A Terrible Bit of Bad Luck

As Stan Stanleyson lay bleeding to death on the floor of his local shop, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. He'd been involved in an altercation with another man, who'd turned out to be a little on the angry side, over the last remaining packet of Fruit Pastilles. It appeared that they were both rather fond of Fruit Pastilles, but the other man was clearly a little fonder of them than Stan, and he'd pulled out a large kitchen knife and stabbed his rival in the chest to emphasize the point.

Now Stan lay there awaiting death and/or an ambulance, quite contented, with a smile on his face. He'd never really been any good at life. In all honesty, he'd found walking about, sitting down and all the rest of it a real struggle and this would be an excellent excuse not to have to bother with any of it ever again. Besides, he had been a firm believer in reincarnation for as long as he could remember and was looking forward to returning as someone or something with a little more energy and enthusiasm.

The ambulance eventually arrived, but death had arrived before it, and although the paramedics did their utmost to resuscitate Stan, it was impossible, not least because of his unwillingness to be resuscitated. He was happily on his way to the next life.

You can imagine Stan's disappointment then upon realizing that reincarnation was a falsehood, and that he would in fact just have to lie there dead for the rest of his days. When this had finally established itself as reality in his mind, he regretted his over-exuberant passion for Fruit Pastilles, and he also realized that he had very happy memories of walking about, sitting down and all the rest of it, and felt an unbearable longing for these things.

'What a terrible bit of bad luck,' he thought.

Frank Hughes: A Woman Like No Other

Frank Hughes was a woman like no other. To begin with, she frequently wore trousers. Who ever heard of a woman wearing trousers? Secondly, she had very short hair. Who ever heard of a woman with very short hair? Nobody in the town had ever heard of such things, but they were a tolerant bunch and therefore she was allowed to go about her business without interference and was even liked by some.

Rumours had followed that perhaps she was a woman who loved other women, mainly on account of her trouser-wearing and short hair, as well as her fondness for pipe smoking, gambling and swearing. These rumours had even gone so far as to place her in a relationship with Jim Kelly, the firewoman, although they had been dampened somewhat when Frank Hughes was seen laughing heartily the day after Jim Kelly was killed in a fire at the fire station, when all the fire crews were out extinguishing other fires. Who ever heard of a woman who loves other women laughing heartily the day after the woman she loved was killed in a fire at the fire station? Nobody in the town had, that's for certain.

It had become such an accepted fact that Frank Hughes was not only a woman, but a woman that didn't love other women, that nobody batted an eyelid when she got a job as a train driver, grew a beard and announced her intention to take up Greco-Roman wrestling. This was a hobby that developed into a passion for Frank, and after several weeks of intensive training she was about to take part in her first bout at the local leisure centre. There was only one other lady wrestler in the area and that was 'Hairy' Harry Carter, a fearsome character who worked as a doorwoman at 'Rusty's' nightclub in the neighbouring town.

It was a wet November night, and due to the paucity of night-time attractions in the town, a fair crowd had gathered at the leisure centre. They saw a fearless battle, and Frank more than held her own in spite of her inexperience. However, late on in the bout, as she executed a particularly complicated clinch, a little chap and a pair of hairy conkers popped out at the side of Frank's lycra wrestling outfit. The referee couldn't help but notice and she was disqualified on the spot, with 'Hairy' Harry Carter declared the winner by default.

"Well I never!" said folk in the town later. "Frank Hughes was a man after all!" And this was true. Unless she was a woman who had become a man. But who ever heard of a woman that became a man?

Bedtime

It was an evening like many others for William. He'd had a hard but fulfilling day at work, enjoyed an excellent tea of dumplings and sauerkraut and had now put on his slippers and settled down in the lounge to read the paper. His two young fair-haired sons, fresh out of the bath, were sitting on the carpet in front of the fire watching a cartoon on the television. William pulled down a corner of his paper to look at them and felt immense pride. He then glanced at the clock and realized that it was past eight, the boys' bedtime.

'Right boys,' he said, using the exact same words he'd used every night for years, 'it's bedtime I'm afraid.'

The boys didn't stir, but continued to watch the cartoon as if nothing at all had happened.

'Are you listening boys?' ventured William again. 'I said it's bedtime.'

After another moment's silence, the two angelic boys in their jungle pyjamas, their golden hair still damp from the bath, turned towards their father and held up a middle finger each.

'Up yours, you tit!' they chimed in unison, before laughing uproariously and giving each other congratulatory slaps on the back.

'Come on now boys,' said William timidly, 'you've had a fair deal. I'll tell you what, you can read for a bit in bed, how's that?'

'You can read for a bit in bed more like,' piped up the eldest. 'Now go on, fuck off out of it, we're trying to watch this.'

William folded his paper sheepishly, tucked it under his arm and headed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

He paused momentarily at the foot of the stairs to listen to the boys, who had started chattering as soon as he'd left the room. They were swearing so prolifically that there was little room left for meaningful conversation. William shook his head and smiled, thinking to himself: 'My boys are becoming men'. Then he climbed the stairs and went to bed, where he read his paper for a while before falling into a deep sleep.

The Little Terrier

I was standing patiently at the bus stop one day, when a small terrier sauntered towards me before cocking its leg and urinating all over my trousers. I am accustomed to receiving abuse from folk in the town, on account of my molten-faced appearance and disgraceful body odour, but to have a dog ridicule me in this fashion was a little too much to bear. Fortunately an opportune moment presented itself for me to exact immediate revenge. The bus I had been waiting for was approaching and after casting a quick glance around, I booted the little dog under its front wheels. When I recall, as I frequently do, the yelping noise the dog made as the wheels of the bus squeezed the last bit of air out of its body, I feel a certain amount of regret, and not only because of the delay the 'accident' caused to my journey. I wonder if perhaps the dog wasn’t ridiculing me at all, but merely marking its territory.

Dancing Butterflies

A few months ago, I was sat out in the garden enjoying the sunshine, when a pair of pure white butterflies appeared in my vicinity, as if from thin air. I gazed at them with astonishment as they danced around before my eyes like a pair of flipping twats. I simply can't abide butterflies and their impudence in invading my privacy so rudely and unacceptably filled me with disgusted amazement. I immediately charged off to fetch my gun with the intention of showing them exactly who it was they were dealing with.

I will admit with hindsight that my choice of implement with which to teach the cheeky butterflies a lesson was somewhat misguided. Perhaps my purposes would have been better served by a net, which I could have used to pluck them out of the air before throwing them to the ground and crushing them with my boot. As it happened, my wild gunfire was easily evaded by my insect foes, but not so easily by one of my neighbours, who was killed instantly by a stray bullet, making a complete mess of the clean clothes she was hanging out to dry in the process.

These days, I have a lot of time on my hands to contemplate this unfortunate incident, having been sentenced to twelve years in prison for manslaughter, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The worst part of the whole affair is that the white figures dancing before me weren't butterflies at all, they were in fact flashing white dots that had began to appear due to years of excessive drug-taking and lack of sleep. They remain with me as a constant reminder of what happened that sunny afternoon, but I derive some consolation from the fact that they're not real butterflies. If they were, I cannot predict what my reaction would be, although it would surely result in time being added to my sentence. You see, I really hate butterflies.

Two Lads With Stolen Names Become Somewhat Intolerant

It was a day with no weather when Bibi-la-Grillade headed on foot across the grey old city, which he inhabited by fluke of birth, to see his friend Mes-Bottes.

As he turned the corner of Mes-Bottes's street, one of a dizzying maze of terraced housing which filled the grey old city, of which he was extremely proud, he noticed a man ironing an unidentifiable item in the middle of the otherwise completely deserted street. It was Mes-Bottes, standing alone, slowly and absent-mindedly moving the iron backwards and forwards and staring blankly back down the road towards Bibi-la-Grillade. There were no people and no cars. All the people had gone on holiday to Spain or somesuch, and all the cars had gone with them.

'Mes-Bottes! My friend Mes-Bottes!' Bibi-la-Grillade sang out in a faux operatic voice as he approached, flailing his arms dramatically. 'Tell me why, oh why, are you standing in the middle of the empty street ironing an unidentifiable item?' This last part was a blatant lie, for Bibi-la-Grillade was already close enough to be able to identify the unidentifiable item as Mes-Bottes's left hand.

'Oh, it's you is it?' said Mes-Bottes, staring straight through his friend and continuing to iron his left hand metronomically.

'Why of course!' replied Bibi-la-Grillade, still singing when speaking would have been more appropriate. 'Why do you behave so coldly towards your old comrade?'

'Oh do shut up, you opera fuck!' cried Mes-Bottes. 'Can't you see I'm in no mood?'

Bibi-la-Grillade was taken aback. He'd seen his friend in poor spirits on previous occasions, but this downright hostility was new to him. He decided to proceed with caution, beginning with speaking instead of singing.

'There now, there now,' he said, as if he were trying to soothe a baby. He slowly approached the angry Mes-Bottes and gave him a warm but unreciprocated hug.

This was too much for Mes-Bottes. He dropped the iron to the ground and wept loudly, making such a racket with his heavy sobs that some slates were dislodged from the roofs of the houses and came crashing to the floor. It's perhaps fortunate that there were no cars in the street because the slates would undoubtedly have damaged them, and the noise of their alarms sounding would have been unbearable.

'There, there,' continued Bibi-la-Grillade still hugging his friend to bits. 'You just let it all out to your old friend Bibi.'

'It's my wife!' screamed Mes-Bottes in a quivering falsetto. 'She's run away with Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas from number twenty four, and worse than that, they've taken the car with them.'

Bibi-la-Grillade let go of Mes-Bottes abruptly and looked at him in shock.

'The car?' he asked, 'the fast black car with the brand new tyres?'

'Yes!' wailed Mes-Bottes 'the fast black car with the brand new tyres and the sun-roof! Aaaaarrrrrgggghhh!'

'Well, we'll just have to see about all this,' said Bibi-la-Grillade. 'And where might they have gone to, these two....these two....fucking....jugglers?!'

'They've gone off to Spain or somesuch with the rest of them.'

'Spain or somesuch with the rest of them?!' Bibi-la-Grillade was angrier than ever now. 'And what on earth is the matter with our grey old city? Eh? Why go to Spain or somesuch? Why not just stay here and visit places here and talk to the people here? Fucking jugglers! They make me sick!'

'She said my left hand was too wrinkled,' cried Mes-Bottes. '"Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas has a left hand as smooth as a mole," she said.'

'Yes, and I bet he leaves a great big pile of soil everywhere he goes too, the trumpet.'

'But wait Bibi-la-Grillade,' said Mes-Bottes in a suddenly hushed tone, pointing downwards and nodding his head in the same direction. 'That's not everything.'

Bibi-la-Grillade bent down to have a look what the hell all this new fuss was about and found a young man, no more than twenty years old, with massive, black, curly hair and a beard to match, cowering under the ironing board. He wore a stained white vest, a pair of three-quarter-length shorts and beige slip-on shoes and chewed his nails devotedly, muttering indecipherables under his breath with a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was utterly filthy and the smell off him would have done for a man of weak constitution. Put frankly, he stank of a mixture of several different kinds of shit.

'My sweet Lord!' cried Bibi-la-Grillade, drawing back in disgust and putting his handkerchief over his nose. 'What the buggering hell is that?'

'That's The-Shady-Character,' whispered Mes-Bottes. 'He's been hanging around ever since my wife ran off. D'you think it's a sign?'

'A sign of what? That if you don't have a wash you get to stinking? No, no, no we can't be having this. Not in my city. What did you say his name was?'

'The-Shady-Character.'

'The-Shady-Character? What kind of daft bloody name is that?'

'I think he might be English.'

'English?!' roared Bibi-la-Grillade. 'Well what on earth's he doing here then? He should piss off back to Spain, or wherever the hell it is he's come from. Now look here,' he continued, bending down to address The-Shady-Character, but keeping his handkerchief clamped over his nose. 'For starters I won't be calling you by that daft name of yours; from now on you're Shut-Up-You-Stink, got that?' Shut-Up-You-Stink nodded in acquiescence, utterly petrified. He looked as if he were about to literally fall apart with fear.

'Now the next question,' Bibi-la-Grillade went on, 'is what the hell is to be done with you? Would you be willing just to piss off at all?'

Shut-Up-You-Stink shook his head sadly as if such a thing were completely impossible.

Bibi-la-Grillade turned to Mes-Bottes and shrugged his shoulders, pulling a face which suggested that was the first and last of his ideas and that he was about to wash his hands of the whole affair. However, Mes-Bottes appeared to have found inspiration from somewhere and beckoned him over for a private conflab.

It was decided that they would hang Shut-Up-You-Stink from a lamp-post as punishment for the fact that Mes-Bottes's wife had run away with Il-Ne-Comprend-Pas and the fast black car with the new tyres and the sun-roof. Both were happy with this conclusion and Shut-Up-You-Stink seemed resigned to his fate, almost relieved that the wait was over.

So, with a little difficulty, the compliant Shut-Up-You-Stink was carried over to the nearest lamp-post and hung. Not hanged by his neck of course, Mes-Bottes and Bibi-la-Grillade weren't animals, but hung with the rope around his waist so that he just dangled there looking daft and helpless. With hindsight, there is little doubt that Shut-Up-You Stink would have preferred the two men to have been a little more ruthless. After hanging him up, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes embarked on a three day spree to both celebrate and forget, leaving Shut-Up-You-Stink to endure a painfully long, drawn-out death as he was slowly eaten by seagulls.

When the two men returned, infiltrated by the inevitable darkness of thought that a three day spree conjures up, they wept for hours in each other's arms at what had become of their new friend.

A Go on the Game

'Alright mate.'
'Alright.'
'What's that you've got there?'
'Just a game.'
'Is it yeah? A new game is it?'
'Yeah.'
'Let's have a go on it then.'
'Nah.'
'What d'you mean 'nah'? Why not?'
'Dunno.'
'I thought we were mates. We are aren't we?'
'Well, not really.'
'What? Why not?'
'Well, it's just that every time I see you, you punch me in the mouth. I've lost loads of teeth because of it.'
'Hahaha!! I don't do that do I?'
'Yeah you....Oww! See, you've just done it again now!'
'Shit, yeah! I have haven't I?'
'Yeah, you have!'
'And I do that every time do I?'
'Every single time.'
'Sorry mate.'
'Don't worry about it.'
'Can I have a go on the game then?'
'Go on then, but only while I wipe this blood off.'

Holy Fuck!

One ordinary day in Saint Luke's church, in the sleepy town of Ridley Feltham, the young Reverend Simon Smith was clearing cobwebs from members of his regular congregation who visited him on Wednesdays for this specific purpose. Mrs Smethwick, the elderly organist, was the last of these visitors, and indeed she looked as though she'd been caught in an industrial fisherman's net before the Reverend set about her with his duster.

After removing the cobwebs, the Reverend shared a complicated 'street' style handshake with Mrs Smethwick, a new procedure adopted in an attempt to entice some younger parishioners to the congregation, before heading off to the shop to buy a pasty. The Reverend wasn't sure whether there was any mention of eating pasties from the shop in the scriptures, so it was with no little amount of guilt that he went to sit in the park to enjoy it.

He ate the pasty like a squirrel, with his head down, darting quick glances all around to see if anyone was watching him. He was seen by a couple of older members of the church who audibly gasped at the sight of the pasty eating vicar before hurrying away in the opposite direction. The younger members of the congregation, of which there were none, just smiled amiably at the Reverend and waved.

After finishing his lunch the Reverend brushed the pasty crumbs from his Reverend outfit and headed back to Saint Luke's to do some weekday afternoon church shit, like drinking tea and that. However, as he approached the church he spotted a be-shirted youth vomiting all over the south wall and his previously clean shoes. He seemed to be suffering from the effects of alcohol, and the Reverend was about to go over and make some polite enquiries when he noticed an even more startling revelation.

It appeared that whilst the Reverend was out, Saint Luke's had been turned into a lap-dancing club. He looked up with bewilderment at the newly installed red neon sign bearing the church's new name, 'Holy Fuck!', and a flashing outline of a lady shaking her parts. The old building was shaking with the sound of loud, modern music.

The youth, who was propping himself up against the wall with his arm, looked up and noticed the vicar gaping at his new-look church.

'Reeeeevvveeereeennnd!' he leered suggestively, wiping bits of sick from his mouth with his sleeve. 'You're a fucking genius mate! I never knew you had it in you!'

'Er, well, no, I mean....thank you.' mumbled the Reverend. 'But please don't swear,' he added timidly, feeling completely out of his depth.

'Ah shit, sorry Rev. I'm a motherfucker for swearing. Fuck, I've done it again! Bollocks. Sorry. Anyway, nice one on the tit...sorry, I mean the breasts. They're ace. You'll be seeing me in church a lot more often from now on, that's for sure.'

The young man stumbled back inside, leaving the Reverend to contemplate the scriptures once again. Although not completely certain, he couldn't recall a reference to lap-dancing in the Bible, be it good or bad. However his gut instinct as a good man, and that quite apart from his vocation, was that the situation he was confronted with was a bad one. He also felt it was an altogether higher level of seriousness than eating a pasty from the shop. Having come to this conclusion, he marched into his church determined to turn everyone out and reclaim it. It would be like that time when Jesus threw some folks out of the temple. At last, he had something to go on!

But as soon as he had stepped inside, his determination was crushed by the astounding sight that confronted him. The church had been stripped bare of all the pews and other furniture that had previously occupied it and replaced with a new, modern decor, which remained faithful to the old traditions in its own peculiar way. The centrepiece of the new look was a huge marble statue of the Virgin Mary, looking up to the heavens, her hands clasped in prayer, which was situated in the central nave area facing the entrance that the Reverend had just come through. Leading away from the Virgin were four raised walkways on which girls in a state of undress were parading. One walkway was behind Mary, running up in the direction of the chancel at the back of the church, two others were leading away to the sides and the fourth, a longer one, was leading directly towards where the vicar was standing. All four combined to create the effect of a cross. Two extremely long poles protruded from each walkway, reaching high up to the roof of the church and were used by the girls to swing on alluringly. Both sides of each walkway were lined with chairs filled with men of all ages waving bank notes, their faces contorted into lustful grimaces, which they would have found shocking had they been able to see themselves.

The horrifying scene was completed by a bar in the far left corner, emblazoned with another red neon sign bearing the name 'The Font' in a joined-up-writing style, and the new stained glass window on the north side showing the outline of a voluptuous woman with devil horns and tail. The glass was tinted red so that the dark room was bathed in a hellish glow as the afternoon sun shone through the window.

As the Reverend stood there, at a loss as to what to do next, the girl who was 'dancing' on the longest walkway spotted him and began making her way down towards him. She glided in time to the heavy beat of the song that was currently playing, with her right hand on one of her swaying hips and the other swinging at her side, as if propelling her towards the vicar. She wore nothing but her underwear and a pair of unfeasibly high heels. Upon reaching the end of the platform, the girl crouched down on her haunches, her legs apart and beckoned the Reverend with her index finger.

As we have established, the Reverend was a good man, but a man nevertheless, and so it was some time before his eyes made their way up the girl's body to her face. Her undoubted beauty was partly hidden behind a mask of heavy make-up and her moderately long, curled blond hair bounced about her shoulders as she moved. The Reverend was transfixed, and without realizing what he was doing he approached the girl, who nodded her head approvingly. When he was near enough, she grabbed his head in both hands and buried his face in her cleavage before pushing him away by the forehead with the palm of her right hand. She then turned and walked away from him, unclasping her bra and removing it in one movement before spinning around to show herself to the vicar. The girl then sprang on to the nearest pole and swung around acrobatically before making her way back to the Reverend and bending down to have a word in his ear.

'That was just a free sample Reverend.' she said. 'You come and see me later after you've been around with the collection plate. Make sure it's full.' She laughed and kissed him on the cheek before making her way back up the walkway towards the other members of the new congregation.

The Reverend stood there with a big lipstick mark on his cheek, his thoughts in complete disarray. His eyes began desperately searching the room for a familiar face. When he eventually found one it wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. Over on the short walkway to the right, wearing nothing but a thong, was old Mrs Smethwick the organist. Although she didn't appear to be as popular as the other girls, there were still one or two men ogling her, including old Garbutt, the former farrier who'd had a soft spot for Mrs Smethwick ever since they were in primary school together. He was leaning over the side of the platform trying to grab hold of her as she jerkily moved her wrinkly old body in a manner she felt approximated seductiveness. As she turned to avoid old Garbutt, she caught sight of the vicar looking over and gave him a big smile and two thumbs up.

Of all the horrifying things he'd just witnessed this was by far the worst and the Reverend turned away from Mrs Smethwick in shame. She was only doing her best for the church of course, but the vicar felt that she'd gone a little far on this occasion and felt tremendously guilty, as if he himself had pushed her to it in the drive to attract younger church-goers. He covered his face with his hands in despair, but he was given no time to dwell as the vomiting youth approached him with a large glass of brandy.

'Reverend, you dirty cu...customer, I saw you with Cheryl Hole over there! Wheeeeyyy!!'

'I'm sorry,' replied the Reverend in bewilderment, 'I'm not sure I....'

'Don't come the innocent with me Rev; Cheryl Hole, the fucking girl who's stood bollocko over there! Although I don't reckon that's her real name, truth be told. Anyway, here you are Rev, I got you this.' He handed the vicar the brandy and wandered off again, swaying comically from side to side as he tried to stay upright.

The Reverend took a quick look around the room before downing the brandy in one and then coughing violently, almost bringing the whole lot back up again. But he managed to keep it down and headed off to 'The Font' to get himself another one. And that's about the last he could recall of the whole affair.

He awoke the following morning feeling as if he had an axe planted in his skull. With great difficulty, he opened one eye at a time and peeled his tongue from the roof of his extraordinarily dry mouth. He then threw up violently over the side of his bed.

When he rolled back over he noticed that there were dark make-up smudges on the pillow next to his and a strong smell of perfume in the room. He sat bolt upright frantically trying to remember anything that had happened after that second brandy. But nothing came. Then, at the foot of the bed, he noticed the church collection plate. There was a folded up note on it and nothing else. The Reverend grabbed the note and read: 'Great nite Si, come see me again sum time. Kisses, Cheryl xxx.'

'Si' threw himself back on his pillow and wept uncontrollably. What on earth had he done?

Later that day, after he'd cleaned himself and his house up a bit, the Reverend settled down to his Bible to search for guidance, anything to help him respond appropriately to the events of the previous day. He studied long and hard but found nothing, and eventually threw the book away in frustration. The Jesus-throwing-folks-out-of-the-temple revelation had obviously been a one-off, and he hadn't even been able to take any positive action as a result of that. There was nothing else for it, the Reverend Simon Smith would have to resign his position and revert to being simply Simon Smith.

After leaving the church, Simon got himself a job in the local Spar where he still works to this day. It suits him well as he receives a small discount on pasties, brandy and other goods sold in the shop. He keeps a note of the savings he makes whenever he purchases something and puts the equivalent amount on the collection plate which he still has at home. When he's saved enough, he treats himself to a visit to Cheryl and the other girls over at 'Holy Fuck!', which has become as ordinary a sight in Ridley Feltham as the town hall, the public houses, the butcher's shop and the primary school. Indeed, people find it increasingly difficult to remember a time when 'Holy Fuck!' was merely the Parish Church of St Luke, where the Reverend Simon Smith was the minister.

A Lifetime

Gruff Griffiths-Griffiths (who'd been given the surnames of both his father and his mother at birth) was in a very melancholy mood one Saturday morning, spending his time wandering aimlessly from room to room in his house worrying terribly about nothing in particular.

He eventually slumped down wearily in a chair by the kitchen table and looked up at the clock. It was twenty to eleven. Gruff kept his eyes on the clock, counting down the seconds from four to nought as the hand moved between each number. He found that this brought him great comfort and decided to keep doing it until he'd had enough.

Some eighteen months later, also on a Saturday morning, this time much earlier at a quarter to six, Gruff was still sat at the kitchen table counting down the seconds from four to nought, when the clock stopped abruptly before beginning to move continuously back and forth from one second to the previous one. It didn't matter much to Gruff, he wasn't really paying much attention to the finer detail of the clock any more, just looking through it and counting down from four to nought, utterly contented.

Gruff carried on staring at the clock, still showing a quarter to six and the hand that previously counted away the seconds now still, for the next thirty five years. Then, one morning, I think it was probably a Saturday, he got up extremely slowly from the table and made his way over to the mirror which hung on the kitchen wall. He took a long, hard look at himself; his greasy, grey hair down to his waist, his beard not much shorter, his eyes sunken deep inside his skull and the few teeth he had left completely rotten. He was a crooked, broken old man with terrifically long nails.

Having contemplated his reflection for a while, he then uttered his first words for nearly thirty seven years.

'Shit,' he said. 'I've wasted my life.'

Bill

Herbie Dobson was sitting by one of the many windows in the upstairs part of his house when a man with a camera showed up in the garden to take a picture of him. Dobson jumped to his feet and opened the window.

'It's Bill isn't it?' he shouted down to the man.

'No,' replied Bill, 'I'm Don.'

'Don? There's no such name as 'Don'. Where's Bill?'

'I don't know who Bill is,' said the photographer.

'You're Bill,' said Dobson sarcastically before spitting big green phlegm globules down at Bill. Bill danced around below, successfully avoiding them, alternately sneering at Dobson and taking pictures of his furious face to enjoy later.

'The devil take you!' shouted Dobson eventually, shaking his fist at Bill before leaving the house in order to compose himself.

He walked briskly in no particular direction with his head down trying to banish from his mind the unsettling events that had precipitated this turn out. He continued walking until he was met by a man coming towards him from the opposite direction. Dobson paid him little attention but stepped off the narrow pavement on to the road so as not to impede the man's progress.

'Why did you do that then?' came the man's voice from behind him, snapping him out of his reverie suddenly.

'Why did I do what?' asked Dobson, turning around to look at the man. It was Bill, but Dobson didn't recognize him, possibly because he no longer had his camera.

'You stepped off the pavement to allow me to stay on it. Do you think I'm better than you, is that it?'

'Not at all,' said Dobson, 'it's plain for all to see that you are vastly inferior to me in almost every way. Although in terms of ugliness and fatheadedness you are clearly my superior, and I am envious of both your grotesque appearance and your inability to grasp the simplest of concepts.'

'Very well', replied Bill, feeling placated. 'I thought for a moment you were attempting to hog all the courtesy for yourself.'

'Oh no, I would never do that,' said Dobson. And with that he punched the man with all his strength, almost losing his fist in the man's face as it exploded in a shower of blood, snot and teeth. The man fell backwards in to the road and was fatally squashed under the wheels of a huge tractor, which by terrible coincidence happened to be passing at that very moment.

Dobson, who felt very squeamish whenever confronted by people flattened by tractors, turned for home quickly. He felt a whole lot better for his walk. There was nothing a bit of fresh air couldn't solve!

On his way home he spied Bill getting out of his car and heading for the shop.

'Bill!' he called out. 'I want a word with you.'

Abroad

We went to France on our holidays last year. Except when we got there they said to us 'this isn't France, it's Italy!' At least that's what I think they said, I can't speak the lingo myself. It was definitely abroad anyway, they never had any proper bacon.

It bloody rained the whole time we were there wherever it was.

The Drunken Baby

Davey Brown was pushing his eight month old baby, Davey Junior, down the hill to town in his pushchair one day when he was approached from his blind side by a stranger.

'Excuse me,' said the stranger, 'are you aware that there's no baby in your pushchair?'

'No baby?' enquired Davey Brown, bending over to have a look.

'No,' replied the man, 'it's completely empty I'm afraid.'

'Hmmm, how curious,' said Davey, stroking his chin thoughtfully, 'he was there a moment ago. He was sharing his thoughts on the benefits of a private education with me.'

'Well don't worry, we'll find him,' said the stranger. 'The best thing we can do now is go down to the Crowded House and have a few drinks while we think things over.' Davey wholeheartedly agreed with this course of action, and the two men set off for the pub.

On their way, they encountered a group of four old ladies stood on a corner discussing reasons why the past was vastly superior to the present. Each had a dog of varying size.

'I don't suppose you've seen a little baby around have you?' asked the stranger cheerfully. 'This gentleman appears to have misplaced his.'

The old ladies looked the stranger up and down and then all four started barking ferociously at the two men. Their dogs rolled their eyes at each other and shook their heads in embarrassment. This was evidently a common occurrence. The two men merely shrugged and continued on their way. They had weightier matters to consider than a gang of barking old women, and besides, they were very thirsty.

Upon arriving at the pub, they ordered a pint each and went to sit in the corner to discuss Davey's predicament. However, a couple of pints later, they had moved on to other subjects, such as football statistics, venereal disease and sixteenth century monarchs. During a debate about Mary I's short but murderous reign, they were approached by the portly, red-headed farmer Jackie Scott, his cheeks as red as those of a Victorian whore.

'Ah, it's you two,' he slurred. 'How are you getting on? I've had four pints of lager, two pints of stout and three whisky chasers. I'm mangled I am, and it's not even five o'clock yet! Stitch that!'

'We're not playing that game today Jackie Scott,' said Davey Brown. 'I've lost my baby and we're cooking up a plan to find him.'

'Davey Junior?' asked Jackie Scott. 'Why I've just come from him; he's drinking over the road in the Aztec Camera. He was the one who got me the stouts fair play to him, although I don't much care for his views on education. Anyway, you should be aware that he's very, very drunk. They reckon he went in the Post Office and called Mrs Stamp 'a cracked old nipple' because she caught him stealing some envelopes. Then he apparently pissed all over the counter before they threw him out.'

'Oh dear!' laughed Davey Brown, 'I'm afraid his tolerance of alcohol isn't great what with him being so small. Well, I suppose I'd better go and fetch him home. He'll sleep tonight that's for sure!' And off he went, leaving the helpful stranger to join Jackie Scott in a round of 'the-one-who-drinks-the-most-wins'.

It later transpired that Davey Junior had become an alcoholic because Davey Brown had mistakenly been giving him brandy to drink instead of apple juice. The two bottles were kept side-by-side in the kitchen, so in all honesty it was something that could have happened to anyone.

Happily, after a period of rehabilitation, Davey Junior, who has since celebrated his first birthday, now totally abstains, although he does enjoy the odd cigarette 'just to take the edge off'. He has also revised his views on education, and now looks set to attend the local mainstream primary school when the time comes.

What D'you Reckon?

'So, what d'you reckon?'
'What about?'
'This here, I've spent ages on it.'
'What is it?'
'What d'you mean "what is it"? It's this here, look. I've been working really hard on it.'
'Oh yeah, it's good that.'
'Really? D'you think so?'
'No mate, I'm only messing; it's really, really shit. A three year old could do better.'
'Fuck off! Really?'
'Yes mate, it's fuckin' woeful. What the fuck were you thinking about?'
'I don't know really. I thought maybe it was alright.'
'Nah mate, it's properly shit. C'mon, let's go and get pissed.'
'Yeah, okay.'

'Big' Steve James's Bonfire

Gordon Fellows awoke one morning and rolled over in his bed. Then he rolled over again. And then once again, this time falling to his bedroom floor with a thud. However, Gordon wasn't done rolling yet. He rolled out of his bedroom, across the landing, down the stairs, out of the house, across the street, over a wall and into 'Big' Steve James's garden, where he came to a stop, face down in the long uncut grass.

Unfortunately, that was the exact spot 'Big' Steve James (who wasn't called 'Big' Steve James at all. He was in fact 'Big' Dan Smith, people just called him 'Big' Steve James for a laugh) had designated to build a huge bonfire to put his family members on. He'd had them for ages so he'd decided to get rid and buy some new ones with the inheritance money.

And so, without realizing he was there, 'Big' Steve James threw a load of wood and other flammable objects onto Gordon Fellows before lighting them with some previously acquired fire.

This was, of course, a tragedy for Gordon Fellows. But it turned out that it wasn't really, because Gordon was a cousin of 'Big' Steve James's on his fat mother's side, so he belonged on the bonfire after all.

Quite a relief for all concerned.

Last Night I Shat Out My Liver

Last night I shat out my liver
Now I can't ruin it with drink
But even so, I'll surely die
For a man can't live if he's shat out his liver

The Wrong Shop

And so, I awoke one morning with an inexorable urge to go to the shop to buy Chewits for my dog, Catface. He was called Catface because I'd hated the hairy little bastard from the moment I clapped eyes on him, and I wanted to give him a name that would hurt his feelings terribly. I succeeded in this aim, but he took his revenge by leaving a puddle of runny 'mess' in the middle of the kitchen floor every morning. That clever, hairy bastard. How on earth did he do it?

I'd be driven insane thinking of new ways to annoy that bastard, so you can imagine my delight when I woke up that morning with the Chewits idea. He was a greedy, clever, hairy little bastard so there was no way he would refuse a Chewit. Then, I would watch as he chewed his Chewits with his stupid dog-chewing-something-that's-too-chewy-for-him face, only pausing to look up angrily at me, whilst I roared with laughter.

With this thought alive in my mind, I bounced out of bed and ran out of the house, completely forgetting to get dressed. Out in the street, and before noticing I was stood there in nothing but my pants, I noticed that it was quite likely the windiest day ever, and most of the hair on my head and one of my eyebrows were blown clean off in seconds. I set off in the direction of the shop, but the wind was too strong. For every step forward I took I was blown at least eight steps backwards. Three hours later, I found myself twenty miles further away from the shop than I had been when I left the house, not a hair left on my body, with the exception of an indestructible left eyebrow, which remained attached, albeit an inch further up my forehead, giving me an appearance of extravagant inquisitiveness.

Fortunately, I found myself nearby another shop, and I managed to fling myself out of the terrible wind straight through the shop window, smashing it into a million pieces before landing in a heap on the floor. The lady behind the counter, who obviously hadn't been outside recently because she still had a full head of hair and a thick Stalin moustache, glanced at me disinterestedly and gave a heavy sigh.

'Chewits!' I barked at her with a certain amount of embarrassment, 'CHEWITS!'

She shook her head firmly, stroking her moustache with her thumb and index finger.

'CHEWITS!' I kept shouting, not knowing what else to do. It was as though the wind had blown away the rest of my vocabulary.

After a good seventeen minutes of this, another lady, a big fat hairy one, wearing a grey raincoat and with long, black, greasy hair welded to her scalp and the sides of her face, came stomping up from the back of the shop, causing the other customers to dive for cover in the freezer. She came right up to me, breathing on my face through her massive crusty-green nostrils.

'Chewits?' I repeated, but this time quietly, obsequiously and uncertainly.

She said nothing, just continued breathing her warm nostrily breath on my bald, exposed face. Then, suddenly, just as I was beginning to enjoy the nose breath, she performed a 'wedgie' manoeuvre on my person which was so violent in its ferocity that it caused me to weep like a repentant child. In the same movement, she lifted me with one hand by my right buttock before swinging me around and around and back out of the smashed window into the raging wind.

And that's where I remain to this day; blowing around in the wind, crying, with my pants stuck up my crack. And Catface is at home, probably watching my telly and eating my crisps. I hope he's remembered to pay the council tax, the hairy little shit.