Officer, within the Nottingham County Council Highways Department (Interstellar Division)

Together with my long-time colleague Sid Pock, we patrol  Nottinghamshire and several nearby galaxies, in our specially adapted ‘Constitution ‘ class Ford Transit, marked with the council’s fleet number NCC-1701.

The van has been adapted from the standard Transit (the sort that you’ll be used to seeing teararsing through red lights while the driver texts his missus, before fly-tipping his load of builder’s waste in a lay-by) by the addition of a warp drive, some phaser cannon, and room in the back for a few road cones, flashing lights and a spare bag of dilithium crystals.

Sid (he’s a right miserable bastard – never smiles, but does raise a mean eyebrow when you suggest that he buys the bacon butties) and I, take our enforcement duties seriously.

Only last week I recorded in my Traffic officer’s log no fewer than 37 incidents in one single stardate. These ranged from relatively minor things such as a broken down Nissan X-trail on the A1 near Newark, to the more serious end of the scale in the form of a Klingon battle fleet parked illegally in Retford high street.

The X-trail had run out of petrol, and was soon restarted after Sid handed over the can of unleaded that he was drinking, while we had the Klingons back on the move after I’d given their fleet commander a stern talking to –  blocking the centre of an entire market town while you try to blag your way into the bogs in the local Costa Coffee is NOT reasonable behaviour in my book. We kept an eye on them as they left Retford, and followed them at a safe distance for a couple of light years just to be on the safe side.

Anyhow, must dash – duty calls and all that.

I’ll keep you up to date with my exploits later, if time and space (the final frontier) permit.

Cheerio!

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28 Comments to “The Team”

  1. I’m gonna need to witness sticky walk and talk before I can safely rule him out as Torgo….

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The night sky was pierced by a bolt of lightning

    Almost immediately, all power to the house was lost

    ‘Fuck’, said the midwife as she stepped in the piss pot

    ‘Fuck’, said the woman screaming on the bed

    ‘Fuck’, said the bairn as he shot out from between the woman’s legs, like a cork out of a bottle, and – avoiding the midwife’s flailing arms, distracted as she was by the piss pot on her foot – struck his head against the foot of the bed before the umbilical cord yanked him back towards the warm, safe accommodation he had so recently been evicted from

    Thus did I make my appearance in the world – whilst performing my first, and only, bungee jump

    As I started on my second descent, the midwife recovered her wits and seized me in a tight embrace

    ‘Got the wee bastard’, she exclaimed triumphantly, holding me aloft

    ‘Jings’, said a big, hairy man at the foot o’ the bed – a hip flask in one hand, a samosa in the other – ‘wud ye look at the size o’ yon !. There’s nae doot wha his faither is ’

    ‘Haud yer wheesht, ye daft eejit’, cried the midwife. ‘Ye need tae gang tae Specsavers. That’s no his dick – that’s the fucken umbilical cord’

    to be continued . . .

    Like

  3. The details of Duncan’s birth helps me a little in my understanding of him.

    Not a lot, but a little.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. That – Mr Duncan, sir, is a work of sheer genius.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. So it all started with a bungee jump? You really were an adventurous little tyke right from the get go.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Capitan Little Hitler, dat’s wot e iz.

    Yeh, big sweet smile, smart uniform an’ all dat, but he’s still Intergalactic Highway Five-Oh.

    It’s gettin’ on me babylons how many times he’s tried pullin me ova fe speedin around Jupita.

    It’s coz I iz Klingon, innit ?

    Or is it coz I is scaly purple-greenish ?

    . . . AND as yous seen da size hof those Capitans logs ?!?!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yep. Scaly’d down, more like?

      Like

    • It’s OK, sir. no need to furrow your brow at me in that manner.

      I have checked with the manager of Retford Costa, and she tells me that that was the second time in as many stardates that you have tried using their toilets without buying so much as a single espresso.

      That in itself is of no concern to me in my capacity as a traffic enforcement officer, but the small matter of 72 battle cruisers taking up a ‘deliveries only’ parking spot outside the Tesco Express most certainly is.

      If I see you there again, 72 parking tickets will ensue.

      Like

  7. S.Pock, the tight bastard, “raises a mean eyebrow when you suggest that he buys the bacon butties.”

    But I’ll bet his ears prick up when it’s your turn !

    Like

  8. Damnit, Nobbly, I just got done talking down a rabid TOS fan who started vibrating and foaming at the mouth when I compared Shatner to Trump. Narcissist Personality Disorder in da house, y’all.

    Like

  9. Ms. ratty, daughter of Lord and Lady Roe-Dent of Fircombe Hall, was on her way home from France for her mid-term break.

    She arrived a little later than expected.

    Apparently, she had started her journey, Mary Poppins style, on her intergalactic red Raleigh drop handle-barred Mach IX supersonic bicycle.

    Like all women, she has a terrible sense of direction, and took a wrong turn over the Straits of Gibraltar and ended up circling the planet Omega IV, where she was pulled over by two uniformed men from Nottingham County Council, who were travelling in a Ford Transit van that had been duct-taped to the fuselage of an interplanetary space vehicle. They said she was in their air space and exceeding the 30,000 miles per hour speed limit.

    She described one of the men as having horizontal bracket-style eyebrows, pointed lug-holes and sporting an early Beatles style haircut. She was not so kind when describing the other.

    Both, she said, carried themselves with an air of self-importance and walked like they had a carrot stuck up their arse.

    Eventually, they let her off with a verbal warning after she had slipped them both a 50 kripton Space Traveller’s cheque.

    I am going to bring this matter up with the Interplanetary Highways’ Space Council.

    Disgusting behaviour, by Jupiter !

    Like

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