Blog Name: The King Fisher

Well bless me soul, what's wrong wit' me?

I know I'm 72, but me back is playing up summat rotten. It's 'ard graft running a Skegness chip shop during the summer, let me tell y'all you.

I've had a 'ard life y'know - back in't day, I was out driving around America, playing in a little band. We did quite well n'all, but I got sick of it and decided I wanted to be a movie star.
Over't years, I appeared in more than 30 films. Me wife Hilda tells me that I'm making it up, but

I remember those days with a little fondness - all the girls, all the drink, all the drugs, spending t'day messing about on't beach in Hawaii. Aye, them was right good days.

But, after a while, I got a bit bored with that n'all. So I went back to me music. Couldn't quite fit into't leather trousers mind, but found a nice line in jump suits that fitted a right treat.

It were around that time that I put on a bit of beef - deep fried peanut butter sandwiches and bacon burgers were me poison of choice. I was 'appiest in me kitchen, melted cheese dribbling down me face and ketchup on me fingers.

I were getting right sick of idiots breaking into me 'ouse just to say that they'd met me. So I decided to move to England and open a chippy - then I could eat me fried food all day and make money at't same time.

It's been nearly 30 years since I moved to Skeggy, and I've loved every minute. Met me second wife Hilda in 1985 when I were 50 and she were 15. We got married in 1987 - never 'ad any kids, I've already got one daughter from me previous marriage, quite 'igh maintenance she is too.

But I'm tired these days - it's 'ard work peeling the spuds for the chips and going to't 'arbour for fish every day. Me chipper's called The King Fisher - we do the best fried doughnuts in Lincolnshire.

Sometimes I think I should just pack it in and move back to America - I 'ad a 'uge 'ouse over there - but last time I tried to apply for a passport they told me that there was no record of a David Presley Cribbins ever 'aving been born, so I must be an illegal immigrant. I tried to tell them I was born in't ghetto, and that me mother cried on a cold and grey Skegness morn, but they still wouldn't believe me.

Anyroad, I've seventeen kilos of spuds to prepare for tonight, so I'd best be off. Where did I leave me blue shoes?

Thank the Good Lord in 'eaven on 'igh that this blog's anonymous.