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.”

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Snouty and Friends

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.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

PMs and PMS

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.


“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)

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

Are There Rings Around Uranus?

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.

Sunday, 17 April 2011

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

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.