Q Digital Media UK

13/12/2025

Here is a link to a small piece I recently did for St Cuthberts Hospice, with whom I volunteer:

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1G96DZDEK7/

20/10/2025

As a volunteer in marketing for the Hospice, this reel is a little something I helped with. A wonderful organisation, please buy a calendar if you can. ❤️

12/10/2025

📢 An announcement for all our Belmont Social Club members and friends! 🎉

As of today, Q Digital Media has completed our chapter of managing the social media for the club. It has been an absolute honour and a privilege to be a part of the Belmont Social Club family and to help build the club's Facebook presence over what has been nearly two years. We've loved sharing all your fantastic nights, big events, and brilliant memories with everyone. 🍻🎤 We've laughed, we've cheered, and we've built a wonderful online community together. 🥳

We want to extend a huge thank you to everyone at the club for your trust and support. We wish the Belmont Social Club and all of its wonderful patrons all the very best for the future! 💖 We know the club will continue to thrive and create many more amazing moments. 🙏

A special personal goodbye from your favourite duo, Fannie and Dick, too! 😂 It's been a blast. 💅😉

Thank you for everything! Q Digital Media out. 👋✨



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19/09/2025

If you like our Fannie stories, just follow our work on Belmont Social Club's page... All a bit of a pre-weekend laugh! 😂😁

🥳 It's Friday, which means Belmont Social Club's formidable agony aunt, Fannie, has opened her postbox 📮 to solve another one of life's tricky problems with the kind of signature no-nonsense advice she usually reserves for her husband, Dicky. 🤦‍♂️

Ask Fannie: Fannie's Final Word

(The Problem Letter)

Dear Fannie,

I need your official ruling on a point of club law. There's a gentleman—and I use the term loosely—who comes in every Saturday night. He walks straight into the main lounge, places a copy of the Racing Post on one of the good four-seater tables by the radiator, and then vanishes into the ether. He doesn't go to the bar, he doesn't say hello; he just uses his newspaper to claim the best seat in the house.

Last week, the place was packed. The concert room was full, there wasn't a single stool left in the bar, and my friends and I were huddled by the door trying not to get knocked over. All the while, this prime piece of real estate sat empty, guarded by nothing more than an opinion on the 3:30 at Kempton.

At 8 PM, just as the quiz was starting, he reappeared, pint in hand, and looked shocked—shocked!—that another couple had dared to sit at his table. There was an awkward standoff until they felt so uncomfortable they moved. Fannie, can a newspaper really have squatters' rights? It feels like the table is being held hostage by a ghost who just really, really likes horse racing. What should we do?

- From, Pauline, Perched in Pittington

(Fannie's Response)

Right then, Pauline.

Let's be absolutely crystal clear. A newspaper is not a person. It cannot order a drink, it doesn't have a membership card, and it certainly cannot reserve four upholstered chairs, a solid table, and the radiator spot for two hours. Leaving a paper on a table to 'save it' is like leaving a single pork scratching on a plate and claiming you're still eating. It is Grade-A, 100% certified nonsense.

You are dealing with a classic 'seat-blocker'. These people operate with the misplaced confidence of a traffic warden handing out a ticket on Christmas Eve. They believe the fundamental rules of physics and common decency bend around them like light around a black hole.

My Dicky tried this once, and only once. He left his flat cap on our corner table—our table—while he went to the games room to "advise" on a game of dominoes he wasn't even in. I returned from the bar, saw the lonely cap sitting there like a felt mushroom, and hung it on the coat rack where it belonged. When he returned forty minutes later, a lovely couple from out of town were a sitting there, enjoying their drinks. Dicky looked at me, utterly betrayed, his face a perfect picture of wounded bewilderment. I just smiled sweetly, pointed to the rack and said, "Don't worry, dear, your cap looked like it needed to make some new friends." He never did it again.

Now, I'm not entirely sure what the official committee line on this is—and frankly, I don't much care. My ruling is based on something far more important: common sense. Here is the procedure, to be observed by all:

Approach the table with confidence.

Pick up the offending item (newspaper, flat cap, or in one memorable case, a single leather glove).

Fold it neatly and place it on the nearest windowsill or unused stool.

Sit yourself down, get a round in, and enjoy your evening.

If the seat-blocker returns and complains, you simply look them dead in the eye and say, with a polite but firm smile, "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realise the paper was waiting for three friends."

Stand your ground, Pauline. A chair is for a bum, a table is for drinks—and neither is for a broadsheet.

Fannie Knows Best 💅😉

P.S. Please be advised: The characters of Fannie and Dicky are, of course, a complete work of fiction. A load of old cobblers. Utter balderdash concocted for the sole purpose of starting your weekend with a laugh. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or somewhere in between after a long night at the club, is purely coincidental. To all the real, wonderful Fannies out there, we think you're magnificent. To any actual Dickys, especially those married to a formidable Fannie, we offer our deepest respect, our sincere commiserations, and a quiet pint in the corner. Now, you've been told. As you were.



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19/09/2025

Here's a bit from Fannie.... 😂

🎉Ask Fannie: Fannie's Final Word! 🎉

🥳It's Friday, which means Belmont Social Club's formidable agony aunt, Fannie, has opened her postbox 📮 to solve another one of life's tricky problems with the kind of signature no-nonsense advice she usually reserves for her husband, Dicky. 🤦‍♂️

Dear Fannie,

I need you to intervene before I do something I regret with a bingo dabber. My friend, Maureen, who I've known for thirty years, has started coming to bingo, and she's turned into an absolute amateur.

She arrives laden with good luck charms like a fortune teller's caravan: a six-inch plastic troll with luminous green hair, a "lucky" pebble she found in a car park, and a photograph of Mystic Meg. She arranges them around her book, creating a sort of shrine to bad taste that blocks my view of the jackpot board.

e> Last week, she insisted on sitting at a "lucky table" near the fire exit because, she claimed, the "winning numbers can sense an escape route." The only thing that table attracts is a force-ten gale every time someone goes out for a smoke.

Worse, she whispers constantly. She doesn't just watch the numbers; she provides a running commentary like a budget David Attenborough. "And here comes the number seven, a lonely figure, avoiding my book once again." Then she started accusing the caller of professional sabotage, claiming he was deliberately calling the numbers on either side of hers just to "torment her soul."

The final indignity came when Beryl from across the aisle won the full house. Maureen didn't just sigh; she threw her dabber clean across the table, where it left a purple stain on the raffle prize list, and declared that it was "just a silly game of luck anyway." A SILLY GAME! Fannie, this is a blood sport. How do I make her understand?

- From, Gladys, Guarding My Game in Gilesgate

(Fannie's Response)

Right then, Gladys.

Reading that has raised my blood pressure more than the time Dicky tried to pay for his John Smith's with a pre-decimal shilling. Your friend Maureen isn't just a bingo civilian; she's a liability. Handing her a bingo book is like giving Dicky the remote control during the Queen's speech. Chaos is inevitable.

Let's debunk this nonsense one bit at a time.

Firstly, her "lucky charms." Honestly. The only charm that works in bingo is the charm of having more than one book. I once saw a woman bring a taxidermy squirrel with her. Claimed it was her great-aunt's lucky mascot. It stared at me with its dead glass eyes all night. She won nothing. The squirrel now sits on top of their telly, judging their viewing choices. It's a waste of time.

Secondly, the caller. You need to explain to Maureen that the caller is a neutral party. He doesn't know her, he doesn't hate her, and he certainly isn't in a secret pact with Beryl to deny her a line. Dicky once developed a theory that a caller only ever called numbers that had a '3' in them when he was on the loo. It was a bafflingly specific and entirely wrong conspiracy that ended with him missing out on a full house for £200 because he was timing the man's toilet breaks. Don't be a Dicky, Maureen.

And this "silly game of luck" business is the final straw. Luck is when it starts raining two seconds after you've brought the washing in. Bingo is a test of will. It's about maintaining a Zen-like calm as the numbers dance around yours. It’s the mental gymnastics of managing three books at once while keeping half an ear on the gossip from the next table. My biggest win came the night Dicky accidentally knocked a whole pint of lager into my lap. The shock must have jolted my senses into a higher state of awareness because I claimed the full house without even flinching. That wasn't luck; it was pure, unadulterated focus (and a very damp skirt).

Tell Maureen to leave her tat at home, stop insulting the staff, and get herself down to Belmont Social Club on a Thursday or Saturday night. The regulars there will give her a masterclass in bingo etiquette. We play with quiet dignity, steely determination, and the shared understanding that the only thing sillier than a lucky troll is the person who brings it.

Fannie Knows Best 💅😉

P.S. Please be advised: The characters of Fannie and Dicky are, of course, a complete work of fiction. A load of old cobblers. Utter balderdash concocted for the sole purpose of starting your weekend with a laugh. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or somewhere in between after a long night at the club, is purely coincidental. To all the real, wonderful Fannies out there, we think you're magnificent. To any actual Dickys, especially those married to a formidable Fannie, we offer our deepest respect, our sincere commiserations, and a quiet pint in the corner. Now, you've been told. As you were.



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08/08/2025

The intro to Fannie & Dick... Our Funny Friday characters on the Belmont Social Club page, which I manage... Please like, share and follow. 😉🤣

Friday Funny.... 🥹🤪

𝗥𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁. 𝗟𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗵 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲.

Before you even think about your weekend, you need to understand the ecosystem of the club, which revolves around two people and one specific table in every room. That table, situated with a perfect view of the bar, the dartboard, and the main door, is not a table. It is The Command Post. It is from here that the club is silently governed by our matriarch, Fannie, and her husband, Dicky. They have their own seating arrangement: Fannie’s chair faces the entire club, allowing her to monitor everything at once. Dicky’s chair, by a strange and recurring coincidence, mostly faces a wall calendar from 1973 showing a prize-winning marrow, and his giant leek of 1986.

From this throne, Fannie referees the entire club by osmosis. They say she can win a game of dominoes without looking at her tiles, purely by sensing the shifting confidence of her opponents. She acts as the unofficial video-assisted referee for both the darts and pool leagues, with a single, sharp "AHEM" being enough to overturn a dodgy shot. BINGO, of course, is not a game to Fannie; it is a weekly audit. She doesn't shout 'house'; a simple, curt nod is enough to make the caller stop the game and verify her win.

Dicky, on the other hand, is a walking list of cautionary tales. He isn’t allowed to play darts anymore after the 'Unfortunate Chandelier Incident' of '02, and he was politely but firmly asked to retire from cards after he loudly declared "Uno!" during a tense game of five-card stud.

This is their dynamic, a silent pact renewed with every trip Dicky makes to the bar. His order never changes: a pint of great value John Smith's. On his return, he’ll lean in conspiratorially and declare, as he has four times a week since 1978, "That’s a great pint. Cheaper here than anywhere else around 'ere, you know!" Her order, however, tells a sad story of changing times. Fannie had to get used to a world without Babycham, a loss she still mourns with a quiet sigh. She now sips a premium lager, but only with a touch of lime, a squeeze of lemon, a straw - topped off with one of those little cherries (when they have them) and served in what she calls a 'posh glass'—a drink with more instructions than B&Q's flat-pack furniture. This complex transaction is completed when Dicky also presents a bag of Beachy’s finest Pork Scratchings and a pickled egg so pungent it could restart a stopped clock. This is their moment of shared bliss.... A unit of time that is so hard it could be framed and hung on the wall!

It is for this reason—the general erosion of common sense and the fact that Dicky can't be the only one utterly bewildered by modern life—that Fannie feels the need to intervene. For years, the demand for her wisdom grew from hushed pleas at the bar to desperate messages scrawled on the back of betting slips. It became so overwhelming that the committee, in a desperate bid to get the Sunday quiz started on time, installed her official post box: a formidable-looking metal cash box bolted to the wall outside their door, with 'FANNIE'S PROBLEMS' written on it in what looks suspiciously like nail varnish.

She has now graciously agreed to let us publish one anonymous letter each week, tackling life’s most pressing issues—especially what she calls 'matters of the heart'. (Be warned: in Fannie's world, this is less about romance and more about the gut-wrenching pain of your darts partner missing a double-top for the match). Her 'Dear Fannie' column won't be filled with gentle suggestions; it will be a rulebook. A guide to navigating life's disappointments and triumphs with a bit of backbone. It's a chance for you all to understand how things are done in her and Dicky's world: where a problem is solved with a straight answer, a game of dominoes is a sacred ritual, and true happiness is found at the bottom of a bag of pork scratchings.

So, pay attention, learn the rules, and for goodness' sake, don't be a Dicky.

𝙋.𝙎. 𝘼 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝘿𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚, 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. 𝘼 𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙐𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝. 𝘼𝙣𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙗, 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡. 𝙏𝙤 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚, 𝙬𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙏𝙤 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮𝙨, 𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙚, 𝙬𝙚 𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩, 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙧. 𝙉𝙤𝙬, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙙. 𝘼𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚.



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