Had a phone call from Betty Swollox this affie. She was pretending to be grovellingly apologetic about the bingo fiasco and she offered to wash my messianic feet, Mary Magdalen fashion. Didn't know where to put meself except for keeping my legs crossed. She offered to raise money for our haddock 'n' chips binges at The Three Fishes by selling her body down at Fleetwood docks in full view of Knott End. The poor woman does get confused. However, she rang me at midnight to tell me she'd raised four and sevenpence, less chip money, from just one bloke. It's a start.

Has anyone got the phone number of Fleetwood Royal Infirmary?