Who is Mike Edie and what is all this havering about wheelie bins and fens and banjos and such like?
Born a son of Edinburgh, Mike moved away having found that Sean Connery would not deliver milk to his door. After many years wandering in the desert he finally found shelter in a terribly, terribly flat land where the streets were not so much paved but cluttered with wheeliebins – thousands of them in green and black with menacing plastic boxes guarding them filled with sharp rusty tins and broken jam jars. Streets crammed with recumbent bikes, beardy men, asperger suffering academics and (in truth) the odd brutal murder! So he planted a flag and claimed this wild place as Wheeliebinland.
Many years later when the bin count was finally dwarfed by the number of cars, he sought shelter in a distant and relatively quiet corner of the land know as Wheeliebinfen. The fen lies sandwiched between the vast exposed desert of There-be-dragons-fen and … the A14. It is one of the last wild places in England (but with a small Tesco nearby).
It was here in Wheeliebinfen that a small visitor arrived. Clad only in swaddling cloth and rusk crumbs he clutched a tiny light sabre. His first words uttered were: Hurrmm, Master Yoda I am. The smell of the force was indeed strong in him.
Slipping between the little Jedi and Mr Edie you will occasionally hear of the dazzling, demure and long suffering L. Without her this flat land would collapse and be slung on the Stinkyville refuse heap.
And there they live the three of them. A little North of town, a little West of Stinkyville (a.k.a Tescoland), far from The Big Smoke and The Olds but not so far from Tescoworld (‘its vast beyond your wildest dreams) and the tavern of warbling song and folky instruments: The Boot.
Welcome my friends to Wheeliebinland.