Bored, Retired and Invariably Drunk....eez

Good Ol' Barty!

2011-07-15T17:34:00.000+01:00

Barty charged into the bar, had a quick look around and decided that the almost lifeless body on the floor was the cause of all the problems.

He picked up my eldest son and threw him through the double doors at the entrance of the pub; I was somewhat relieved that it wouldn’t be me paying for the replacement doors.

“Barty,” I said, “you’ve just thrown out my eldest son from this pub.”

Barty looked at me. “Sorry, eez, but you appointed me as head of security. I had no choice.”

“Barty, I don’t run this boozer anymore. I’ve told you before that you are no longer my head of security.”

“Fuck that, eez! I gave you my word that after all you’d done for me and my dad, I’d always be there for you.”

At this point, Katie fell over. Gertie looked at me questioningly.

“Nothing to do with me, Gertie. My suspicion is that she’s had too much breakfast.”

“eez, she’s living with you; you are responsible for her.”

Barty looked at me with admiration. “She’s living with you? You’re shagging this little beauty? Not bad eez, not too bad at all. Any chance of me having a look-in?”

Gertie picked up the next available bar stool and rammed it into Barty’s face.

Barty put a hand under her armpit, lifted her off the ground and asked, “Why did you do that?”

With her feet at least three feet off the floor, Gertie replied, “That’s my daughter, you oaf!”

The back door of the pub crashed open and Snouty, the retired police drug-sniffer dog and new pet of Gertie and Katie, bounded in and launched himself at Barty. Barty caught the hound with his left hand and lifted him, too, in the air.

I walked back behind the counter, poured myself another large whisky and looked at Barty, with Gertie in his right hand and Snouty in his left hand.

Getting fed up with being held aloft by his throat, Snouty started to eat Barty’s left forearm.

I watched as Barty formed a crucifix with a dog at the end of one arm and the best giver of blowjobs at the end of the other arm. I wondered how long he would be able to hold the pose; by my reckoning, he had 180 pounds held at arm’s length to the right of him and 70 pounds held at arm’s length to the left of him.

Barty’s neck and shoulder muscles began to bunch, but, as always, he didn’t seem too bothered by anything.

I was about to give him some advice when my son charged into the pub.

I felt rather proud that, despite the beatings he’d received that day, he was still ready to face an adversary.

“Dad, where’s the bastard who threw me outside?”

“He’s the one holding the dog and Gertie.”

My eldest lad looked at Barty. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew exactly what was going through his mind; Barty is simply huge and, as mentioned before, the UK’s biggest vegetarian. My son looked at me for a moment and then turned round and hit Barty with all his strength in the stomach—which was as high as he could reach.

Barty looked down at the man hitting him in the stomach.

To further complicate matters, Katie jumped up and, with a fiendish scream leapt at the back of Barty. His shirt gave up the fight and fell from his body.

Snouty, with bollocks like grapefruits still swinging to and fro, stopped eating Barty’s arm, Gertie stopped trying to kick Barty in his right side, my son took half a dozen steps back and lowered his arms, and Katie got back to her feet, still holding the remnants of Barty’s shirt.

I’d never seen Barty without a top and I’m fairly sure none of the others had, either:

The muscles in his ‘six-pack’ were bigger than my calf muscles; his pectorals could have been used as balls in a game of American football; the lumpy bits on either side of his neck—I don’t know the name of those muscles—were the size of my biceps; and his biceps were twice the size of my thighs.

Nobody moved.

Katie appeared highly impressed. “For God’s sake, mum, let go of the poor man!”

Barty looked at me, and I nodded. Coughing and spluttering, Gertie dropped to the floor.

“eez,” Barty asked, “what should I do with the dog?”

“Whatever you want to do, Barty.”

“Well, he’s kind of cute, I suppose, but he has been biting me. Perhaps I should hit him?”

“It’s not my arm he’s eating, Barty. Do what you want.”

Barty considered his options for a while and then, with his right hand free of Gertie, brought his fist down on top of Snouty’s head.

Snouty went motionless…and started to snore.

Another Family Reunion

2011-06-25T17:00:00.000+01:00

Warning: Some may find content offensive.

“There is no way you’re my son!” I shouted at the naked assailant standing in the doorway.

He saw the look in my eyes and grabbed his gonads protectively, “I am your eldest son.”

“Shut up. You’re beginning to annoy me again. None of my sons—I have three of them—look like you!”

“Then what’s this?” He said pointing at a scar.

“Don’t know; a wound from an irate elderly person who you’d just fleeced for their life savings, perhaps?”

I picked up the bottle of whisky, ready to smash it and ram it into his groin.

“Dad, you really are the most stupid person I’ve ever met.”

I paused; that had sounded more like a son of mine. I looked at him; there was a vague similarity with my eldest boy.

I studied the man for a few moments and said, “my name’s eez. Stop calling me dad.”

The naked man looked me in the eye and said, “no it’s not. Your name’s dad as far as I’m concerned and if you ever crush my balls again I’ll pay you back for all the shit I’ve taken from you. Also, you’re a drunken bastard that has never helped himself, always helps out others, albeit with a bit of commission on top, and you live with a woman, my mother, who has put up with you for far longer than necessary and if you don’t shake my hand I’ll pour your breakfast down the sink.”

“You don’t look like my son,” I replied. “My son is fat, has no scruples whatsoever and makes me look like a saint!”

“Dad, nobody could make you look like a saint. You’re an arsehole.”

I had to confess, he had a point. “If you pour my breakfast down the sink, I’m going to stamp on your scrote again.”

“No you’re not. I’m bigger than you, fitter than you and I don’t have an ounce of fat on me; take a swing at me you old bastard and I’ll fucking annihilate you!”

I shook the hand of my eldest son.

The three of us finished breakfast about three hours later and stumbled to the pub.

Katie, having had too much breakfast, fell through the doors.

Her mother, Gertie, came from behind the bar and punched me.

My son shouted, “Keep your hands off my dad! And if any other fucker in this hole of a pub has a go at him I’ll rip their bloody throats out!”

I turned to the boy and said, “Er, son, you’ve just shouted at Gertie.”

He looked at me in horror. “Gertie? Gobbling Gertie? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Before I could answer, Gertie and her daughter, Katie, who my son had been banging for the last four days, jumped on my eldest boy and began to assault him in horrific fashion.

Behind the bar, I poured myself a large whisky and watched as a barstool, swung by Gertie, slammed into his abdomen. “Ladies, that’s my son you’re killing; I’d prefer it if hostilities ceased.”

“Your son? If that’s true, eez, it’s all the more reason to give him a damned good beating!”

I pondered for a moment.

I walked from behind the bar and stood between my son on the floor and the two women.

“Enough. It’s not his fault I’m his dad.”

Naked Women, Naked Men...And a Lack of Brandy

2011-06-15T17:40:00.001+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I threw a large shot of brandy into my coffee, grabbed the newspaper, threw my waffles and maple syrup into the bin and settled down for breakfast at the kitchen table.

The feel of the worn pine table flooded my mind with fond memories: I’d had so many spectacular and bloody arguments with the wife at the table.

“Morning, eez.”

“Good morning, Katie.”

I thought about myself and decided that an entire adult lifetime of self-abuse doesn’t necessarily mean a miserable old age.

“Katie!” I called out.

“What?”

“Have you got a minute? There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

Katie, bare-footed, padded into the kitchen. “What is it eez? I’m busy.”

“Busy? Are you too busy to put on some clothes or at least a dressing gown? I have to say that I’m a bit uncomfortable with you walking about the place with no clothes on.”

“Shut up, eez; forty years ago you’d have humped my arse off.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, young lady!”

“Piss off.”

“It’s more like ten years ago. Now, go and put some clothes on before I get angry.”

Katie looked at me. “You actually do care, don’t you?”

“Of course I care! I might be a complete arsehole, but it doesn’t mean I have no principals!”

Katie leant over the kitchen table, breasts swinging freely, and kissed me on the forehead. “eez, you’re a good man.”

“If I’m that much of a good man, I don’t deserve to have a breast spilling my morning coffee, so piss off and put some bloody clothes on!”

“I’ll pour you another coffee! Be quiet.”

I stood up and shouted: “I don’t care about the coffee; that was the last of the brandy!”

“You have brandy in your coffee? In the morning?” She asked.

“I don’t like sugar. Fuck off and get dressed.”

As she left the kitchen and turned left towards the bathroom, a hand from the right of the hallway gave Katie’s backside a gentle smack.

I must confess to a certain amount of guilt. But, I like to think that any fine and honourable man would have done the same and protected a woman in obvious trouble.

After smashing my empty coffee cup into the man’s face and then jumping on his groin, I’d returned to the kitchen, discovered a half bottle of whisky and resumed enjoying my breakfast.

After a minute or so, the guy’s groaning and moaning began to annoy me, so I returned to the hallway and shouted at him. “You will cease moaning this very instant! You, sir, are pissing me off! I’m trying to have breakfast for God’s sake!”

I realised the still-naked Katie was standing in the hallway.

“What are you looking at? You’ve got that look in your eyes that Gertie sometimes has. I’ve done nothing wrong here. I’ve just stopped you from being assaulted.”

“eez, this man has no clothes on.”

“Obviously.” I said smugly, “That’s why he didn’t put up too much of a struggle; when the love spuds are in full view and unprotected, then any man is vulnerable.”

Katie joined me at the kitchen table, took a swig from the whisky bottle and said, “Do you know why the guy on the hallway floor has no clothes on?”

“Because he’s a cranky bastard, I assume. I’ve never seen him before in my life and I know that he wasn’t here by invitation. Therefore, he deserved what he got…and when he stands up again, he’s going to get a repeat treatment”

I looked at her. “And by the way, put on some clothes; if the wife’s sister comes round, I’m a dead man drinking.”

We both turned to the man standing in the doorway:

“Hi dad. You haven’t changed much.”

Snouty and Friends

2011-06-12T17:35:00.000+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

Snouty was told to sit. And, obediently, he sat.

Gertie and her daughter smiled at each other.

I looked first at mother, Gertie, and then at daughter, Gertie.

It had to be said: “What the hell is that?”

Gertie senior looked at me and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about. That dog is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen! Look at his fucking nose! It looks like a huge chocolate muffin! And its bollocks are almost dragging on the floor! The animal’s a freak!”

Gertie’s daughter smashed a pint glass over the back of my head. “Don’t call my little puppy a freak! He’s cute and he’s better looking than you!”

“I’m bleeding!”

“That, Mister eez, is because you have a piece of glass in your head. If you insult Snouty again, you’ll have a piece of glass in your scrotum.”

I turned to her mother. “Gertie, which finishing school did you choose for this one, fucking Auschwitz?”

Gertie let Snouty off his lead.

Snouty charged at me and rammed his head into my groin; any other chocolate muffin stuck to my bollocks would not have been a problem for me—in fact, Gobbling Gertie has been known to entertain with various foodstuffs throughout her career. However, a chocolate muffin underscored by teeth presented me with a dilemma.

“Gertie, darling, is there any chance you can call off the puppy?”

“Snouty’s not my dog; he’s hers!” She gleefully announced, pointing at her daughter.

With Snouty still clenched, and copying my movements, I slowly turned to her daughter. “Gertie, darling, is there any chance you can call off the puppy?”

She smiled and said, “Snouty, down.”

Snouty dropped obediently to the floor. I followed him to the floor, my whisky glass smashing as I landed. “The bloody animal’s got one of my spuds in his mouth! Call him off!”

As rare as it is for a female, let alone two, to show compassion, the two Gerties shouted in unison: “Snouty, let him go!”

Unfortunately, Snouty was having none of it. It appeared that Snouty was more than happy to have Mister Lefty clamped in his teeth.

The pain was appalling. My eyes misted, but a survival instinct kicked in and I reached for my broken whisky glass and grabbed Snouty’s bollocks with the other hand.

I held the jagged edge of the glass to his ball bag and quietly said, “If I’m going to lose one of mine, this bastard’s going to lose both of his…frankly, I’d have a lot more understanding of the present situation if the bloody animal had a gash between its legs!”

Mother and daughter looked at each other nervously.

“Ten seconds!” I shouted. “You have ten seconds to get this poxy animal off my conker or I’m cutting the puppy!”

“Give me an ashtray.” Gertie ordered her daughter.

“Gertie,” I enquired, “what are you going to do with that?”

“I’m going to thump Snouty on the head. That should make him loosen his grip.”

“No! If you whack him on the head, then his jaws will clamp down! Can’t you just stab him or something?”

Gertie hit me on the head with the ashtray. “Don’t be so cruel! That’s a horrible thing to say! I could get you arrested for that!”

“For God’s sake woman, he’s got one of my knackers in his fucking mouth. Do you really think I’m worried about being arrested at the moment? Get a knife and stab him. Nothing else is going to work!”

Suddenly, Snouty let go of my left testicle and started to hurtle round the pub.

“Thanks Gertie,” I said.

“I didn’t do anything, eez. He just sort of unclamped and began running round the pub.”

I got to my feet, gently swung towards the bar and asked for a drink. “Dear Gertie’s daughter, I would like an extremely alcoholic drink in an extremely large glass. If you fail to provide me with this drink, I will kill your puppy and your mother and then set fire to you.” I looked at her. “Do you consider this request for a drink to be a reasonable one?”

“Coming right up, eez.”

With an intact scrotum, I settled on a barstool and watched Snouty charge round the pub, with Gertie in pursuit, as he continuously sniffed the air, ate furniture and ripped a radiator from the wall.

“Tell me,” I said to the daughter of my good friend Gertie, “where did you get the bloody animal?”

“Mum got it from a home for retired police dogs.”

“So, it’s most definitely not a puppy, then?”

“Well, no. But he’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer her.

I watched the unfolding scene of destruction as Snouty continued to pull apart the pub.

I turned back to her. “Look, I know your name’s Gertie, but I can’t carry on calling you Gertie. You’re Gertie, your mum’s Gertie; it’s all very confusing.”

“So what do you suggest?” She asked.

(It was tempting.)

I thought for a moment and then asked, “What would you like me to call you?”

“Well, I’ve always liked the name Katie. But it would be daft if you called me that; my name’s not Katie.”

“Katie? Yeah, that sounds like a good name. I think that from now on I’ll call you Katie…And I’ll let you into a secret: my name’s not eez.”

Katie laughed and topped up my glass.

I took a gulp of my drink, winced as the alcoholic concoction burnt its way to my stomach and said, “Katie, I don’t suppose you know just what exactly Snouty did while working for our fine law enforcement officers?”

“Haven’t got a clue.”

“Well, considering he’s just discovered what looks like three kilos of cocaine hidden in the fixtures and fittings of this shit hole of a boozer, would you be at all surprised if I suggested he is a sniffer dog trained to look for illegal substances and narcotics?”

Katie looked at Snouty as he ripped some panelling from a wall, behind which was a hole containing rather suspicious looking packages.

“eez, I think I’d better put my handbag outside. And by the way,” she called as she left for the car park, “you’d better get rid of the joints in your trouser pocket or Snouty’s going to be having another chat with your gonads.”

I followed her into the car park. “Katie, one more thing.”

She walked back towards me. “What’s that?”

“Your mother’s the nicest woman I’ve ever known. Of course, as with most women, she’s a complete bitch, but she’s good at it. I think the world of her…don’t hurt her.”

“Mum loves you to bits eez. She’s always spoken about you. I just felt like giving you a hard time. Of course, as with most men, she thinks you’re a complete cunt, but you’re good at it…don’t hurt her.”

It had been a hard way to gain a friend, but I figured it would be worth it in the end.

PMs and PMS

2011-04-27T16:35:00.000+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

The wife threw herself into her newfound parliamentary duties.

I threw myself into partying throughout the week, when she was in London, and surviving on takeaway meals.

From Monday to Friday, I was happy and she was happy; we were apart.

However, at the end of every week there’s a weekend.

I sat at the kitchen table smoking a pre-breakfast cigar.

“Oh my God, how can you smoke one of those foul things at this time of the day?” the good lady asked.

“We’ve been through all this before. The process of smoking is actually quite simple. Even you could grasp it.”

“You have no will power.”

“No will power? What on earth are you going on about? I’ve fought the urge to stamp on your face for over forty fucking years. How can I have no will power? And why the fuck can’t you stay in London on the weekends?”

“Because,” she replied, “if I did that, there’d be nothing left of this place. It’s always a mess when I get back. You’re a filthy animal and if I ever come back from London and find it in such a disgusting mess again, I’ll get my sister to stay here during the week.”

It was a hammer blow.

I left the room.

I walked into the Dog and Donkey.

Reading a paper as I walked to the bar, I asked for a large whisky.

“No,” came the reply.

I looked up from my paper. “You’re not Gertie. Where’s Gertie?”

“She’s gone to get Snouty.”

The woman behind the bar was an absolute stunner: all tits and legs. But I was in no mood for any more crap off a woman.

“Right,” I said, “We’ll start again. Tell me who you are, tell me who or what Snouty is and then, for the love of God, give me a large bloody whisky.”

“I’m Gertie’s daughter, Snouty’s a dog and, no, I won’t give you a large whisky.”

“You’re Gertie’s daughter? I didn’t know she had a daughter.”

“Well,“ Gertie’s daughter replied, “she has and I’m her.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Gertie.”

“Do you gobble?” As soon as I said it I knew I was in trouble.

She walked from behind the bar, came towards me, punched me in the face and shouted, “Watch out, mate, I’m premenstrual!”

“I don’t care if you’re premenstrual!” I shouted back. “I want a large fucking whisky and I want it now!”

She punched me again.

Just then, Gertie senior walked through the door, looked at her red-in-the-face daughter, looked at me and then punched me.

“Would you bloody women please stop hitting me! You’re wasting your time; you hit like, well, girls.”

“What have you done to my daughter?”

“I’ve done nothing to your screwed up daughter. All I want is a frigging drink and she won’t serve me.”

The older Gertie looked at the younger Gertie, “Sweetheart, why won’t you serve eez?”

“Mum, you told me not to serve undesirables.”

Fair play, I thought; I pretty much consider myself to be undesirable.

“Sweetie, eez is okay. For sure, he’s the undesirable type, but he’s okay. Why are you red in the face?”

“I’ve been hitting him. I’m premenstrual.”

Mummy Gertie turned to me. “Sorry about all the hits, eez. It’s my fault really. Are you okay?”

“No I am not fucking okay! The cat took a shit in my shoe this morning, I’m married to the next Margaret Thatcher, there’s a very real chance my stench-ridden bitch of a sister-in-law might move in with me, your mad, pre-menstrual brat of a daughter has punched me twice, you’ve punched me once and I still,” I took a breath, “haven’t had a fucking drink! Someone please give me a large whisky!” I screamed.

“Christ, eez, calm down; I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Bollocks! You can both buy me a drink!”

They both hit me again.

“Okay! One will do!” I shouted.

I got my drink, knocked it back and asked for another two drinks.

Nobody spoke for a while and then Gertie’s daughter said, “hey, where’s Snouty?”

(more next time)

Are There Rings Around Uranus?

2011-04-20T18:09:00.000+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

As I’ve mentioned very early on in this blog, I am a magnet to misfortune.

I will happily admit that I’ve done well in life, but I can assure you that none of it has been through good luck.

I truly thought that I would be walking the corridors of Westminster in my, by now, trademark banana-yellow suit.

My hangover was colossal. Indeed, looking back on over fifty years of excessive drinking, I found myself unable to recall such a hangover.

Looking back on nearly fifty years of painful marriage, I found myself unable to recall such a look of gloating enjoyment on my wife’s face.

“Are you ever going to stop?” I asked her. “You look like a coked-up tart enjoying a spit-roasting by the Adonis twins. You’re pissing me off.”

“Make the most of it, dear. From next week, I won’t be here on weekdays; by then, my second home in London will be ready.”

“Typical corrupt Member of Parliament.” I remarked. “I suppose the toilet seat from Harrods is already down on the expense sheet as a vital requirement in order to carry out your parliamentary duties?”

Not wishing to go into too much detail, the wife had announced herself as a last minute independent election candidate, had mobilised her female army and had trounced me at the polls. She was going to be an MP.

“How dare you suggest such a thing!” she shouted. “If you repeat that anywhere else, I will sue you for slander!”

“Fuck off.”

“Actually, in order to save taxpayers’ money, I’m taking the toilet seat from here. You can buy a new one; they’re much cheaper in Bogton than London.” the wife proudly announced, as if talking to a CNN reporter.

“Fine.” I said. “Will you be taking the cauldron and sulphur-infused candles as well?”

I sat at the bar of the Dog and Donkey.

“Come on, eez,” Gertie moaned, “you’re not still fed up with your wife winning the election, are you?”

“Yes I bloody am!”

“That was nearly a month ago, eez. Let it go.”

“I’m telling you Gertie, and you know I’ve never been a fan of the wife, but if someone told me that my wife was spawned as a result of the devil coupling with a rabid pig, I wouldn’t disbelieve them.”

“Well, neither would I, eez.” She said, drying glasses. “I have to admit she’s a bit of a shit. But, you’ve been moping about for ages; we’re all getting fed up with it.”

“I don’t care if anyone’s got a problem with a moping eez; they can knob off…she’s taking the toilet seat to London.”

Gertie looked at me in disbelief. “The toilet seat?”

“Yep, she’s taking the toilet seat. Now, tell me, what kind of heartless person would do that?”

She shook her head, again with a look of disbelief, poured me a large whisky and went to her purse.

She paid for my drink, leant over the bar and kissed me on the cheek.

“eez, I’m sorry. I had no idea. You poor bastard.”

“It’s not right, is it?” I asked her. “Using a toilet seat that hasn’t been worn in or, even worse, has had other peoples' buttocks spread on it, is no way for someone in their sixties to deliver defecations, surely?”

Gertie nodded in agreement.

“I mean,” I continued, “I don’t know about you, but I find it a very unpleasant feeling to experience first thing in the morning. There’s probably a technical term for it, but I call it squinge; a mix of squirm and cringe.”

“Yeah, I get the same feeling whenever I have to squat on someone else’s loo seat.” She agreed. “In fact, I even get the feeling when I’m using my mum’s toilet.”

I looked at her.

“I’ve seen my mum’s arse.” She said. “It looks like a prune with an elastic band round the middle. I can’t help thinking of it whenever I sit down to squirt or curl one down.”

I returned the favour and bought her a drink.

Biffy, the doctor and ex-campaign advisor of mine, walked in and joined me at the bar.

He sat down ordered a large brandy, drank it one gulp, ordered another one and took another large mouthful, leaving just a little in the bottom of his glass.

“What’s up with you?” I asked him.

“I eventually had to do a shift at accident and emergency: attempted suicide, blood everywhere.”

Poor Biffy, I thought, only working in an abattoir would have been a worse career choice. I bought him a drink and told him of my toilet seat problem.

“eez, it’s just possible I can salvage something of the day. Let me sort something out for you.”

Next week, the wife left on Monday to spend five ‘working’ days in Parliament and stay the nights at her West End flat.

On Wednesday, she retuned to her proper home carrying a briefcase and an inflatable cushion.

Biffy is the first to admit that he learnt very little of use during his five, drunken years at Medical College. However, he did learn that a sugar and caustic soda solution applied like varnish, does, in fact, when it comes into contact with the heat of a human body, return to a liquid state.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Angels, Fairies, Eagles and Cocker (humour rating:10)

2011-04-17T16:27:00.003+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Biffy and I sat in the hospitality room of the TV station.

Three other candidates for the Bogton by-election, with their campaign advisors, were also in the room.

“How can you be so calm?” asked Biffy, my campaign advisor.

“Why wouldn’t I be calm?” I replied.

“eez, you’re about to be interviewed by Jerry Raxman. You know what he’s like. He’ll rip you to shreds.”

Jerry Raxman is renowned for his interviewing of politicians; he once asked the same question seventeen times to eventually get a straight yes or no from a guest. Everyone considers him to be a thoroughly nasty piece of work.

“It’ll be fine. And I’ve put some of that stuff you gave me in his drink. He’ll be off with the fairies in ten minutes.”

Raxman walked into the room, took a sip from his drink and spoke to us: “Right, I know some of you may be a little worried about what’s going to happen, but there’s really nothing to be concerned about; my reputation is undeserved.”

He took another mouthful from his glass and continued. ”It will be a live broadcast so don’t say ‘can we do that again?’ if you make a mistake. And remember, I’m not as bad as people make out.”

He left the hospitality room.

The others sighed with relief and commented on how nice Raxman had been.

“Well, he doesn’t seem too bad, does he, eez?” said Biffy.

I looked at Biffy. “I think he’s a complete cunt.”

The guests sat around a kidney shaped table and Raxman sat in the middle.

A green light flashed and we were on air.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said into a camera, “and welcome to tonight’s programme where I’m joined by the candidates for the Bogton by-election.”

Another camera panned round the table, filming the candidates one by one.

“We have Bartholomew Puff-Rider for the Conservative Party, Jessica Cumley-Hide for the Liberal Democrats, Joseph Mugabe for the Labour Party and eez, which I understand is how he wishes to be known, standing as an independent candidate.”

He looked at me and said, “Right! Let’s start with you! What on earth makes you think you have the abilities required to represent Bogton in parliament?”

Yep, I thought to myself, a complete cunt.

“Well, Jerry…”

He interrupted. “Come on, let’s face it, you’re just doing this for a laugh: you have no formal educational qualifications, you are currently named in over seven hundred lawsuits and your criminal record reads like Chicago during Prohibition!”

“I think I know where you’re coming from, Jerry, but my electoral campaign in Bogton speaks for itself: I have had one hundred percent support from all the voters I’ve approached; I’m running both a popular and thorough campaign that’s leaving other candidates in my wake.”

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that ‘thorough’ is certainly one way of describing your campaign aides, who others have referred to as the Bogton Brownshirts. Surely, being likened to the actions of Hitler’s henchmen in the 1930s, is not the behaviour expected from a parliamentary candidate’s campaign?”

“I can assure you…”

“Oh, please, just admit to the fact that you’re merely seeking publicity. You have none of the qualities or attributes required of a constituents’ representative. Come on then, give the viewers your informed and intelligent opinion of current members of parliament!”

“They’re all a bunch of coke-snorting, expense-fiddling, lazy fuckers.”

Raxman looked at me for a few seconds. He took a sip from his glass and moved onto the next candidate.

“Mr Puff-Rider do you like eagles?”

The Conservative candidate, Puff-Rider, said nothing and stared at Raxman.

“Come on, come on; say something Mr Poof-Rider!” demanded Raxman.

“Puff-Rider, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Puffy, but come on man, answer the question: do you like eagles?”

Again, the struggling Conservative candidate said nothing.

“Come on! Who knows what tomorrow brings? Do you like the eagles in the sky? Are you in love?”

“eez,” Biffy whispered, “how much of that stuff did you put in his drink?”

“All of it. I tried just one packet on the wife and it didn’t seem to do much.”

“Oh, fuck. He’s got six wraps of angel dust surging through his system. We need to be somewhere else.”

Raxman tore off his shirt, stood on the table and sang.

“Love lift us up where we belong,
Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high.
Love lift us up where we belong,
Far from the world we know,
Up where the clear winds blow. ”

He began frothing at the mouth, flapped his arms wildly and leapt from the table.

On the floor, Raxman started to convulse.

A cameraman, with a smile on his face, zoomed in for a close-up, muttering something about ‘you tube’.

It was too much for Jessica Cumley-Hide; she ran from the studio.

Puff-Rider gave the convulsing interviewer a kick in the groin and followed Jessica Cumley-Hide out the studio.

Joseph Mugabe, the Labour Party candidate, who had been silent throughout, jumped up and shouted, “I know first aid! Give me some room!”

He tried to resuscitate the now motionless Raxman.

I turned to Biffy, “your phone’s been doing its video thing, yes?”

Biffy nodded.

Different newspapers ran with different headlines. Some talked of eloping candidates and some talked of drug taking TV presenters.

My favourite was: ‘Labour Man and Raxman in lip lock’

I was about to become a Member of Parliament.

Corruption (Humour rating: )

2011-04-14T17:16:00.005+01:00

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Frankly, I was surprised at Gertie’s reaction.

“You did what?” she asked.

“I put some money in your bank account. Surely you haven’t got a problem with that?”

“How did you do that?”

“I paid a cheque into your account. You look a bit annoyed.”

“How do you know my bank details?” she asked, with a look of suspicion.

“I went through your handbag the other week.”

“Bloody hell, eez! You can’t do that!”

“Don’t see why not. Anyway, you left it open. And stop using your year of birth as your PIN number on your credit cards; everyone does that, it was the first number I tried.”

“You’ve used my credit cards?” She definitely looked annoyed.

“Gertie, I don’t see what your problem is. Most people would have no issues whatsoever having a couple of million put into their account.”

“How much? Did you say ‘a couple of million’?”

“Yep.”

“Holy fuck! We’ll both end up in prison!”

I looked at her. “Why are we going to end up in prison?”

“Because, eez, that’s money gained from criminal activities.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I’ve been involved in dishonest or fraudulent actions!” I replied, feeling more than a little aggrieved.

“Oh, of course not.” She answered, with hands on hips.

I waited for the bollocking.

“Not for one moment would anyone consider selling bibles to recently widowed women to be fraudulent. I mean, the fact that the bibles only contained the Book of Genesis and fuck all else had nothing to do with fraud, did it?”

“That was a printing error.” I said.

“You,” she shouted, stabbing her finger into my chest, “printed them!”

“Something came up. I forgot about the other sixty five books.”

“And,” she continued, “they were printed in Norwegian! How many bloody Norwegian widows live in Bogton?”

“Well, nobody ever came back to me with any complaints.” I offered in defence.

“You sold them in your dead uncle’s name!”

“So,” I said, “you’re not comfortable with being a millionaire?”

“No, I am sodding well not! We’ll end up behind bars!”

“We won’t…you might, but I won’t.”

I don’t think I’d seen Gertie so angry since the time Limpy from the other side of town had failed to respond to her attentive customer services in the stockroom.

A little later, Barty was removing a piece of glass ashtray from my cheek, when an extremely large woman—you’ll find little else in the town of Bogton—walked into the Dog and Donkey.

She was pushing a baby buggy and struggled to get through the doors.

“Is anyone going to help me?” she cried out.

Barty, Gertie and I looked at each other.

We turned to her and jointly replied, “no.”

The woman taking the doors off their hinges was the wife of the new police chief.

The new police chief was a shite and his wife was an even bigger shite.

She hauled herself and the buggy to the bar and asked for a diet coke.

“I would like to speak to the manager of these premises.” She said.

“Hey, what a little cutie you’ve got there.” I said, as I tickled the thing in the buggy under the chin.

Instantly, her manner changed. “Do you think so? Only three weeks old. It’s my first. Who’d think it possible for a woman to carry such a big thing inside her?”

I looked at her; she couldaccommodate a meeting of the UN.

“What is it?” I asked, still tickling it.

“It’s a girl.”

“And the species?”

She left.

I turned to Gertie. “So, you don’t want to help me out. You want to see me pass into the darkness, having never fully achieved my potential as a public figure.”

“eez, just give it a rest, will you? I’m not going to have money from corrupt practices in my bank account.”

“Still banging on about the bible episode, then?”

“Shut up. You know as well as I do that you’ve been a crook all your life. For God’s sake, you’ve been registered as unemployed for the last fifty years, yet you have more money than anyone I know.”

“Gertie,” I moaned, “I just want to do my bit for the people of the town.”

I looked at the bottom of my glass. I let a tear well up in my eye.

“Christ, eez, you’re talking as if you want to be the next prime minister. Can’t you just retire and enjoy what’s left of your liver?”

I jumped up and kissed Gertie.

“That’s it! I’ll be a member of parliament. There’s an election in a few months. Piece of piss! Just look at some of the arseholes in government; I can be a bigger arsehole than the lot of them put together!”

“eez,” laughed Gertie, “you have no chance of being elected as a member of parliament; everyone knows you’re a corrupt, thieving, lying...”

Our eyes met.

Jericho

2011-04-12T18:00:00.000+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

The building of my empire came to an abrupt end. It had crumbled around me.

Permission to be a Police Community Support Officer was rescinded and I was told to never again apply for such a position. Losing my law enforcement capabilities did not unduly bother me.

I had been named in over seven hundred civil action lawsuits. Plaintiffs were claiming damages totalling more than three million pounds. This did not unduly bother me.

My license to sell alcohol at the Dog and Donkey had been revoked. This annoyed the fuck out of me.

Throughout, I’d maintained a state of non-sobriety, but, in those brief, halcyon weeks of empire building, I had been neither bored nor retired.

As I sat at the kitchen table, with the wife glaring at me, my only concern was: would I still be able to get a drink at the Dog and Donkey?

“You’re a thorough disgrace!” the wife shouted across the table.

“You’re a thorough cretin. Now, stop shouting, I’m trying to think.” I replied.

“Don’t you care?”

“About you? Couldn’t give a shit, really.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she bellowed, “I meant about you being on the front pages of the newspapers!”

“I’m on the front page? Is there a photo of me?”

She threw some newspapers at me and left the kitchen.

I looked at the photo. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all. The banana yellow suit always brings out the best in me.

Standing outside the Dog and Donkey, looking at the fine establishment I once ran, I considered my options.

I was in the rare position of owning the pub, but not actually being allowed into it due to an annoying court order that prevented me from going within one hundred yards of the building.

I looked up and down the street. The only threat seemed to be a traffic warden slowly approaching as he noted down car registrations. I hadn’t seen this particular warden since I’d told him he’d been born with horseshit between his ears.

As he came closer, I smiled at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There’s an injunction in place that prevents you from coming within one hundred yards of this pub.”

“What place?”

“Eh?”

“Where’s this place that has the injunction?” I asked.

“No, you don’t understand; the injunction has been placed on you.”

“I don’t think it has.” I said, starting to search my pockets.

“No.” He said. “Not on you, but, well, on you…what I mean is, the court has an injunction on you.”

“So, the court’s got it.”

“No! The court made the injunction!”

“Well, if the court went to the effort of making it, it’s likely the court wanted to keep it. I’m a bit like that with my remote controlled submarines; I don’t like anyone else getting their hands on them.”

I gave him my best stupid look.

“You’re still not supposed to be here.” He repeated.

“And you’ve still got bowel contents for brains.”

“I could have you arrested!”

“Look,” I said, “this is not the Dog and Donkey to which you’re referring. This Dog and Donkey is a Vietnamese takeaway. The pub with the same name is on the other side of town.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“If you don’t believe me, go inside and find out for yourself.” I kindly suggested.

“I will!”

He walked through the entrance doors.

A few seconds later, the doors opened, he flew over my head and landed in a heap on the other side of the street.

Barty poked his head out the doors. “How was that one, eez?”

“Barty, it’s not the velocity that’s the problem, it’s the trajectory. Forty five degrees is what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay, eez, I’ll give it another go.” He replied, walking towards the unconscious warden.

“Don’t bother now, Barty, I need a drink.”

I stood at the bar and asked Gertie for a large whisky and soda with a Jack Daniels chaser.

“eez,” she said, “I’d be breaking the law if I sold you alcohol.”

I studied her. Gertie and I go back a long way and I’m one of the few people that has never criticised her oral freelancing. Gobbling Gertie has always been my friend.

“So,” Gertie continued, “we’ve had a collection for you and have raised over two thousand pounds towards an ‘eez drinks fund’. By my reckoning, you won’t have to pay for a drink for at least six days, which means I don’t have to sell you anything. Cheers!”

She put my drink in front of me. I felt quite emotional.

“Thank you, Gertie. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, which should give you an indication of the piss poor life I’ve led.”

“eez, it’s a pleasure. And you might want to buy Barty a drink or two from that fund.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He refuses to accept that you’re no longer in charge of this place and has thrown out anyone that’s said otherwise.”

“Yeah, I thought the doors looked new. Okay, give him whatever he wants for the next couple of days and take it from the fund.”

“By the way,” I said, “you won’t get in trouble with the new license holder, will you?”

Gertie laughed. “eez, he’s married. On his first day I took him into the stockroom and showed him how things could be. You’ll have no problems with him.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to risk what you’ve got going here.”

“Don’t be daft, eez. I’m a grown up girl. I can hold my own.”

“Do you still do that?”

She ignored me.

Barty came to the bar. He didn’t look very happy.

“What’s up Barty?” I asked.

“Well, eez, it’s a bit awkward.”

“Barty, just tell me.”

“The flat above the pub, is it still alright for me and my dad to stay there?”

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? I said you could stay there for as long as you want.”

“Honestly?” Barty asked.

“Yep, honestly.”

Barty stood up. “Right, I’m going to throw something at the council offices.”

He ran out the pub.

“eez,” Gertie said, “the council told Barty the flat was unfit for human habitation.”

“Unfit for human habitation? The flat is fine, they’re talking bollocks.”

Gertie looked at me, “His dad’s Alzheimer’s is getting worse. Have you been in the flat recently? There’s more shite up the walls than there’s ever been down the toilet. Barty can’t keep up with the cleaning.”

She gave me another drink.

“Gertie, if you take into account drinks for Barty over the next couple of days and a few drinks for me, what does that leave in the ‘eez drinks fund’?”

“Piss all, really.”

“In that case,” I said, “you can pay for the cleaner and the private nurse I’m about to arrange for Barty and his dad.”

“You can knob off, eez! I don’t mind doing my bit, but there’s no way I can afford that kind of money! At the moment I’ve got a dose of thrush and a loose tooth; there’s no way I can take on more work!”

“Just take it from your bank account and stop bloody whining about it.” I told her.

“There isn’t any money in my account.”

“There is.” I answered, “I put some in this morning.”

(Obviously, there’s more to come, but I’m going to stop saying ‘to be continued’ or ‘part one’. I’m sure you’ve got the idea by now)

Apologies

2011-04-09T10:13:00.000+01:00

I've undergone a minor operation in a, well, delicate region.

Sitting at a computer is, to put it mildly, an uncomfortable experience.

Blog will be updated early next week.

In the meantime, browse the srories in the Archive section. If you're new to this blog, catching up with the early stuff might allow you to make some sense of it all.

eez

Crime and Punishment (conclusion)

2011-04-07T10:06:00.007+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

To continue

The meeting started.

The ‘Chair’ recognised me (isn’t that the daftest thing? These days, you can’t say chairman, you have to say ‘chair’).

“Would you like to open the proceedings?” I was asked.

“No.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Because I don’t really know why I’m here.”

“You’re here to answer some urgent questions that I and my fellow councillors have regarding the current law enforcement procedures in our town.”

“Okay, ask away.”

The Chair looked at his colleagues and said, “Which councillor would like to commence with the questioning?”

Nobody answered.

I looked around the table. For some reason they appeared hesitant. I honestly had no idea why that should be, because I hadn’t threatened or blackmailed any of them.

I waited.

Still, nobody spoke.

I stood up. “Right, we seem to be done here. I’ll take it that the ‘urgent questions’ are no longer that urgent.”

“Hang on a minute!” cried a lady councillor.

“I’ll hang on a minute,” I agreed.

“We are all of the opinion that you and your Police Community Support Officers (PCSO) are simply thugs.”

“Well,” I replied, “you’re entitled to your opinion. However, I am at a complete loss as to why you should think that.”

Another councillor jumped in, “what do you mean you are ‘at a complete loss’?”

I looked at him. “I mean, I don’t know why anyone should consider the brave men that patrol our streets at night should be thought of as thugs…and that’s your minute up. I’m off.”

“What minute?” asked the Chair.

“The minute for which I agreed to hang on.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!”

“Yes I am!”

“Oh no, your not!” the councillors shouted in unison.

Christ, I thought, these pantomime recruits are actually claiming expenses for this.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I uttered, “just ask me a bloody question or give me an example of how my heroic men and I have erred in some way. Then, perhaps, I can offer some explanation.”

One of the councillors stood up. "Right, I will!"

He looked at some papers in front of him and then turned to me. “In the last month, there have been over a thousand complaints about the Bogston Constabulary made to the Police Complaints Commission!”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

“Good or bad?” he shouted back at me. “That’s more than the rest of the country put together!”

“I would confess that from the outset I, as the current head of the town’s law enforcement, have adopted a policy of zero tolerance. Naturally, this will lead to many complaints being made by civilians who, up ‘til now, have escaped being punished for certain offences by previous law enforcement bodies.”

“There were over two hundred complaints of police brutality in just one night!” he responded.

“I think you’ll find that’s just people feeling miffed about being nicked by my conscientious men for previously ignored misdemeanours.”

“Men? Men? All the complaints that night were made against just one PCSO!”

“Ah,” I said, “I do believe you are referring to an unfortunate recruitment error that was made a few weeks ago. You must be referring to PCSO Maguire’s somewhat over-zealous approach to law enforcement.”

“You’re bloody right I am!”

“Well, I can assure the councillors that PCSO Maguire has been suspended from duties.”

Maguire is one of the few men that can give Barty a run for his money in a fight.

Barty and Maguire once wrecked an entire street during a thirty minute brawl over the ownership of some marbles.

The fight only stopped because Barty had twisted Maguire’s feet round so that they pointed in the wrong direction. Maguire couldn’t get the hang of walking backwards to go forwards and had been forced to concede defeat.

He comes from Ireland and has an intense dislike for anything that isn’t Irish. However, over the years one or two of us have managed to break through to his ‘friendlier’ side.

I’d thought that his ‘abilities’ would come in handy on a Friday night patrol.

I looked at the faces of the councillors and could feel that things weren’t going very well.

“At this stage, though,’ I announced in triumphant fashion, “I would like to point out that, according to the latest statistics available, crime in Bogton has fallen to less than one percent and just last week not a single crime was recorded.”

I glanced around the room at my audience and continued. “This is down to the hard work and dedication of my men who, with minimal resources, have restored law and order to our town.”

“Nonsense!” cried a councillor. “The reason there was no criminal activity in the town last week is because anyone who would even consider committing an offence is currently residing in hospital! We’ve had to hire in two Army field hospitals to cope with the number of patients!”

“I confess that we may have had some luck on that point; there’s always a lot of bugs and germs around at this time of year.”

“They’re not ill! They’re all victims of violent assault!”

“What? Violent assault? Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I demanded to know. “Those responsible for these crimes will be long gone by now!”

I looked at them sternly. “I would remind you all, that you have a common law duty to report crimes.”

“Of, for God’s sake, they’re not ‘long gone’, they’re currently walking about our streets wearing police uniforms!”

“They’re impersonating police officers, as well?” I asked.

Things were looking bad. The end of the Bogton PCSO regime was imminent.

At this point I pushed the ‘send’ button on my mobile phone.

Barty and Bluto, who I’d also recruited to be a PCSO, charged into the room wearing full body armour.

“Sir,” said Bluto, “Intelligence services have reported that there may be an explosive device in this building.”

Barty spoke, “Women and children first!”

(I’d really tried to get Barty to grasp the fact that children do not attend town council meetings, but once he’s got something in his head it’s pretty much lodged there.)

Barty leapt across the floor, grabbed two lady councillors and ran outside with them under his arms.

Bluto started throwing men out the door, shouting, “Keep it orderly! No need to panic!”

The Chair announced: “This meeting is adjourned until…” Bluto picked him up and threw him outside.

I made sure I was the last to leave and stepped from the room.

A petrol bomb crashed through a window and the meeting room was engulfed in flames. Larry the Launcher’s (the town’s cricket team’s fastest bowler) aim was as good as ever.

Meeting over.

As I said at the very beginning,

I like my mobile phone.

Crime and Punishment

2011-04-05T11:22:00.000+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

I like my mobile phone. It’s nearly twenty years old. I can make and receive calls and just recently, I have mastered the art of sending text messages.

The missus rammed the arse-end of my mobile phone into my forehead.

“Why did you do that?” I enquired.

“Because you lied!”

“Lied about what?”

“You said you weren’t going down the pub tonight!” she screamed, just inches from my face.

“I’m not.”

“Why are you wearing a suit then?”

I was wearing my fetching banana-yellow suit.

“I am wearing a suit, my petal, because I have been asked to attend a meeting addressing the problems of crime and law enforcement in the town. The meeting is being held at the Town Hall Offices and I thought it only right to show some respect and dress accordingly.”

Rubbing my head, I continued. “There will be many dignitaries and people of note there. However, I doubt there will be many attending that have an impression of a Nokia charging point...stamped on their fucking head!”

“Well, you look very nice, dear.”

I arrived at the town hall in a timely fashion and joined the pre-meeting buffet.

I grabbed a plate and went to the buffet table. A truly enormous woman, perspiring profusely, stood next to me. Her plate resembled a landfill site. In fact, so much food was piled on her plate that she would not have looked out of place performing a balancing act in the Russian State Circus.

“Good evening, madam.”

“Good evening, sir,” she replied. “Have we met before?”

“ I think not, madam. Are you one of our much respected lady councillors?”

“Oh, no, sir. I merely record the minutes of the meeting,” she answered, heaping yet more food on her plate. “I really don’t know why I carry a little extra on my hips, when all I get to eat these days is the pickings from these endless council buffets.”

Right, I thought, if she’s not a councillor, I can put a halt to the pleasantries.

“Madam, just last week I watched a documentary following two years in the life of a polar bear. At one stage, the polar bear had been stranded on a drifting ice floe in the Arctic Ocean for over seven months, with nothing to eat. Eventually, though, the ice floe drifted towards a landmass and, at last, the polar bear could hunt for food.”

I had a quick munch on a chicken drumstick and carried on talking.

”Even this poor, malnourished creature, starved to the point of death, could only manage to devour two seals and a walrus. A mere morsel compared to the colossus of calories that towers upon your plate.”

She looked at me with a blank expression.

“In short, madam, you are a behemoth of buffets. You redefine the word obese. Were you in space, you would be called Planet Fat. And orbiting you there would be the two moons, your breasts, named Lard and Dripping.”

In a state of shock, she listened to my further words:

“And around this gelatinous glob of space grease, there would be the spectacular sight of the mighty Sweat Rings spreading out odorously into the universe, just as they now spread from your festering armpits.”

I took another bite from the drumstick.

“Your cosmic fate will be your inevitable inability to support your own mass. Your cholesterol-laden body will collapse back onto itself, sucking in all that surrounds it, and for the rest of time you will be at the centre of the newly-formed Galaxy of Gluttony…a celestial lump of detritus”

She dropped her plate and everyone in the room turned to look for the source of the ‘thud’ as it impacted on the town hall shag pile.

I smiled at her.

She burst into tears and wobbled from the room as fast as she could manage.

So, there would be no official record of the night’s proceedings.

The evening was going well.

A man walked up to me.

“What’s up with her?” he asked.

“Dunno.” I answered, shrugging my shoulders.

He looked at me.

“Hey!” he said, pointing at my head, “Nokia, right?”

To be continued.

Civic Duty (final part)

2011-04-03T11:15:00.003+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

Gertie returned with a tape measure and we told Barty to stand up.

I phoned the tailor. “Okay, we’re ready.”

He told me exactly what to do and I relayed the instructions to Gertie.

“Gertie, put the bottom of the tape an inch above the floor and then run it up to his groin. When you’ve done that, ask Barty which side he dresses. I’ll leave you to explain that bit.”

I waited with pen and paper to make sure no mistakes were made.

“Tell the tailor,” said Gertie, “that Barty dresses to the right.”

I looked; she’d only reached his knee.

“And his inside leg measurement is sixty two inches.”

That was the figure I’d told the tailor in the first place.

“Right, waist measurement now Gertie.”

“Forty eight inches,” she shouted above Barty’s giggling.

“Okay, now for the chest size. Tell Barty to put his arms in the air and measure just below the armpits”

“Those light fittings cost me thirty quid a piece!” I hollered.

“Sorry, eez,” said barty, glumly.

“Gertie, what’s his chest measurement?

“Wait a minute. The tape’s not long enough. Blinky give me a hand.”

Blinky came over.

“Blinky,“ Gertie told him, “put your finger there and I’ll start measuring the rest.”

She slid herself between Blinky, who, like Gertie, was standing on a table, and Barty’s chest.

Gertie stopped. Unable to turn her body, she looked over her shoulder at Blinky.

“Sorry, Gertie. I’ll buy you a new skirt,” offered a twitching Blinky. “It crept up on me.”

“Don’t worry, Blinky. The skirt will wash up fine; it always does.”

“Eighty seven inches!” she shouted from under Barty and Blinky.

I spoke to the tailor. ”It’s what I told you in the first place, mate: inside leg sixty two, waist forty eight and chest eighty seven. Is there a problem?”

“Well,” answered the tailor, “are you sure you haven’t got the waist and chest measurement the wrong way round? What I mean is, is the gentleman of a rotund build?”

“Are you asking me if Barty’s fat?”

“Not at all, sir. I mean, all things are relative, are they not? One would never suggest that any gentleman customer is fat.”

“Oh, shut up. Look, Barty hasn’t got an ounce of fat on him. He has the physique of a very tall gorilla that’s just had a full body waxing. He’s the country’s biggest vegetarian, you know.”

“Very good, sir. Your uniforms will be ready by the end of next week.”

“Bullshit, next week!” I shouted down the phone. “They’ll be ready no later than tomorrow and Barty the fatty, as you call him, will be collecting them.”

I slammed down the phone and poured another drink.

The Mayor of Bogton had been scheduled to perform the police station opening ceremony at six o’clock, which gave me a few minutes to go through the new phone system I’d had in stalled.

“Okily dokily, Gertie, let’s get started. If the red phone rings it’s police business, if the black phone rings it’s boozer business. Got that?”

“Think I’m following so far, but if it gets more difficult I might need to take notes.”

“This is neither the time nor the place for sarcasm, Gertie. We will be spearheading the area’s law enforcement. Doing the job properly and reducing response times could save lives.”

“Fuck off, eez. Just get on with it, will you?”

“Look, Gertie, I didn’t advertise this position because I considered you to be ideally suited to the vacancy.”

She looked at me. “What you mean is, I’m already in this shit hole seven days a week, so you might as well get me to take on yet another one of your dirty jobs for naff all.”

“If you don’t want to be a Civilian Police Assistant which, by the way is a category ‘C’ position offering an annual salary of thirty seven thousand pounds, then…”

“Red for the police, black for the pub,” she spoke aloud as she scribbled in a notebook, “what’s next, sir.”

“Well, that’s it really. If the red phone does eventually ring, just put them on hold for, say, ten minutes and then hand it to me. It’ll be just like the real thing.”

“What do you mean ‘eventually ring’? It’s Friday night tonight. From seven o’clock onwards, the town will be a disaster zone. That phone won’t stop ringing all bloody night!”

Barty started to look worried.

I got everyone a drink. The drinks were on the house; I needed to restore calm.

“Don’t worry,” I held up my hand, “see that little box of tricks next to the phone? Well, that gives callers a choice of options before they are actually connected to this phone.”

“Like when you ring up to complain about your gas bill and never actually get to speak to the right person?” asked Blinky.

“Or when you phone up the doctors for an appointment, but only end up listening to a pre-recorded cure for whatever illness you might have?” asked Gertie.

“Or,” said Barty, “like the time I got angry with a cashpoint machine, tore it from the wall and phoned the bank to say sorry?”

“Exactly!” I announced.

“I ended up talking to some bloke in Calcutta who asked me if I needed an overdraft thing,” continued Barty. “But I told him I had double glazing.”

We all looked at Barty.

“How many options are there to choose from, eez?” asked Gertie.

“Twenty seven.”

“And which option puts the caller through to the red phone?”

“Twenty seven.”

Blinky and Gertie shook their heads.

“No good for me if I’m in trouble.” said Barty. “At school, I didn’t really get past the numbers that end in teen.”

“Don’t worry Barty; you are the police, remember?” I informed him.

“eez, show me the options.” Gertie requested.

I passed her the list.

She looked at it.

Gertie glanced up from the list and asked, “who came up with these options?”

“Well, I did, why?”

She started to read out some of them:

“Option fourteen: if someone has started to knock at your door while you’ve been making this call, push the number five button on your handset now; option twenty six, if you are unemployed and only making this call to pass some time, push the hash button on your handset now.”

She looked at me in disbelief.

“What?” I asked her. “Something wrong?”

She was about to say something, when the red phone rang.

Gertie nervously picked up the phone. “Bogton Nick, doh, Police Station, Police Station!”

She nodded her head a few times, said a few words, put the phone down and turned to us.

“That was the mayor’s office. He won’t be coming tonight. Or any night, for that matter”

“What!” I shouted. “Not coming? He’s the head of the town, he has a duty to open the new police station! Bloody typical!” I sat down and grabbed another drink.

“So much for civic duty. What reason did he give?” I asked.

“It was his secretary. She said nobody had told him until this afternoon that the new police station was located in the Dog and Donkey. She said he’d been here once before and someone called eez had broken his nose. Then he found out that someone called eez was going to be in charge of the new police station.”

“Shit!” I said. “I’ve even booked a couple of strippers for tonight at a hundred quid each. It’ll be too late to cancel now. Why didn’t she call before?”

“It was the red phone. She started the call over two hours ago.”

Civic Duty (part two)

2011-04-02T17:09:00.000+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

Barty and I walked into the Dog and Donkey at one o’clock.

Barty hadn’t spoken a word during the journey back from the PCSO training centre.

I asked Gertie for a large whisky.

“What are you having, Barty?”

He didn’t reply.

“Barty,” I asked again, “what do you want to drink?”

“eez, is Barty alright?” asked Gertie.

“Yeah, he’s fine, but he can’t takes his eyes of his PCSO certificate.”

“Barty’s passed?” she enquired in amazement.

“He certainly did. In fact, despite his final exam paper being upside down and all the questions being written in Urdu, he scored top marks. Now, give me an ashtray, please.”

“We’re down to the last half dozen, eez.”

“I’ll get some more, just give me one.”

Gertie passed me an ashtray and I broke it over Barty’s head.

He looked at me.

“Why do you keep doing that, eez?”

“Because, Barty, you keep ignoring me. It’s very rude.”

“Sorry, eez.”

“Right, what would ‘Top of the Class’ Barty like to drink?” I asked for the third time.

I was too late. I’d lost his attention. He was back to the certificate.

“I’m not giving you another ashtray, eez. I’m the one who has to clear up the glass.”

“Okay, Gertie, point taken. How are we off for chairs?”

“Just leave him eez!”

I gave her a stern look. “Gertie, I would remind you that I own this pub. With the exception of the stockroom (Gertie’s blowjob boudoir) I give the orders around here.”

“Piss off, eez. Now, how much did it take?”

“Eh?”

“How much did you bung the instructor?”

“Five hundred quid: Barty came last, but don’t tell him. He feels like king of the world at the moment.” I took a step back from her, “The instructor might be round later to, er, see you.”

“I want twenty quid, eez.”

“What?”

“That’s the rate. I want twenty quid.”

“Hey, the favour’s not for me, it’s for Barty! Can’t you give the instructor a freebie?”

She crossed her arms. “No.”

Blinky walked in as I gave Gertie twenty quid.

“Blinky!”

“eez!”

I noticed that Gertie was wearing a very low cut top—it probably makes for easier access when performing one of her ‘extras’.

“Blinky, go straight to the toilet.” I told him.

“Why?” he asked, and then he, too, noticed Gertie’s well-exposed cleavage.

His right eye started to blink rapidly and his head began to jerk violently to the left.

“Gertie, get me some tissue. He’s going to pop.”

I shoved Blinky into the loo and passed him a handful of super soft Andrex.

“eez, do you think he’ll ever get his problem sorted out?” asked Gertie.

“Nah, he’s been shooting ‘em out for over forty years now. He’s had more ejaculations than the entire male population of Bogton. Apart from castration, I can’t see anything helping him. He’s harmless, though.”

Blinky returned from the loo and joined me at the bar.

“Is Barty alright?” he asked.

“Yep.” I replied.

Blinky waved his hand in front of Barty. Nothing happened.

Blinky asked Gertie for an ashtray.

“Don’t bother,” I said, “we’ve already tried that.”

“What’s he staring at?”

“That,” I told Blinky, “is Barty’s PCSO certificate.”

“Barty’s a PCSO? Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. I’m a PCSO as well.”

“Why would you and Barty want to become a couple of half-arsed coppers?”

“Well, “ I answered, “I feel partly responsible for the destruction of the police station. Also, some would say that I could be blamed for the town’s police officers running away. So, I have decided to do my civic duty and put things right.”

I took a swig of my drink and continued, “furthermore, I have been granted planning permission to convert the old bomb shelter out the back into Bogton’s temporary police station which, by the way, will be officially opened by the town’s mayor this evening.”

“There will be coppers at the back of the pub?” he asked, with a worried look on his face.

“Indeed there will, Blinky; Barty and I will be manning the station.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yep, just the two of us. The annual budget was completely used up by the last police chief.”

“Oh, by the way,” said Blinky, “how is your daughter now she’s no longer a corrupt police chief?”

“She’s fine. She’s decided to leave the country for a year or two, to let things settle down.”

“Oh, good. Nice girl.”

“What about you, Blinky? Have you got over being trapped in the rubble of the police station?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse weeks. The fortnight flew by. When it’s pitch black you sort of lose track of time.”

The phone rang.

“eez, it’s for you. He says he’s a tailor.” Gertie called out.

I took the phone and listened to the tailor. He thought that I’d made some mistakes with the measurements that I’d given him for the PCSO uniforms.

I put the phone down. “Gertie, have you got a tape measure on you?”

“No.”

“No? I thought all women had a tape measure in their handbags or wherever they keep them.”

“Why would I carry a tape measure with me?”

“Well, to measure curtains or something.”

“Sorry, eez, I don’t have a tape measure.”

“Where can I get a tape measure?” I asked her.

“Don’t know.”

“You’ve never bought a tape measure?”

“No, eez, I’ve never bought a tape measure.” She answered with an air of impatience.

“How do you measure things, then?”

“I don’t measure things. Why would I measure things?”

“To see how big they are.”

“I don’t care how big things are.”

I looked at her.

“You know what I mean, eez.”

“So,” I said, “you don’t have a tape measure?”

“No! I don’t have a sodding tape measure!”

“And you don’t know where I can get a tape measure?”

“No!” she screamed.

“Jeez, I only asked; no need to get all uppity.“

“I’m not uppity!”

“You sound uppity. It’s not my fault you don’t have a tape measure.”

“It’s nobody’s fault that I don’t have a tape measure!”

“Yes it is. It’s your fault. Who else could be responsible for you not having a tape measure?”

“Aaargh!”

“You’re getting all uppity again. Don’t go around blaming others because you haven’t taken the time to get a tape measure.“

“I don’t want a tape measure! I can’t think of a reason why I would want to carry a tape measure about!”

“But, they’re handy to have.”

“Shut up! Just shut up! Give me an example when a tape measure would be handy!”

“Well, if you did have a tape measure on you, it would be handy right now. You’d be able to just lend me a tape measure rather than get all upset.”

“Right! You look after the bar and I’ll go and get a bloody tape measure!” she shouted, storming out the pub.

“eez,” said Blinky, “next time, just ask her to go out and buy a tape measure.”

“Nah, where’s the fun in that?”

“Hey!”

We turned to look at Barty.

“Hey! Can I frame it, eez?”

to be continued.

Civic Duty (part one)

2011-04-01T11:27:00.000+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

With the recent collapse of the police station and the mass absconding of every police officer in town, Barty and I had felt obliged to put ourselves forward as Police Community Support Officers (PCSO).

It was the final day of PCSO training. Prior to this we had endured hour after interminable hour of talks and short plays that were supposed to represent real-life situations that we, the front line of law enforcement, might face in our duties.

It had been touch and go with Barty. On several occasions his poor writing and reading skills had let him down.

However, we had convinced the instructor that Barty was from a region of South Asia where English wasn’t the main language and considering he’d only been in the country a fortnight, Barty was, in fact, doing very well.

At first, the instructor had doubted that Barty was foreign.

“Are you sure he’s from Asia?”

“Oh, yes.” I quickly answered, not wanting Barty to get angry (suggesting Barty’s a liar is a self-imposed death sentence).

“His skin’s the same as ours, though.” He said suspiciously.

“Yeah, every seven generations or so, families in that region will have a child with skin similar to Barty’s pigmentation. There’s a proper name for the condition. Now, what is that name?” I said and started to scratch my head.

“White?”

I ignored the instructor and said, “I think it’s called semi-albininoblastic epidermination. Yeah, that’s it.”

The instructor looked at me.

“It’s not been easy for Barty,” I quickly continued, “in his home country he’s faced discrimination because of his different skin colour. That’s why he’s moved here.”

I looked the instructor straight in the eyes and held his gaze, “I have assured my friend that no such intolerance or discrimination exists in this country.”

I had him by the conkers. And he knew it.

About twenty PCSO wannabes walked into the exam room.

“Can I sit next to you, eez?” asked Barty.

I looked around. Most of the desks had already been taken. I couldn’t see two empty desks together.

“Barty, go and ask that woman if she’ll move.”

Barty spoke to her and then lifted the chair, with the woman still in it, and the desk over the heads of the other trainees and gently placed them down on the other side of the room.

He rearranged a few other desks and then sat next to me.

I looked at the woman who’d just been airborne. She was squirming in her seat.

It was difficult to tell if she was terrified or turned on, but, looking at the short skirt she was wearing, either way, she’d be having difficulty getting off that seat at break time.

“Barty, why didn’t you just ask her to move to another desk?”

“I did, but she just looked up at me and started doing fluttery things with her eyes. I don’t think she minded too much. She sort of giggled while she was in the air.”

I looked back at the woman; yep, she certainly looked as though she was having a gash gush.

The instructor started to talk:

“We’ll finish your training with a short multiple choice exam…and then the pain will be over for you all,” he said.

As the weed tumbled through the desks, he waited for laughter.

Someone muttered, “dickhead.”

He continued: “There are thirty questions that represent situations you might come across when you’re patrolling the streets. After each question, you will find three possible answers listed ‘a’, ‘b’ and ‘c’. Below the three possible answers are three boxes. Simply tick the box that corresponds with the answer you think is correct.”

Barty, getting agitated, started to breath rapidly: “eez, I don’t understand. What am I going to do? My reading ain’t too good. I’ve got no chance. I’m leaving.”

“Shut up Barty! Sit down and calm down.”

“Look,” I whispered, “it’s simple. If you get stuck, just whisper the question you’re stuck on. If the answer is ‘a’ I’ll raise my left hand, if it’s ‘b’ I’ll nod my head and if it’s ‘c’ I’ll raise my right hand, okay?”

“Okay, eez. Think I’ve got it: left hand for left box, head for middle box, right hand for right box.”

Barty sat repeating the ‘rules of the game’ as the instructor passed out the exam papers, making sure they were face down on the desks.

“Right!” He announced, “You have one hour. You may begin!”

Everyone hurriedly turned over the paper.

I read the first question:

‘If you discovered two men having anal intercourse in a public area would you:

a) Tell them to get dressed and ask them to move on?

b) Call for assistance and arrest them?

c) Join in?

“eez,” said Barty, “I can’t understand any of this. Question one?”

I nodded my head.

“Question two?”

I lifted my right hand.

And so it continued.

After several breakdowns in communication, both arms ached and I was suffering whiplash symptoms.

The exam finished and the instructor started to collect our papers.

I briefly glanced at Barty’s paper. It looked different. The layout appeared reversed.

“Barty, you fucking tool! You had the paper upside down!”

“eez, I said I couldn’t understand it, mate. Don’t have a go at me,” he replied, close to tears. “I can’t help it. Maybe I’m anorexic.”

I held my head in my hands as the instructor took Barty’s paper and said, “I hope you found that easier, Barty. I thought it only fair that, as you’ve got this far, your test should be in your native language of…” he turned to look at me,

“Urdu.”

To be continued.

Pachyderms and Prejudice

2011-03-31T09:57:00.007+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

I walked into a music and film shop, as I call them.

I asked the two assistants behind the counter for a video of a film called Hannibal Brooks.

I like the film; it’s an old film, but I find it humorous and I like Oliver Reed and elephants.

The two assistants laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Would that be Betamax or VHS?” asked one of them, still laughing.

“VHS.” I replied. “Why are you laughing?”

The two assistants started to laugh even harder.

A crowd of people, wondering what the laughter was about, had gathered around me.

“Have you got one?” I asked.

“Have you ever heard of a DVD?” arsehole number one asked me.

“Have you ever heard of a punch in the head?”

“Alright, grandfather, calm down. Nobody sells videos these days. Everything is on DVD.”

“Not everything is on DVD,” I suggested.

“I think you’ll find it is,” said arsehole number two.

“I’ve never seen your face on DVD,” I responded, picking up a blank disc and placing it on the counter. I reached over, put both hands behind his head and slammed his face into the counter.

“Until now, of course.” I said.

I turned to the remaining A-hole and asked, “do you have Hannibal Brooks on DVD?”

His colleague had run off with blood pouring from his snout.

“I’ll check for you, sir.”

He tapped a few keys on his computer’s keyboard and then studied the screen.

He started to sweat.

“Is there any chance of you hurrying up? As you’ve already pointed out, I’m knocking on in years; I could keel over right now and start shitting all over the place, so time is of the essence.”

“Don’t hit me. My wife’s six months pregnant.”

“Do you have Hannibal Brooks on DVD?”

“It’s not on DVD,” he cried miserably. “It’s only ever been on video. It’s never been put on DVD.”

He started to sob.

“Which explains why I asked for the video, you fucking moron.”

I left the shop and headed for the other music and film shop in the town.

My town, Bogton, is split into two parts: Lower Bogton and Upper Bogton.

I live in Lower Bogton with all the other lower echelon scum.

Once, I tried living in Upper Bogton with the ‘nice’ people, but it was awful.

By eight o’clock in the morning, the place would be deserted; the Upper Bogton residents would cram themselves into trains and head for the city.

At first I would sneak past the big cars in the drives and peek through house windows to see how the successful people lived.

But, looking at barren rooms and cheap furniture soon became boring.

At six in the evening, I would stand outside my moderately sized home, sipping a bevvie and watch as the commuters returned.

They didn’t speak to each other.

Over the weeks it became clear that nobody ever visited neighbours, they’d have nowhere to sit, anyway.

My kids—the ‘poor’ kids of the area—had the best school uniforms, the best toys...but no friends.

My kids, like all kids at some stages in life, were right little fuckers, but they were unhappy, friendless little fuckers.

In Upper Bogton, parents wouldn’t allow their children to play with other children, for fear of friends being brought home to play and then telling their parents what the insides of the homes were like.

One, late evening, as I returned from a weekend piss up with the lads from Lower Bogton, I went up and down my street, knocking on every door.

I asked every homeowner the same thing: “Is your house insured?”

If they answered ‘yes’, then I merely said: “Good.”

If they answered ‘no’, I said: “It needs to be.”

Three days later, at eight o’clock in the morning, I set fire to the entire street.

As I drove the wife and kids back to Lower Bogton, the wife, not complaining, sat next to me and the little fuckers laughed in the back.

I walked into the Upper Bogton music and film shop.

“Do you have a video of a film called Hannibal Brooks?”

“We don’t want any trouble,” the assistant said, as a security guard appeared at his side.

“I don’t want any trouble, either. I just want a bloody film called Hannibal Brooks. Have you got a copy?”

“That’s him,” screamed the terrified assistant, “he’s the one from the other shop. He’s violent. He’s put three of them in the hospital. He once torched the whole of Bogton because it didn’t have a pub. Get rid of him!”

“That was over twenty years ago! And anyway, it was only one street!”

“He’s from the Lower part of town!”

“And it had naff all to do with pubs, but everything to do with bigoted cunts like you!”

I turned and started to leave the shop. A single handclap made me turn around.

The elderly lady continued to clap and painfully walked towards me.

She passed me a piece of paper. “This is where my son lives. I live with him. He’s got Hannibal Brooks. He’ll do you a copy. He likes elephants, you know.”

I looked at the address on the paper:

28 Slag End,

Lower Bogton

Hangover Cures

2011-03-30T16:19:00.001+01:00

Today (30^th March, 2011)has been the first day for a while that I haven’t posted an article.

This is due to an acute hangover.

I offer no apologies.

The hangover is of a most intense nature. No cure I know seems to be making any difference to the severity of it.

I have been suffering with the hangover for eight hours.

It is one of those hangovers where death would be a viable option.

I was wondering if anyone reading this blog could suggest any hangover cures other than standard painkillers.

To this end, I would kindly ask that readers leave their suggestions as ‘comments’. To do this, so I understand, you need to have a Google account.

I realise that if you do not have an existing Google account, it could be too much of a pain in the butt to open one.

However, I would kindly ask that you take the time to open one.

My need is great.

I will list any cures that are offered on this page and, hopefully, the page will become a source of help and advice to many others like myself.

Many thanks in advance for your co-operation,

eez.

H.G. Bohn...an Idle Mind

2011-03-29T11:18:00.005+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

An accumulation of unfortunate events had seen me investigated by MI5 and subsequently put on curfew.

I was only allowed out the house between the hours of eight in the morning and five in the afternoon.
An electronic ‘tag’ had been put on my ankle. It transmitted something that allowed someone I’ve never met to know exactly where I was at any given time.

To me, this seems grossly unfair. I consider it to be nothing less than stalking done the easy way.

I tried everything to get over the problem: I wrapped several feet of aluminium foil round my ankle; I attached magnets to my leg; I hit the tagging device with the largest hammer I possess; I had Barty stamp on the tag; I even microwaved my foot. But nothing stopped the authorities knowing where I was.

The wife had informed me, in writing (she wasn’t talking to me), that I was an embarrassment to her and I should be totally ashamed of being the oldest person in the town to have ever been electronically tagged.

I had informed the missus, verbally, that she was an embarrassment to me, to all of mankind, to Darwin’s theory of evolution, to all that was decent in this world and was a pox-ridden, disease-infested, suppurating pustule on the face of humanity.

The good lady sent me a letter stating that she wasn’t writing to me anymore.

I sent the good lady a letter stating that I couldn’t give a shit.

She sent me a letter stating that, if that was going to be my attitude, she’d never talk to me again.

I got bored.

And yet again, the wife failed to keep her word.

“Don’t you feel just a little ashamed of being prosecuted for civil insurrection, public disorder, rioting, assaulting a police officer…”

“Hey,” I shouted, “it was your fucked-up daughter that caused all the problems!”

“Oh, she’s my daughter? She’s not your daughter, also?”

“Well, as I’ve said before, I’m of the opinion that I was on the lash with the boys in Brighton when you copped the spud juice, so I have a doubt.”

“Are you accusing me of having slept with another man while you were way?”

“Of course I’m not! Look at yourself!” I answered. “But I would point out that the Bogton Sperm Bank opened its doors for the first time, in the same week as the she-devil was conceived.”

“You’re disgusting!” she screamed.

“You have a face like a bucket of offal, a complexion akin to a cauldron of simmering shite and the breath to match!”

“Do you know what I think?” she spat at me.

“I doubt I could lower my intellect that far.” I replied, bored.

“I think I must have committed some awful crimes in a life prior to this one, to deserve such an awful husband like you!”

“You only ‘think’ that? I can bloody guarantee it. You’re just carrying on from where you left off,” I paused.

“Are you really expecting a different life the next time round? You’re a vicious, life-sucking bitch who can look forward to several lifetimes in the form of a turd worm, if there’s any truth in the laws of reincarnation!” I hollered.

She ran from the room, crying.

Though still bored, I felt a lot happier and poured myself a large whisky.

The doorbell rang.

“Would you be interested in solar panels, sir?”

“Don’t know. What are they like?”

“Here, let me show you a photo, sir, and I’ll tell you a bit about them.”

He started to talk as I looked at the photo.

I interrupted him. “They’re black and flat. The other week, I saw a mole that had been run over. That was black and flat.”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

“How much do they cost?”

“Only fifteen hundred pounds per panel, sir.”

“I reckon it would be cheaper if I used moles. If they’re flattened properly, they cover quite a bit of area.”

“But, dead moles don’t generate electricity.”

“Of course they don’t! Whatever made you think they did! Are you stupid? Get off my property and don’t come back ‘til you know what you’re talking about!”

I poured another drink and sat at the kitchen table.

I saw the wife’s flatulent, anosmiac (don’t guess, google it) sister coming up the path.

“Get out the buckets and incontinent knickers.” I called to the wife. “Your sister’s here.”

As the sister-in-law approached the door, I gave my sphincter the rest of the day off and released the vilest of vapours. Knowing she was going to visit that evening, I’d held them in all day.

My internal organs re-arranged themselves, my eyes started to water and the kitchen became Chernobyl.

I opened the door for the wife’s sister and ran from the kitchen.

The wife passed me in the hallway. “Why are you running?”

“I’m getting an ashtray for your sister.”

I ran like fuck and returned with a lighter and an ashtray for the sister-in-law before the missus had reached the kitchen.

Again, I ran from the kitchen.

“She’s started already,” I told the wife.

I heard the flick of the lighter.

My ears popped.

Return of the Singh (final part of the trilogy)

2011-03-28T10:38:00.004+01:00

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

That evening, we made our plans and supplies were brought in from around the town.

Cobblestones and half-bricks were brought in by the truckload and an extra crate of brandy was delivered for the troops.

Well wishers left cases of beer and pre-packed sandwiches outside the pub.

At eleven o’clock, I addressed the men: “ Right, Corky, you and the old campaigners will take the east of the street. Bluto, you and the lads will take the west end of the street. Biffy you, naturally, will be the field medic and don’t give me any of this fainting bullshit. Barty, you will stay with me and I’ll deploy you as I see fit. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Okay, who wants another brandy?”

At midnight, the police arrived. The chief had been busy. Recruits from outside the area poured poured from vans.

I looked at the street; there had to be at least fifty uniforms either end. We were vastly outnumbered.

The uniforms advanced.

Corky and his men opened with a salvo of half-bricks, while Bluto and his men, at the other end of the street, stood their ground and waited for the coppers to run into their defensive line.

Corky, with the experienced Mothercare veterans, was holding the uniforms at bay, but, within the hour, Bluto was struggling.

I called to Bluto. “Hold the line, Bluto! Hold the line!”

Bluto screamed at his men for renewed efforts.

I ran inside the pub and shouted upstairs: “Now, Launcher! Now’s your time!”

(Larry the Launcher is the best fast bowler the town’s cricket team has ever had. His accuracy and speed is, frankly, unbelievable. He’s been offered well-paid positions in both county and international cricket, but has always declined, saying he prefers to knock the shit out of players from neighbouring towns.)

From the upstairs windows of the pub, cobblestones flew out.

The front row of police advancing on Bluto faltered and, eventually, fell back a few yards.

Over the next hour, neither side gained an advantage.

Barty, standing next to me, said, “eez, I’m feeling a bit left out of things, is there anything you want me to do?”

“Not yet, Barty. Be patient. Go and grab another bottle.”

Later, the coppers at Corky’s end of the street retreated and parted. A large vehicle with a water cannon mounted on its roof appeared from a side street and approached Corky’s front line.

“Barty!” I called, “Drop the bottle and come here!”

Barty ran towards me. “What is it, eez?”

“The enemy is about to fire its primary weapon at Corky and his men. It has to be taken out. Are you willing to accept the job?”

“Yes sir! Where is it?”

“It’s the big black vehicle with a pointy thing on its roof that’s going towards Corky.”

“Okay.”

Barty joined Corky’s men.

The water cannon started to shoot high-pressured water into the men.

To either side of Barty, men were thrown on their backs.

Barty, turned to me and laughingly shouted, “Hey, eez! This isn’t too bad. It’s a bit tingly, but fun.”

“More pressure!” shouted someone from the police ranks.

Barty caught a full-pressured blast of water in the chest.

He again turned to me and shouted, “I’m a bit cold, eez. Can I stop them now?”

“Break the bloody thing, Barty!”

Splashing through water, Barty ran towards the water cannon. He stepped onto the roof of the vehicle and did exactly what I’d asked him to do.

“eez, I think it’s broken,” he said, with a large piece of metal in his hands.

Barty stepped down from the vehicle and walked back to Corky and his men.

We watched in horror as six police officers drew their Tazers and fired at Barty’s back.

Barty turned round and looked at six police officers writhing about on the floor.

“eez,” shouted Barty, “what’s up with them?”

“Water and electricity don’t mix, Barty!” I shouted back. “I think they’ve just bollocksed themselves!”

“Oh, okay.”

Barty walked back to me, rubbed his back and said, “I think I’ve been bitten by something.”

I looked at him.

“But,” he continued, “it could be a sting. Have you got any of that jungle cream?”

An hour later, Bluto called out, “eez, there’s too many! We can’t hold them!”

Again I turned to Barty, “go and help Bluto.“

“Okay, eez.”

He started to run towards the west end of the street and then stopped. He turned round and said, “How?”

“Barty, if anyone’s wearing a police uniform, get rid of them.”

“Okay.”

He pushed and pulled a telegraph pole until it came loose and then lifted it from the ground.

Carrying the pole in his arms, he jumped over Bluto’s men and charged the police ranks.

Twenty coppers took the impact of the side-on pole, staggered back, but remained on their feet.

More officers joined them and they started to heave against Barty and his pole.

Barty’s feet began to slip and he was pushed back.

A gasp came from Bluto’s men.

Barty looked back and grinned.

He gave the pole a shove and the uniforms flew backwards.

Bluto and his men advanced.

Corky ran up to me: “eez, we’re down to three cobblestones and a half-brick per man.”

I turned to him, but before I could speak, he said, “yes, eez; they’ll hold…they’re good men.”

Corky walked off. He looked a beaten man. He picked up one of the remaining cobblestones and half heartedly threw it at the advancing law enforcement officers.

He looked back and smiled. Then he waved goodbye.

I looked at Bluto and his men. Barty had rejoined them, but even he was beginning to feel the effects of the sustained assault.

“Fall back!” I shouted. “Back to the Dog and Donkey!”

Corky, Bluto and their men retreated to the entrance of the pub.

“Where’s Barty?” I asked.

“I think he’s over there,” said Corky.

I looked up the street. Barty was covered in policemen.

We’d lost Barty.

As the police lines advanced, I turned to the remaining men:

“Gentlemen, should any of us survive, let it be known that rather than submit to the oppression and tyranny of the Bogton Constabulary, free men stood and fought here!”

“Hurrah!” the bloodied and battle-weary men shouted.

A single ray of sunlight shone between the two towers of the gas works.

A noise came from the far end of the street.

Coppers and boozers looked at each other.

The noise got closer.

Through the early morning mist, a pick-up emerged. Bhopinder Singh, wearing a golden turban and golden outfit, stood in the rear, with loud speakers to either side of him.

Behind the pick-up, a horde of turban wearing warriors followed.

The police turned to face the advancing turbans.

Bhoppy stopped fifty yards short of the police lines.

He looked at the coppers, drew a ceremonial sword and called out to the warriors behind him.

I haven’t got a clue what Bhoppy shouted, but all of a sudden the Turbans, with swords drawn, charged towards the police.

The coppers formed a line.

The Turbans stopped twenty yards from the police line and stood motionless.

We all looked at each other, wondering what was going to happen.

Bhoppy started to rant and rave about something in a cranky language and then pushed a button on the top of the pick-up.

Indian restaurant music flooded the street.

The turban-wearing warriors started to dance, while chanting, “Bolly…Bolly, Bolly!”

The uniforms could take no more. They broke rank and fled leaving their weapons on the floor.

Only one uniform remained.

The chief walked towards the Dog and Donkey.

“eeeeeeez!” she called out.

She looked pretty miffed.

I stepped forward.

She removed her hat and then charged me with her baton.

Having always believed that a firm parent is a good parent, I punched her in the throat and slammed my knee into her groin.

As she writhed on the floor, I looked down at her.

“I’ve told you before! Don’t wear that earring!”

The chief let out an unearthly scream as I pulled the earring from her ear.

I looked down at the earring. Actually, it was quite nice. It was sort of growing on me.

I looked up and saw the men staring at me. Again, I looked at the earring in my hand.

I walked towards a burning police van and threw the earring into the flames.

A distant rumbling noise came from the other side of town as the police station collapsed.

Behind me, the chief, still on the ground, arched her back, let out a final scream and then fell into unconsciousness.

She’d always been a strange girl. There’s a lot of her mother in her.

I kicked her in the head a few times and she regained consciousness.

“Dad? Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I feel strange. What happened? And my cunt’s killing me.”

Barty rejoined us, the men started to sing Glory, Glory Hallelujah and put Bhoppy on their shoulders. We went into the Dog and Donkey for a beer.

Tired, we sat quietly drinking.

A loud banging came from somewhere.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“Stockroom, I think,” said one of the men.

Shit! Gertie!

Can we face one hundred riot police? No probs.

Can we face a pissed off woman who’s been locked in a stockroom with a VAT inspector for nineteen hours?

We ran.

The Two Turbans (part two of the trilogy)

2011-03-27T10:43:00.003+01:00

Continued from ‘The Fellowship of the Drink’

My research had been fruitless. People either knew nothing or, if they did, wouldn’t’ say anything.

One person warned me to not get involved, said he’d already told me too much and hastily put down the phone.

I walked towards the police station. People peeked from behind drawn curtains. The town was eerily quiet.

At the station’s steps, stood six coppers.

I stopped twenty yards from the steps and lit a cigarette. I studied the coppers one by one.

“God bless you, eez!” someone called from across the street and then hurriedly ran back into their house.

I approached the station.

The officers parted and allowed me up the steps to the entrance of the station. I stepped through the doors, with the six officers following.

I approached the desk sergeant. I recognised him, but he appeared to have aged markedly.

“Sergeant Dingle, your hospitality is somewhat lessened of late,” I suggested.

He stared at me.

A rather scruffy looking chap stepped from behind Sergeant Dingle and ordered me to empty my pockets.

“You can fuck off! I’m not under arrest!”

He looked at me for a moment and then hissed, “you will empty your pockets and extinguish that foul cigarette.”

“Bollocks.”

One of the officers snatched the cigarette from my mouth and stubbed it out on the palm of his hand, staring me in the eye as he did so. He didn’t blink.

“You ought to be careful doing that. You can pick up nasty infections in burns.” I told him.

A baton whacked into the rear of my knees and I collapsed to the floor.

It felt as though my kneecaps had popped out, but I stood and turned to the officer that had hit me.

He was about my height.

I gave him a kiss and he staggered back with blood pouring from his nose.

His colleagues drew their batons.

I gave one of them a cracking kick in the cockles before I lost consciousness.

An hour later, I was escorted to the Chief’s office.

I stood in her office with a policeman either side of me.

She stood with her back to me, looking out the window.

Nobody spoke.

I gave it a minute, and farted. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

One of the escorting officers went for his baton.

“If you touch that baton, pal, I will introduce you to the country’s largest vegetarian. His name’s Barty and he fucking hates coppers like you.”

“Officers! Leave us!” called the Chief.

“Yes ma’am!” they shouted and left the room.

With hands clasped behind her back, the chief continued to look out the window.

Another minute passed.

“Nice view?” I kindly enquired.

“So,” she said, rocking on her heels, “you are the one. You are the one they call eez.”

“Yep.”

“Are you and your associates at the Dog and Donkey going to play like good little boys?” she asked, still without turning.

“Well, we considered it, but then we thought we’d rather sleep with our wives than be bullied by a split-arse bitch in a uniform.”

“Your manners haven’t changed.”

“Eh?”

The Chief turned to look at me. “Hi dad!”

“How the fuck did you become a chief copper?”

“I screwed half a dozen male senior officers and then ruined their careers by telling their wives, and hospitalised a similar amount of female senior officers. You taught me everything I know.”

I searched for something to say.

“Take that stupid earring out of you ear!” I hollered.

“The earring’s mine! It’s precious and it’s mine!”

I returned to the Dog and Donkey. Outside stood Barty. In front of him, on the pavement, there was a heap of bodies.

“Barty,“ I asked, ”what are they doing here?”

Barty saluted and answered, “people in uniforms, sir! As requested, I have thumped everyone wearing a uniform, sir!”

I looked down: seven firefighters, four infantrymen (presumably off duty), three paramedics, two postmen and one body on top that was wearing a uniform I didn’t recognise.

“What’s the uniform on top?” I asked.

“I believe she said Salvation Army, sir!”

I walked into the pub. It was full.

Everyone looked at me. They gasped in shock as I walked, still caked in blood, towards the bar.

Bluto poured me a large whisky and asked for five pounds.

Before I could say anything, Biffy told him to shut up, grabbed his doctor’s bag, wrapped ten yards of bandages around my head and then fainted.

I called for Barty to come in from outside.

Barty strolled in.

“Barty, help me onto the bar.”

He picked me up and stood me on the bar.

Topped by my turban of bandages, I turned to address the crowd.

“Men. It’s worse than I thought. I shit you not, gentlemen, we are in the fight of our lives!”

They stared at me, waiting for my next words.

“Tonight, we face our darkest hour. At this very moment the forces of the Bogton constabulary are gathering, intent on our destruction. Within hours they will be in our street. They want nothing less than to see the Dog and Donkey wiped from the face of God’s Earth.”

“What’s the chief like, eez?” someone called from the other side of the pub.

I looked at the fear in their loyal eyes. I could not lie to them. They had years ahead of them. I could not face my final moments knowing that I had lied to these men.

I caught sight of Corky. With him there were several men I’d never seen before.

“Corky, who are those with you?”

“Old campaigners, eez. They’re here to help.”

I surveyed them.

“I like the cut of your men, Corky!”

“You’ll find none better, eez! The men behind me led the charge at the Birmingham Mothercare incident back in the eighties.”

“Good, Corky, for we will need such men tonight,” I paused. “The new chief is my daughter!”

Suddenly, the pub was half empty.

I needed men who would make the ultimate sacrifice without thinking twice: “If any of you that remain have young children, then this is not your fight. Your time will come. You are free to leave.”

More men shot out the doors. I was left with just thirty.

Suddenly, the front door of the pub was thrown open.

To be honest, the last person I’d expected to see was the previous landlord of the pub, but there he stood. The former Irish, transvestite catholic from Bombay, adorned in native dress complete with turban, looked around his former pub.

“Hey, Bhoppy!” I shouted, “What on earth brings you here?”

He walked towards me.

“Many years ago, Indian and English fought side by side. Now, we again honour that alliance forged so long ago.”

“Bhoppy, you are most very welcome…want a drink?”

“I have work to do, eez.”

Bhopinder Singh walked to the door.

As he reached the door, he paused, turned and said, “look for me at first light, eez. When the sun clears the gas works, then I will come.”

To be continued

The Fellowship of the Drink (part one of the trilogy)

2011-03-26T09:54:00.006+00:00

Almost at the pub door, I flicked my cigarette butt into the road. A pigeon flew down, picked it up in its beak and flew off.

Things rarely impress me these days, but a pigeon with a habit has to be on the list.

I ran into the pub.

“Lads, come and have a look at this!”

Biffy, Corky, Bluto, Narky and Barty all told me to fuck off.

“No, honestly lads, there’s a smoking pigeon out there!”

“A burnt pigeon?” asked Bluto. “So fucking what?”

“It’s not burnt!” I shouted, “It likes cigarettes! Come and have a look!”

“Piss off,” said Narky.

“Christ! What’s up with you lot today? You’re acting like the French have won the World Cup again!”

Gertie spoke up: “There’s a new chief police officer in town. As of today, all the existing police officers have been replaced with ‘an elite force of zero-tolerance, street-hardened officers of the utmost integrity and experience’.”

“So what? I’ve seen them come, I’ve seen them go.”

“The new Chief’s a woman.”

“Fuck.” I said.

A well-groomed man wearing a suit walked into the pub.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m a VAT inspector.”

Simultaneously, the seven of us told him to fuck off.

“I’ll be back in half an hour with the police,” he said, turning for the door.

“Wait!” I shouted. “You’re obviously the real thing. We get a lot of conmen in these parts. Would you like a drink? Or do you want to get straight on with the inspection?”

“Well, I’d prefer to make a start on the accounts. I must admit, I was told I’d have problems here, but, now we have our initial misunderstanding behind us, you seem most amenable. I don’t blame you for being wary; I do a very important job and there’s money to be made if one is unscrupulous.”

“Fine,” I replied, “we keep the books in the stockroom. I’ll ask my secretary, Gertie, to show you the ins and outs of it all. She’s very skilled at what she does.”

“The stockroom is down that corridor and behind the second door to the right, sir.”

He went off looking for the stockroom.

“No way, eez! The guy’s a reptile!” shouted Gertie.

“Gertie, you’re not doing it for me…you’re doing it for the Dog and Donkey! You are going to do it for what is good and decent in this town. You are going to do it for the hardworking men of this area who, after leaving the harshness of the factory floor, would go home to face wives such as mine were it not for this haven that is called the Dog and Donkey!”

I paused for breath, took a sip of whisky and continued, “there is but one amongst us that can avert the Armageddon that this oasis of life and free existence now faces! Only you, Gertie, have been blessed with the ability to defeat the evil forces that are intent on our annihilation!”

(I smoke too much.)

“Gertie, you are destined to lead us into battle! There is no other that can match your finely honed oral skills. Tonsil Tina would be smote down within minutes of entering that fearsome stockroom! It has to be you, Gertie! You are the chosen one!…For Dog, for Donkey for freedom!!”

“Hurrah!” the lads screamed behind me.

“Bollocks, eez! I’m not doing it.”

“Here’s two hundred quid. If you keep him in there for three hours, I’ll put a mirror on the stockroom ceiling next week.”

I went behind the bar and answered the phone that had started to ring.

I listened to Blinky’s sister for a minute and then gently put the phone down.

I turned to the men. “So, it begins. The enemy has fired its first shot.”

They looked at me.

“Already, one of our comrades has fallen; our friend and ally, Blinky, has been arrested for indecent exposure and ejaculation in a public place.”

“My God,” said Corky, “these guys sound awful.”

“When I first came to this patch,” he continued, “I was told about Blinky; nervous twitches and uncontrollable ejaculations should be treated by doctors, not by policemen. What kind of society do we live in?”

“Poor old Blinky,” said Bluto.

Corky held his head in his hands.

I could see the dilemma he faced.

“Corky,” I offered, “none of us here would blame you if you walked away from this. After twenty five years as a copper, it must be difficult for you to take up arms against your former colleagues.”

“It’s not that, eez. They’re all a bunch of cunts.” Corky looked up. “I think I’ve left some colours in with the whites. She’ll kill me.”

“You do the washing?” Bluto laughed.

I looked at Bluto. “Give him a break. He’s only been retired a week. These things take time. It even took me a month to stand my ground over the fabric softener issue.”

“Sorry, eez. I suppose I have it all to come.”

“Okay. Biffy, you’re in charge of the bar. Bluto, I think Gertie was expecting some punters today. Tell them to come back next week and they’ll get a free hand job on top of the usual. And help Biffy behind the bar when it gets busy; there’s going to be a lot of frightened men out there.”

"Hang on a minute," I said, "where's Narky?"

"Over there." answered Biffy, pointing to a heap on the floor. "I've tried to wake him, but he's having none of it."

"Oh, right. Well, when he wakes up tell him to, er, erm...clean the glasses!"

I turned to Corky. He looked worried.

“Corky, go home. Go home before she returns. We understand.”

“Are you sure, eez?”

“Yes, Corky. It’s alright.”

“Thanks, eez”

“And bring back that tear gas you’ve got hidden in your garage.”

“How did you…I’ll bring it with me.”

Finally, I turned to Barty. “Barty, stand outside and thump anyone wearing a uniform.”

Barty jumped to attention, pulled his head from the ceiling and saluted.

I looked at them: "Right, you all know what to do. I’m off to do some research and then I’m going to sort out this new Chief copper. I’ve been here for over forty years and I've yet to see one that’s up to the job!”

“Hurrah!”

To be continued

Time and Travel, it's all Relative

2011-03-25T10:25:00.003+00:00

“My sister’s back in hospital with her heart.” The wife informed me.

“If that’s a statement from a physiological point of view, then I can’t fault it. If, however, you are referring to her moral and ethical approach to fellow human beings, I must take issue; I fear the doctors are in for a torrid time of it.”

She didn’t say anything. She looked at me, trying to decide if I’d insulted her sister or not.

Twenty minutes I left for work. As I stepped from the door, a stone bookend caught the back of my head.

Gertie was wiping the blood from my neck, as Narky walked into the pub.

“Narky!” I called.

“Oh, hi, eez.” He sat at the bar and asked for half a beer.

“You don’t look very happy, Narky…Narky?”

“eez, he’s gone,” she said, prodding the only narcoleptic in the region.

“Right, no time to waste. Put all the clocks forward by seven hours.”

“Why?

“Gertie, just do it!”

I removed Narky’s watch.

Bluto and Biffy walked in with only minutes to spare.

“Come on guys you know the plan. Get on with it!”

Biffy ran to a table and quickly dealt four hands of poker.

Bluto loaded the table with empty bottles, ran back to grab Narky and threw him in one of the chairs.

Biffy splashed some whisky around for authenticity.

We piled a heap of cash in front of Bluto.

I looked at the cards Biffy had dealt him. “Fuck me, four aces. Poor bastard.”

I ‘fixed’ Narky’s cards and placed his watch next to them.

Narky woke up.

“Come on then Narky, what are you doing? I want to get home for something to eat. I’ve been here nearly seven hours!”

“Oh, er, right, where were we?…I had no idea…I…”

“Narky,” I said, “are you staying in the game or are you walking away? Biffy and I are already out.”

“Why’s my watch on the table?”

“You’re out of cash, you’ve thrown your watch in the pot,” answered Biffy, trying not to laugh.

“That was my great grandfather’s watch. He left it to me in his will. He killed himself just before they were going to hang him, you know.”

“They were going to hang your great grandfather?”

“Yeah. I would have liked to have gone to his grave to thank him for the watch.”

Bluto didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. It was meant to be a wind-up, nothing else.

Narky was almost in tears.

“Bluto, as he’s a mate,” I suggested, “perhaps you could let Narky keep the watch and take an IOU if he loses the hand.”

Bluto thought about it for a while then said, “okay. Just this once, though.”

“Thanks, Bluto! Anyway, I’m throwing my cards in. They’re awful.” said Narky.

He quickly put the watch back on his wrist and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket.

“That watch is worth a lot of money, you know. I don’t know what on earth I was thinking when I put it on the table.”

Narky filled out a cheque and handed it to Bluto.

(I didn’t even know Narky, the permanently unemployed narcoleptic, had a chequebook.)

Bluto showered us with whisky, started to choke and passed the cheque, in the amount of £175,000.00, to me.

“Narky,” I said, looking at him, “where is you great grandfather buried?”

“Nuremberg.”

“And his name?”

“Goering.” he replied, grinning.

I tore up the cheque. “Okay, Narky, nice one.”

I turned to Bluto: “Nipples!”

Narky tried to run, but Bluto caught him.

Bluto grabbed Narky’s nipples, gave them a full half-turn and lifted the screaming Narky off his feet.

Biffy and I delivered a series of dead arm and dead leg punches.

Barty, head of security, walked in and, misunderstanding the situation, tore Narky from Bluto’s hands and threw him against a wall. Narky didn’t move.

“Do you think we can glue these back on?” asked Bluto.

Biffy fainted.

After the ambulance had taken Narky and his nipples away (we put his nipples in a bag of frozen mixed veg’), Gertie gave us drinks and said, “huh, some mates you lot are.”

“Come on Gertie, it was just meant as a laugh.”

“I’m sure Narky’s laughing,” she responded, wiping glasses.

“Don’t give us a hard time, Gertie,” begged Bluto, “it was a mistake, we’re sorry.”

A few minutes later, I said, “actually, I don’t know much about Narky at all. Anyone know his last name? Other than Goering, of course.”

“How about, Leptik!” shouted Bluto.

For Bluto, it was quite funny.

“His surname’s Johnson,” replied Gertie. “His grandparents changed the family name when they moved to England after the war.”

I edged towards the door.

“They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes,” she continued, “with a name like Goering.”

Weed Control

2011-03-24T16:32:00.001+00:00

Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.

“When did you come home?” asked the missus.

“Four hours ago.”

“Carry on drinking like that and you’ll be dead in a month.”

“Carry on talking like that and you won’t be around to see it. Anyway, you’ve always said I’ve brought no satisfaction to your life, why should I start in a month’s time?”

I looked at her breakfast. “What’s that?”

“A Cumberland sausage,” she replied.

“You sure?”

“Of course!”

“It moved.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Look, it moved again.”

I left for a shower. Behind me I heard the lid of the kitchen waste bin being lifted.

Behind the bar, Gertie sat on a barstool. She looked like a sack of shite.

“Bloody hell, Gertie, how much did you ram down your throat last night?”

She looked at me.

“Ah, come on,” I said, “you know what I meant.”

“I can’t remember how much I drank, eez. I haven’t even been home.”

“Take the day off, Gertie. I’ll do the bar. Have you got any bookings?”

“I can’t do that, eez. Anyway, I’m a bit short of cash this week.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you.”

“What about my stockroom punters, though?”

“I’ll tell them you’ve gone to the dentist for remedial work and will be back tomorrow, better than ever.”

“What are you up to? You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“What? I’m just doing you a favour. If you’re going to talk like my wife, you can go fuck yourself and stay here ‘til midnight.”

“Sorry, eez. I’m tired. I’ll grab my coat. Thanks.”

I put a sign on the door that read, ‘Pub Closed For Refurbishment’.

A van pulled into the car park.

Blinky and Biffy stepped from the van.

“So,” I asked them, “what’s all the fuss about? I’m losing money as we speak.”

Biffy opened the rear doors of the van.

“Hoooooly shit!”

“Exactly,” said Biffy.

“Hoooooly shit!”

“What am I going to do?” cried Blinky. “They’ll put me in prison!”

“Hoooooly fucking shit!”

The van was crammed full with weed. Never, had I imagined so much cannabis in one place.

“Blinky, how did you come by a van containing half a million quid’s worth of ganja?”

“I won it in a competition.”

“Blinky,” I said, ”in competitions, people win holidays in Benidorm. People win free sun bed sessions in competitions, they don’t win enough fucking bush to supply a university for a bleeding year!”

Blinky looked close to tears.

“Come on you two,” I said, “let’s get a drink and think about it.”

We all sat drinking large whiskys.

“I could probably get rid of, maybe, half a bag a year; most of my colleagues are pretty big users,” suggested Biffy, the doctor.

“And there’s a private school near me. I could do the school gates,” said Blinky.

“Blinky, if you did that, you’d not only get done for possessing the stuff, but also for selling it.”

“eez, I wouldn’t charge them for it!”

“Shut up and let me think,” I told him.

Ten minutes later, Corky, in his uniform, walked in. There was another guy, in a suit, with him.

Biffy jumped up.

“It’s nothing to do with me! It’s his van!” he shouted, pointing at Blinky. “He made me do it!”

“Sit down Biffy. I asked Corky to come here.” I said.

I asked Corky if his mate could be trusted.

“Yeah, he’s head of the regional drugs squad. He’s taken more bungs than a test tube. We call him Gearbox; he’s always got a box of something stashed away in his office for the boys.”

“Where’s the gear?” asked Gearbox.

We showed him.

With an air of nonchalance, he picked up some of it. He smelt it, rolled it, judged its weight and said, “good bud structure, nicely weighted for its size, but all this means nothing. Is the heating on inside?”

“You’re cold?”

He ignored me and walked inside, went to the toilet, returned with a tissue, wrapped a bud in it and placed it on a radiator.

In a few minutes, the pub began to smell of cannabis.

As we waited, he asked if he could have a drink.

“Help yourself.”

He filled a pint glass with port and brandy and stuck a drinking straw in it.

Half an hour later, he’d ground up some of the dried weed and rolled the largest joint I’d ever seen. He lit it and sat back to carry on with his investigations.

I felt obliged to say something: “as Landlord of this establishment, I’m concerned that you’re smoking an illegal substance on the premises.”

After he’d stopped laughing, Gearbox handed me several sheets of paper and said, “there’s so much Charlie being snorted in this gaff, the window sills in your toilet look more like a tart’s talcum store, and that,” he said pointing at the sheets of paper, “is just a small selection of the activities that take place in the Dog and Donkey for which you, as landlord, could get nicked.”

I kept quiet.

Barty walked in. I’d forgotten about Barty.

The drugs officer said, “hello Barty.”

“You know Barty?” I asked.

“Yeah. About nine years ago, me and the boys were ordered to arrest him.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“So,” I asked Gearbox, “what are we doing with all this weed?”

Barty started giggling.

Biffy looked at Barty and said, “eez, he’s stoned. Actually, he’s totally monged. I think he’s eaten some of the van’s contents.”

Gearbox got up, went outside, returned shortly after and offered us ten thousand pounds for the lot.

“You thieving bastard! It’s worth a damn site more than ten grand!”

“I agree, your livelihoods and a future not spent behind bars is worth a lot more than ten grand, which is why my offer is so generous.”

Barty jumped up, announced himself as head of security and fell into a table and four chairs.

“We’ll take it,” I moaned.

“What about my van?” asked Blinky.

Biffy broke Blinky’s nose.

Survival of the D and D

2011-03-23T10:49:00.006+00:00

Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.

I walked into the magistrates’ courtroom and left Gertie, Corky and Barty in the waiting area. There were three magistrates sitting on the bench, waiting to be told of the license application details.

The Licensing Officer from the council glared at me (he’d spent thirty six hours in a police cell some days ago after I’d had Corky arrest him). He stood up and said: “The council strongly proposes that this license application be refused.”

He picked up some paperwork and started.

“Since the applicant has been running the Dog and Donkey the following occurrences have been recorded as taking place at the aforementioned premises: underage drinking, numerous incidents of fighting, prostitution, the sale of class C drugs, multiple street urinations and various other acts of anti-social behaviour.”

I was thinking that it could have been worse; he’d left out gambling.

“Also,” he continued, “there have been seventy eight complaints of excessive noise levels received by the environmental control office.”

I thought it had been seventy six formal complaints, but I could have been mistaken.

“Additionally, there have been over forty complaints made concerning the management’s poor attitude to women.”

I looked at the three magistrates. Two were men and one was a woman; the licensing officer had just knocked in an own goal.

“Finally, hospital records state that the following injuries have been received by customers of the Dog and Donkey in the last few months: impact wounds, facial lacerations, multiple flash burns, one incident of severe crush injuries and, lastly, one impalement.”

He looked at me, “I think that this court will have little difficulty in refusing this application.”

All three magistrates looked shocked.

It was my turn. I stood up and spoke:

“Whilst it is unusual to call witnesses at a license hearing, I feel it would be expeditious to do so and call Sergeant Corker as my first witness.”

“That’s alright,” said a magistrate, “go ahead.”

I looked at the magistrate. For the last week, he’d probably been listening to people denying that their dogs had shit on footpaths and was clearly eager for the battle to commence.

Corky walked in.

“Sergeant Corker, I believe you are in your final year of service?”

“Yes, sir, this year will be my twenty fifth year of duty.”

“I would ask you to look at the list of suggestions for refusal of application that has been submitted by the council.”

“Oh, please!” called the licensing officer. “These are not suggestions, these are proven facts!”

“I do not recall interrupting your oration. Please allow me to continue with my delivery.”

Without the magistrates hearing, I said to him, “nipples.”

He just stared at me.

“Sergeant Corker, perhaps you could give the court your experienced opinion of the list.”

“Well, I will start with the underage drinking. I find it hard to believe that someone such as the applicant would allow such activity. Despite the many children’s charities that the applicant supports, he is known to be ill at ease in the company of teenagers.”

Corky took a sip of water and continued, “the majority of the fights in or in the vicinity of the Dog and Donkey has mainly involved females, often armed with axes, from the Women’s Institute.”

“He’s right,” said the female magistrate, “they’re an awful group of hooligans.”

“With regards to the sale of drugs,” Corky resumed, “the officer in question has been suspended from duties pending further enquiries.”

Corky took another look at the list.

“Prostitution! Ludicrous! Knowing the manager of the establishment, I can personally guarantee that she would not allow a prostitute on the premises.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted a magistrate, “you said ‘she’. The applicant is clearly a male.”

“Sir, the applicant is not the manager. He is merely the owner.”

“I thought the applicant had a bad attitude to women? Is the manager outside?”

I stood up. “Yes, sir.”

The magistrate asked that the manager be brought in. I ran outside and grabbed Gertie.

“Right, Gertie, don’t take any shit from that fucking licensing officer and for God’s sake don’t mention oral sex.”

We walked in.

The two male magistrates looked at each other, sunk down in their chairs and started to look very nervous.

“Perhaps we could ask the manager some questions, if necessary, later. Time appears to be running out,” one of them suggested.

“Good idea,” said his male colleague.

“As to the various acts of anti social behaviour and street urinations, I can only advise that due to a cut in funding from the council, the town’s policing ability has been severely curtailed. However, the applicant has appointed a head of security, installed an extra toilet and such incidents are now very, very rare.”

“Is the Head of Security here?”

“Yep,” I answered and squeezed Barty into the courtroom.

Instantly Barty started to talk.

“I have a diploma in recreational security. I have a diploma in crime prevention.”

“Wait a minute, you only have to say something if we ask you to,” said a magistrate.

It had taken me four days to get Barty to remember what he had to say. Nothing would stop him once he’d started.

“I’m a respected member of the community and I’m sorry for throwing the cement mixer at the council offices.”

Barty fled the courtroom.

I turned to the licensing officer, “tell me; your wife’s nipples, are they still hairy?”

He snapped.

“Right! I’ve had enough! This is all bollocks! They’re all fucking liars!”

Corky ran over to the licensing officer, bundled him to the floor, hit him several times with his baton and handcuffed him.

“Sorry if that seemed harsh, but we’ve had trouble with him before. He’s a nasty one. Just last week he carried out an unprovoked attack on one of Her Majesty’s Customs and Revenues officers.”

Barty charged in, leapt across the room and put himself between the unconscious licensing officer and the magistrates.

“It’s alright," said a magistrate, "I commend your actions, but I think the sergeant has the situation under control.”

The licensing officer started to snore.

I turned to the magistrates. “Unless the licensing officer has any further objections, can I have my license, now?”

The leading magistrate asked, “does the licensing officer have any further objections?”

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

2011-03-22T10:48:00.002+00:00

Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.

I woke up early to prepare for my court appearance.

I walked into the kitchen. The wife punched me in the eye.

I have no idea why the wife punched me in the eye.

I went to the pub and was unlocking the back door, when I heard a noise coming from one of Barty’s vans.

I phoned Barty to let him know there was someone in one of his vans.

Barty stepped out of the van. His eyes were bleary.

“Barty, did you sleep in the van last night?”

He looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. “Yeah.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Got nowhere else to sleep.”

I heard a noise from inside the van. “Is there someone else in there?”

“Yeah, my uncle.”

Barty’s uncle was only in his fifties, but he had Alzheimer’s.

He worked in a cabbage-processing factory. At the end of every day the factory would sack him because he’d done nothing but talk to walls, but the next day Barty’s uncle, having forgot that he’d been sacked the night before, would turn up for work as usual.

Barty loved his uncle.

“The missus left me months ago, eez. I’ve lost my house and my uncle was thrown out of his lodgings because he ate the landlady’s cat.”

“He ate a live cat?”

“No, the cat had been dead for some time.”

“Why don’t you rent a flat?”

“Can’t afford it. The demolition work’s not gone too well since I wrecked the wrong hospice.”

“But, I give you three hundred quid every week, surely you can get a place for that?”

“I have to give two hundred and fifty pounds every week to a debt collection agency, eez.”

“Have you applied for any help from the state?”

“I tried, but you know me; I couldn’t understand the forms, so I threw a cement mixer at the council’s offices.”

I looked at Barty. When there’s work available, you’ll find nobody better.

If you gave him a spade and told him to dig a hole, he’d carry on digging until he surfaced in China. He’s not a bad person; he’s just ‘different’.

“Well, fuck that, Barty! Bhoppy’s old apartment above the pub is empty, get yourself and your uncle in there.”

“I’ve told you, I can’t afford rent.”

“I don’t want any rent. You’re a mate. Stay as long as you want.”

“eez, I can’t do that.”

I picked up an empty beer crate and whacked him in the face with it.

“Barty, stop talking like a tit, give me the name of this debt collection outfit and get yourselves into Bhoppy’s old gaff. Then, take this down to the store,” I passed him five hundred quid, “and get whatever you need.”

Barty looked as if he was going to cry, so I hit him with the crate again.

An hour later I was talking to a bank manager that I’d caught pumping a rent boy in the back of a removals lorry.

“A mate of mine’s going to be at your bank in an hour’s time. He’ll need an account, a credit card and a short term loan.”

“I can’t do that!”

“You can do that and you will do that, or I’ll tell your wife you’ve been banging the Boys Brigade.”

“That’s blackmail! And I don’t care if you tell my wife, I’m not scared!”

“I’ve seen your wife. Stalin would be scared of your wife.”

“Give me his name, then.”

A lawyer friend of mine threatened the debt collectors with everything from corporate fines to twenty years in the slammer.

Corky followed on from the lawyer’s verbal onslaught and visited the collectors’ offices.

While his men trashed the place, Corky ‘questioned’ the boss with a baton.

My court appearance had been deferred until the following day and I was enjoying the afternoon serving behind the bar.

Two strangers walked into the pub and waddled up to the bar.

Strangers in the pub aren’t that rare, but female strangers are most uncommon.

“Ladies, how can I help you?”

“Two pints and the menu.”

As I poured their drinks, I looked at them. They were monstrous. They were ugly lumps from head to toe, with huge eyebrows meeting in the middle of their foreheads.

If the carpet matched the curtains, it’d be like the Sequoia National Park between their legs.

I gave them their drinks and quickly took their money.

“Where’s the menu?”

“We don’t do food.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Look, you asked for two pints and the menu. For this place, two out of three isn’t bad.”

“We want food.”

“Bloody hell, I’m doing you a favour here. Look at the size of you!”

“You have no idea how much I weigh!” the larger of the two shouted.

“Maybe I don’t, but I do know that if you shut your mouth and gave your arse a chance, you’d lose some!”

“I need food!”

“You don’t need food! I bet you’ve never had a bloke between your legs, have you?”

“Well, I…”

”Come on, be honest, you haven’t popped yet, have you?”

“I’m waiting for the right man.”

“Don’t come across many Cyclops these days, do you?”

She pointed a gun at me.

I couldn’t let it all end like this.

“But, I think I can help you,” I said, “I know a man who’d very much like to know you, er, intimately.”

I called for Barty.

Barty looked at the women, “I’m not sure I want to throw them out eez.”

I whispered in his ear.

“No fucking way! Can’t you just let them shoot me?”

“Barty, are you and your uncle settling in okay?”

“I want a pay rise,” he growled as he followed the women into the stockroom.