One could hear the rapid tapping
of the hailstone ricocheting off the windows of The Badger’s Snatch. Outside it
was freezing. Yet, inside the entire lounge area was warm and toasty. One’s
dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, had lit a roaring fire earlier in the morning and,
after taking a firm grip of Willie’s poker an hour earlier and inserting it forcibly
into the depths of her glowing mound, achieved optimum heat.
“Another glass of Pere Ventura cava, Crusty?”
“One shouldn’t, Fanny dear but as the bottle’s open.”
Perched elegantly on the leather upholstered bar stool, one
took a sip of the crisp, bubbly elixir of Catalunya and looked about one. The
fruit machine was flashing its lights blissfully, along with the infuriating
tune forcing itself from within. Daphne Dewdrop, significantly tanked up on
Diamond White, was leaning upon a rather portly trucker, who’d only stopped off
for a cheese and jalapeño Panini. As he
tried, awkwardly, to eat the contents of his lunch, Daphne rested her chin on
the top of his protruding stomach, and looked up at him with her bloodshot
eyes
.
“I think you could be the one,” she slurred several times.
The words didn’t make any connection with the gentleman; no
doubt due to the fact Daphne was drooling from the right-hand side of her
mouth, leaving a damp patch on his sweatshirt, ever increasing in size, that
was well on its way to make connection with the sweat patches he had under each
arm.
Fanny placed a plate of tapas assortments next to one’s
glass and one sighed.
“That’s a deep sigh, Crusty!”
“Hmmm?” One replied. “Oh, forgive one, Fanny dear. One finds
oneself a little flat from the world of Twitter.”
“Twitter?! What’s wrong? You love tweeting with everyone.”
“Not recently, dear. Yes, one has a pod of precious poppets
who one nuzzles to one’s loving bosom but … dear Lord … there are some rather
unpleasant scrapings of a mangy dog’s anal area on there too.”
“How so?” Fanny enquired, putting down a 3-colour pack of
bingo cards she was preparing for that night’s entertainment.
“Take one’s delicious morsel of gorgeousness, Doctor
Christian Jessen.”
“Right.”
“The man is Heaven sent! Every particle of his frame has
been crafted by the hands of angels. A smile that could disintegrate one’s most
high-tensile strength undergarments with just one glint off his molars.
Goodness knows how many times one has seen him in one’s mind's eye, in varying
states of undress, with one battling one’s mind to remove the remaining items
of clothing without success but people are vile to him!”
“Vile? Why?”
“One suspects Stephen Fry was right, dear. A swarm of people
getting twinges and lady-stiffies from thinking they have got one up on a
highly trained professional, who just happen to be in the public eye. Take for
example one creature; a female with an unnaturally pointy face; the type that
could pass through a set of period railings without her ears touching the
metal. To make matter worse, a rather piss-poor sense of fashion give her the
motivation to top it off with an unflattering hat. She describes herself as a ‘bitchcake’,
whatever such a thing is.”
“What did she say?”
“One’s blocked much of her nonsense from one’s mind, dear.
Sufficed to say she had children, had read an article in Take a Break, or some
such fancy, under a competition for knitwear and claimed to know more than
Christian about vaccination. The woman is an airhead!”
On a roll, one continued, ”It’s like those ‘Ya! I wanked off
in a porn cinema and wiped it on the hood of the guy in front and that Doctor
Christian thinks he knows more than me about sperm donation?”
One knocked back the cava contents of one’s glass. Fanny
obliged with a refill.
"Then, this week, an attack on one’s most treasured
poppet, Derren Litten! Some woman, who – honestly Fanny, should never have a
profile photo taken in close-up, without soft lighting or a veil – decided to
advise him his show was on its last legs! Quite frankly, from the look of her,
one’s surprised she lasted to the end of her first bile-drenched tweet!
Apparently, he ‘writ’ 6 fantastic series. Writ?! Dear God! The woman casts
aspersions on the comedy genius of one’s dear friend and can’t string 140
characters together to form a coherent tweet?! Clearly she only attended school
on the days they were focusing on consonants. She finished by stating she won’t
be watching Series 9. One thinks at that stage, an entire legion of Benidorm
fans breathed a sigh of relief and
cracked one off … er … open to celebrate the knowledge she would be steeping in
her own poison elsewhere.”
One was increasingly outraged but continued, “Then, to
top it all, some vile former member of UKIP, Julia Gasper – you know the one,
looks like she’s left her dentures out and her tonsils are sucking her lips in
- called one a troll?”
“You?! A troll?!”
“Quite, you gorgeous thing. All because, while she was
spouting her venom of anti-LGBT opinion, she directed one detractor to read her
book and one, quite rightly, said one would rather read tea leaves.”
“I take it another glass is in order?” Fanny asked with
the exquisite bottle of Pere Ventura lifting in her hand to the rim of one’s
glass.
“No thank you, Fanny. One’s going to head off back to
Crusty Hall.”
As one dropped from the stool, took the last mouthful of
cava and sashayed elegantly towards the door one heard Fanny’s voice.
“You know what you should do?”
One turned. The trucker was now attempting to make an
exit past one, with Daphne Dewdrop embracing the calf of his left leg, being
dragged along with each step. “I think he’s the one, Crusty.” She said, trying
to keep her tights from rolling down with the friction as she moved towards the
door. One looked back towards one’s dear Fanny.
“Write your blog again.”
Outside, clipping oneself into the driving seat of GUSSET
2 and switching on the finely tuned Aston engine one thought, “you know, Fanny,
you may be right.”
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