Friday, 15 July 2011

Good Ol' Barty!

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.

Saturday, 25 June 2011

Another Family Reunion

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.”

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

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

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.


“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.”