Episode Three - Don't Wear Slacks in Anger

QV: "’When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.’"

PP: "That’s all very well, but it didn’t wash with bloody Inspector Plod when he knocked on the window. He wouldn’t let it be, even after I explained that she was actually my sister, and she was merely looking for her cigarette, which had fallen onto the floor between my legs."

QV: "Peter, today’s edition of Public Purves is coming live from Old Trafford, a football stadium in Manchester, where today you’ll be making your long-awaited return to sports commentary, your first love."

PP: "Actually, my first love was Mavis, this girl who lived down the road from me. Massive…"

QV: "Peter, really!"

PP: "…house she had, compared to ours. But then her dad was some bloody high up in something or other, and my old man was a humble coalman. What a bloody good bloke he was, emptying his load for the women of our street every day, he was. I still miss him, even to this day."

QV: "Ah yes, the loss of a parent is one of the most…"

PP: "I haven’t lost him. He’s in Oak Park Cemetery, where he has been for the last twenty odd years, bless his big dead cotton socks."

QV: "Er… So, Peter, here we are at Old Trafford to see England take on Austria in what is, I understand, a vital game to our national team’s hopes qualification for the 2006 World Cup finals."

PP: "It doesn’t get any bigger than this, let me tell you. Our boys have got to go and give those convicts a bloody good stuffing."

QV: "Convicts?"

PP: "Well, I know you probably shouldn’t say it anymore, but I’m a proud Englishman and sometimes, you have to let your heart rule your mouth, and whatever comes out, you have to stand up for the Queen, sing ‘Rule Britannia’, and stick it up Johnny Foreigner. In a sporting sense, of course. I don’t advocate all this hooliganism, a gang of bloody chov’s kicking in some poor bloody student, just because he’s wearing the wrong team’s shirt, or because he’s got a deformed face. That’s a bloody disgrace."

QV: "It’s a problem that isn’t just confined to football fans, I fear.

PP: "You aren’t whistling a pixie, mate. There’s a bloody epidemic out there, and you’re spot on - it’s not just the football fans. They’re everywhere, hanging about outside chip shops, and Tesco, and down at the local park. The worst are the ones outside the Massage Par… outside a very popular er… pub, near my house. Little yobs in their tracksuits and caps, barely thirteen years old, swilling Tennent’s Super, spitting and calling you ‘a hairy old arse wrangling has-been’…"

QV: "A gang of youths referred to you as an ‘arse wrangling has-been’?"

PP: "No, no, now I come to think of it, that was Lorraine Heggessey back in 1998, when I asked her if I could rejoin Blue Peter as a full time presenter."

QV: "Was she drinking Tennent’s Super?"

PP: "She drank the blood of young virgins, that devil-woman."

QV: "Er, quite. So what epithet did these appalling young delinquents bestow on you?"

PP: "Er, ‘twat’, mainly. Although I did hear ‘wanker’, and, I think, ‘tosser’ as well. You see, I came back to my car after a good hard… drink… of orange juice, obviously, because I was driving, and the little sods were trying to pull the badge off my front ventilation grill. Now let me tell you, the badge from an Audi A4 2.3 litre injection is a coveted item amongst the young, so they were really getting to grips with my bumper."

QV: "So what did you do?"

PP: "I’m not ashamed to admit that I cuffed a couple of them around the ear. It’s the only way to teach ‘em right from wrong, and if their parents are too drunk or too lazy to discipline them, I’m sorry, but I’m quite willing to step in and do it myself."

QV: "How did they respond to your corporal punishment of them? Did they show some remorse and signs of repentance?"

PP: "No, they gave me a bloody good hiding and stole my wallet. That’s this country for you – gone to the bloody dogs, it has."

QV: "It isn’t the country it used to be, I think that’s a sad truth we can’t avoid. I’m sure this wouldn’t have happened on your old street, where your childhood sweetheart once lived…"

PP: "Absolutely not."

QV: "People were more law-abiding, and kind to their fellow man…."

PP: "True, true."

QV: "And obviously there wouldn’t have been any cars for juveniles to steal parts of, as they had yet to be invented."

PP: "You’re right, it’s… hang on a bloody minute – I’m not as old as Methus… Methusa… Meth… methylated spirits…"

QV: "Methuselah?"

PP: "That’s the fellow. Coh, dearie me – I was like Billy Hartnell there wasn’t I? Mumbling away to myself like a great big fanny. Now he would have remembered the days when the automobile was but a glint in Henry Ford’s eye. If he hadn’t gone completely senile and died, that is."

QV: "Well, Peter – the moment will shortly be upon us for you to take up your microphone once again. What inspired you to return to commentating on live sport?"

PP: "Well, it was a bit of a last-minute job, really. My old mucker Elton Welsby usually does this slot, of course, but he had a few family problems, and asked me if I wouldn’t mind stepping in. I told him I’d be bloody delighted to do so. I’d do anything for a pal like him."

QV: "Have you done much research for the match?"

PP: "Well, it was such short notice that I didn’t have much time, to be honest. But as a lifelong football fan, and a proper football fan at that, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble. I love the England guys, and I’m sure I’ll have no trouble with the convicts."

QV: "Peter, I’m not entirely sure, but I have a feeling your repeated use of the word ‘convicts’ denotes a belief that England are playing Australia today."

PP: "Indeed it does. Time for the poms to stick it up the cobbers, just like we did with the Ashes."

QV: "Hmmm… Peter, I’m not sure how to…"

PP: "Spit it out man, I’m going live in a minute or so."

QV: "Well… no, no. I’m sure you’ll… I mean, it’ll become obvious very… Anyway, Peter, it strikes me that in all our chatting and reminiscing, we haven’t actually yet had today’s question from the readers of ‘Public Purves’."

PP: "Well, if they’re anything like last week’s, forget it! I thought when I first signed up for this lark that I’d be answering serious bloody questions about world affairs, politics, and the big issues that are in the brains and the bollocks of the man in the street, not a load of old pointless stupid waffle about where Janet Ellis lives."

QV: "Well, Peter, fear not – today’s question is from Stephen of Wales, who asks, ‘do you believe that men who use prostitutes are sad, lonely men with deep emotional issues who are unable to relate to women, or…"

PP: "’…or not?’"

QV: Er, ‘…or what?’, actually. And a good question it is, too. With more women selling their bodies on the streets than ever, and more brothels springing up than ever before, it is time to look at the real criminals in the world of prostitution – the sick, depraved, individuals who have sunk so low that the only way they can get their perverted, disgusting kicks is to pay for intercourse with a complete stranger."

PP: "Twenty… twenty nine, Hodiak Street, Altrincham."

QV: "Sorry?"

PP: "That’s where Janet Ellis lives."

QV: "Peter Purves, thank you very much."

PP: "Pleasure… a bloody pleasure."