POSH Spice has got her eye on a property in Mayfair, I can exclusively reveal. That's if she doesn't get sent to jail first.

Mrs Beckham also has her eyes on buying an electricity company if chance allows. And she'll turn on the waterworks if the deals backfire.

This information comes straight from the driving seat of Dave 'Blackie' Black, boss of York car hire firm Luxury Limousines.

He laid on a Merc to take the Spice Girl to a Radio 1 gig in Middlesbrough. The driver was later despatched by Victoria to buy some flowers - and a game of Monopoly.

This all happened before she made the papers for dancing in a skimpy top and revealing nearly all of her community chest.

I hate mobile phones.

No, I'll rephrase that. I hate mobile phone-owners, particularly men who brag about the merits of their latest chatter boxes, plonk them on bars, restaurant tables, walk, drive or cycle with one glued to their lughole.

They get right on my nit ends.

And what have they got to say to the person at the end of line?

Usually something earth-shattering such as: "I'm in the Frog And Nightgown, yeah, I'll be home in about 20 minutes."

Then they spend an hour checking their messages or how much they have left on their phonecards or kick off again with "Oh, this mobile has great scrolling facilities" or "I get 200 years' worth of free calls with this model and I've dropped it three times since I bought it. But just look, not a mark on it."

Look around, this is happening all around historic York even as you read this and it should be stamped out.

Years ago shrinks said men who constantly talked about their car were using it as a metaphoric extension of their manhood.

Now they can't shut up about their new little 'toys' - mobile phones. They stare at them, they caress them, they can't leave them alone.

They are mindless, intrusive megabores.

They walk about with mobiles slung on their hips like gunslingers at the OK Corral.

"OK, Gaz, go for ya mobile."

"Did ya get through?"

"No man, but it's cool, I left her a message and I'll send her an e-mail later. She may want me to fetch in a pizza."

At which the nerd 're-holsters' his mobile on his belt, swaggers bandy-legged, arms just too far away from his side, up to the bar and drawls: "I'll take a Moscow Mule in a dusty bottle, my man."

Someone ring an ambulance, I think I've flipped.

Apparently 27 millions Brits now have a mobile phone. I'm not one and with bit of luck and stubborness, I never shall be.

I know they are a handy form of security, especially for women, but when men get their hands on them it seems their brains drop just below their belts.

Tell me your mobile phone tale. It may be funny, infuriating or downright pathetic and the best one will win three free CDs.

Now for an admission. I have an e-mail number, for work purposes only you understand, so you may contact me on turpin@ycp.co.uk with your mobile story or anything else that takes your fancy for that matter.

Two more things while I'm banging on.

I hate men who have hundreds of keys dangling from their belts and those who call me "Young sir."

Phew, I feel better for that doc, how much do I owe you?

YORK plasterer Dave Graham was delighted. He took a grand on holiday and came back with 18 million!

The 39-year-old Everton season ticket-holder couldn't believe his luck when he found the 18 million in the back pocket of his shorts when he got back from... Turkey. It was worth about £18.

"I thought about cashing it in but our friends are going there in a few weeks time so we gave it to them. It will pay for a decent meal for four over there."

So it's back to the lottery for Dave and Debs, neither of whom ever admit to being 'plastered'.

SIGN spotted on the number plate of a Suzuki N600 motorbike which, I am graphically advised, "goes faster than sugar off a shovel." Well it sounded like 'sugar': "Passengers are requested to refrain from shouting, crying or falling off while this vehicle is in motion."

Overheard in the audience at Harrogate Theatre where Zimbabwean dancers Imbizo in full-Zulu fervour stamped their feet in unison so violently that the stage shook along with their lion-hair ankle bands: "If you think they look furious, you should see their chiropodist..."

A SIX-year-old friend of mine has been on a dance and drama course at Archbishop Holgate School. Part of it involved acting as robots and tin-pot monsters from Dr Who. Or as this little girl put it: "I have to say 'exterminate, exterminate!' I'm a Garlic!"

Defining moment: "My favourite comedian is Frank Carson. Over the years I have enjoyed his joke very much" Ken Dodd

THE dedication of Evening Press photographers is legendary. They are out there come rain, shine, flying ants and even furious uncles.

Their persistence, even when it is persisting down, is hereby rewarded with tributes to our ace lensman Steve Bradshaw from readers Barbara Cantrell, of Holme-on-Spalding Moor, and Mrs Hartle, of Lynden Way, York, whose hearts went out to him as he stood soaking in the rain-drenched Museum Gardens waiting to click the Queen during her recent visit.

Both women took snaps of the snapper and both wrote to say how they admired his dedication as, wet through, he perched on his steps to get his royal picture.

Mrs Hartle wrote: "He was getting very wet until my son lent him his Bob The Builder umbrella see picture. Some of the waiting crowd focused their attention on your photographer instead of what was happening around them."

Mrs Cantrell was full of praise for Soaking Steve: "We had to admire his dedication to duty despite heavy rain. Many thanks for your coverage. The BBC let everyone down badly."

All right Steve, the ego massage is over. Mine's a pint!