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.

“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)