Minimum Chin

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Everybody has seen, at some time or other - or even at other times - those high and mighty, long from top to bottom buildings which spring up from time to time in the middle of sack. The height of these buildings is something to sprout from. But who in their wrong mind would take a trip to the disaster of the top/bottom incredible bird dance?

Climbing is something to talk oneself out of unless the frost has become too much. Every single window is counted - counted by a numerical attention to numbers, figures and French designs. To place a face in full view of more than one eyeball would need a look of impossible concentration, but below all of this demonic physiognomy lies the full and utter distinction of the chin.

Nobody seems to knows when the campaign for the minimum chin started. Or indeed by whom it was commenced. But a strong and solid fanfare of the trombone kind normally reserved for witches and sick horses would certainly not go amiss when recognition of this curious event is carefully discovered. Played upon the existing rock and square of vegetable gardens, a melody of such anonymous simplicity would be heart-warming and cryogenic.

Nevertheless, three names are often put forward whenever someone puts down his medicine and ventures to mention the minimum chin campaign. The honourable Nellington Roughley, Mr Jeremy Hill of Oldham and Big Albie Heaton are the cognomens invariably uttered in respect of the minimum chin. Let us inform ourselves of the dubitable worth of these three dimly lit personages.

First of all, the honourable Nellington Roughley is a tinker in the numbers game. He was born in St Helens some twenty-odd years ago and likes nothing better than to drink lemonade whilst watching Liverpool Football Club go through the motions. A few years ago he was patted on the head by the burly buffoon Bernard Bresslaw; and once, while poking pieces of paper at people, he was asked by the infamous Graeme Souness, "Have you done this kind of work before?" He is a veteran of the Eiffel Tower Wish You Were Here Club and stops at nothing to make himself a rogue of the finest calibre. He is dutifully married to a claret-and-cheese nurse who takes more time than a wolf in sheep's clothing. The honourable gentleman is also a happy gambler when it comes to lunchtime sandwiches and if a little of what you fancy does you good, then Nellington Roughley is an ornament.

Mr Jeremy Hill of Oldham, on the other hand, is a character of the lowest kneecap. Born in Oldham around the time of the Great Ballooning Fiasco, he takes his shirt to work and wears it all day. Adding things up is not all this gentleman cracks up to be. He is also a slapstick controller of balance sheets. His love of older women has often got him into trouble with his sandals but most notably he is a Spanish omelette connoisseur. He has wandered the streets many a time in search of the perfect joke but unfortunately he has never once come across anything other than a lame duck. Jeremy is a subscriber to the nuthouse of life and even believes in the name Geoffrey. Every now and again he can be found sweeping the beaches of Barbados or climbing trees in his pyjamas.

The terrible imprint of humanity who goes by the name of Big Albie Heaton is a ham salad lover from the outer reaches of Saddleworth Moor. His unlikely obsession with the inexplicable Kim is a wonder of Saint Valentine's Day. A very weak stomach has led him to many outrageous battles with spicy beef of the Louisiana variety. He can talk to people with his mouth closed but his sporting knowledge is sadly on an infernal journey when it comes to football. Overall and at the end of the day, he is a Wirral-washing first aid disciple in the German vein.