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Big-nosed scouser in appalling slur SHOCKER

I was aghast this evening. Aghast. There I was, happily stirring a risotto in the approved smug middle class foodie manner when my complimentary copy of the super, soaraway Ormskirk Champion plonked gracelessly through my letter box. I dove upon it, eager to read of further developments in the Ormskirk Model Boat Society's quixotic battles against the unthinking, blinkered council (can they not see the benefits a giant model boating lake would bring the town? The fools. Hubris awaits), or possibly some satisfying news of how a young lout has helped pay for the costs of the CCTV by depositing his kebab on the expensive new civic block paving (there's a rumour that they fine you double if you hit the coloured bricks). But no, what do I see?

STAR TAKES CHEAP SHOT AT TOWN screamed the headline, so far, so intriguing. Imagine my disgust, then, to discover that the story was about a quote from celebrity Jimmy Durantealike, drugs awareness campaigner and occasional footballer, Mr. Robert Fowler, who in his new "book" refers to Ormskirk as a "Hotbed of nothing." He says:

"Ormskirk, a town north of Liverpool is not exactly a hotbed of racing, and is not exactly a hotbed of anything, in fact. I heard that they declared a national holiday and put the bunting out when Barry Cowan, their most famous resident, won a match at Wimbledon."

This shameful, unwarranted assault from a role-model such as Mr Fowler cannot be allowed to pass without comment. Leaving aside the sentence about Ormskirk somehow gaining the power to declare national holidays (which bears further investigation), and the factual innacuracy over our bunting reserves (which are, alas calamitously low, the aforementioned Cowan victory being marked by a small flag stuck halfway up the clock tower, our ladder reserves also being calamitously low). But Ormskirk, a hotbed of nothing? The home of the North-West's only rollerblading elderly man? The home of Hannah's Pies? The home of those weird chanting guys who gather round the clocktower of a wednesday night? Top of the national league tables for hairdressers and bakers per square inch, and second only to Droitwich for charity shops? For shame, Mr Fowler, for shame. And this from someone who lives on the fucking Wirral.

I'll leave the last word to our noble and grammatically-challenged councillor, Manchester City fan Bill Taylor:

"If Robbie wants to take a swipe at anything, he should have taken a swipe in the last minute of the last match of last season, which cost us a place in Europe."

Think about it, Robbie, think about it.

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