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.