IT’S not the first time the people of Hull have had a minor royal among them, telling them how to live…
Yes, long before Sarah Ferguson fetched up in that rough-and-ready northern city and port the local tykes had their very own King of Hull in residence … namely moi!
Well, I wasn’t really their king, though they did often call me “Your Majesty” and “the King”, and I did on few formal occasions wear a crown…

You see, I became known as the King of Hull when I worked for the local paper, the Hull Daily Mail, as a kind of columnist-at-large and news feature writer.
When I joined the staff in the year 2000, I saw at once that the paper was in the doldrums. It was failing to set the agenda in Hull and it had no distinctive voice.
Well, I soon changed that. I began by telling in print what was wrong in Hull – mainly the useless city council and the failing schools (which were officially as bad as Knowsley’s).
There was also an asinine commercial radio station which I referred to in my column as “Moron FM”.
Well, pretty soon everybody in the city was talking about my column. The radio phone lines were jammed with calls about my scribblings. .. much to the chagrin of the cretinous presenters.
In the column I would regularly suggest radical solutions to the city’s many problems, such as failing industry, crime, and over-reliance of public sector employment.
I wrote that if I was the “King of Hull” I’d abolish the city council in a flash and start rebuilding hope and pride among the people of Hull – by the sheer force of my own benevolent, dictatorial power.
Dear me, the column quickly acquired cult status and a big following. The Hull Daily Mail became the talk of the city.
Anyway, I bought a jewelled crown from a fancy dress shop and claimed for it on my expenses, which the editor duly signed.
Next thing you know, the local traders needed a celebrity to turn on the Christmas lights on in the Newland Avenue shopping area. You guessed it, they invited me.
I walked to the ceremony though the park, wearing my crown, and was greeted by a tumultous crowd roaring its approval of their “king”.
Hull is a bit like Liverpool – they are both boisterous old seaports. Both have suffered from poor quality political leadership from the Labour Party and the Liberal-Democrats.
In both cities, there is a districtivce local accent.
Hull people, for instance, pronounce words such as phone and pope as “fern” and “perp”.
Hull also had its own version of the commonly used slur “it was like chucking a sausage up the Mersey Tunnel”.
“It were like waving a wand ijn Whitefriargate,” they would say.
In Hull, I discovered, people were very fond of saying “I aren’t bothered” and “I aren’t doing that” – complete with the incorrect grammar.
I like that local attitude so much I had the first phrase transcribed into Latin and suggested it should be the city’s official motto.
I liked the people of Hull. They were down-to-earth and funny, in the main.
My column initially appeared twice a week, but when it started to really take off the editor, known to the journalists as “the Meekon”, asked me to do a third column per week, called “Out To Lunch” – meant to be something a bit different for the Friday issue.
He wanted me to take “the stars and movers and shakers of Hull” out to lunch on expenses, give them plenty to drink, and record an interview with them.
Eh? This was Hull, where under-achievement was considered a virtue. We’d soon run out of big names to interview, I figured.
Still I did the extra column, and interviewed such luminaries as the 1970s chicken-impersonating comic Norman Collier, and the charming Debra Stephenson, who played slapper Shell Dockley in Bad Girls on ITV.
John Prescott, a local MP and Deputy Prime Minister, refused my invitation to lunch.
He didn’t like me. I was too rude to his Old Labour cronies on the city council, I expect.
And once, when I had written a slightly mocking piece about his missus Pauline and a cheese flan, he rang the editor to complain about me in a right rage.
The editor did an impression of Prescott lambasting me down the “fern” – “that Regan is a “f***** ****!” he told the Meekon.
Job done, I thought.I wish Sarah Ferguson well with her series combating poor diet and lard-ass tendencies in Hull.
When I lived in the city I was amazed at the size of some folk.
In particular, some of the young women who used to sit around the chippy in the Old Town area, eating battered sausages and chips, were enormous.
The city’s Asda store on the Hessle Road once put up a big sign which said, without any trace of irony…
“Ladies, we cater for local needs. See our selection of size 18 dresses in the store.”

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