Thursday, 31 March 2011

Pachyderms and Prejudice

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

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Hangover Cures

Today (30th 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,


Tuesday, 29 March 2011

H.G. Idle Mind

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.

Monday, 28 March 2011

Return of the Singh (final part of the trilogy)

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.”


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.”


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?”


“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.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

The Two Turbans (part two of the trilogy)

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.”


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.”


“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.”


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