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.
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