A time and a place
So, I’m down this nice little boozer last night, down ‘oxton an’ that, an’ its proper posh, wiv decent grub an cheap lager an’a proper ‘ot fuckin’ barmaid an’ everyfin’, know what I mean?
I was ‘avin’ a right good night an’ that, except for this fuckin’ couple in the booth opposite us. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favour of love and romance. I Fuckin’ love all that shit: bash any cunt’s skull in for my missus, I would, even when she’s in the wrong. I mean, I buy ‘er fuckin’ underwear an’ blow an’ fags an’ all sorts’a shit. I don’ even feel gay when we do all that kissy-kissy, foreplay bullshit; that’s ‘ow much I love ‘er. But this couple in that booth, well, its enough to make you wanna puke, know what I mean?
They’re doin’ all this “I wuv you honey bunny!” shit, an’ me an the missus are makin’ eyes at each uvver, like ‘get a fuckin’ room ya cunts!’ Next fing you know is, these cunts are feedin’ each uvver each uvver’s fuckin’ food. ‘Now, if you wanted chicken, fuckin’ biriani ya cunt,’ I’m finkin’ ‘then fuckin’ order it!’ know what I mean?
It’s when they start leanin’ over an’ fuckin’ kissin’, that I get the arse. I mean, the cunt’s tie is danglin’ in ‘is fuckin’ beer, the fuckin’ dicksplash! I lean under the table an’ tell the missus to stop suckin’ my cock, “I’ve ‘ad enough”, I tell ‘er, “We’re fuckin’ leavin!” I mean, there’s a time and a place for everything, know what I mean?
Now, I’ve voted Labour all me life, jus’ like my old man did. I mean, its the party of the workin’ class, ain’t it? Can’t stand them Tory cunts, all posh an’ that. So, you can imagine my fucking ‘orror then, when this posh cunt turns up at my fuckin’ door, tellin’ me ‘e’s my Labour member of fuckin’ parliamnent. I mean, this cunt’s more middle-classed than the fuckin’ queen, the cunt. Know what I mean?
An’ ‘e’s all bangin’ on about them air-to-surface missiles the army got up on our roof for the ‘lympics an’ that, an’ ‘ow that makes us a target for terrorist attacks, an’ ‘ow that violates our ‘uman rights and shit. Now Mickey’s on the Wii an’ everyfin’, but ‘e knows that if ‘e ‘ears me screamin’ the word ‘cunt’ for more than a coupla minutes at some mother-fucker, then ‘is attendance is required. ‘e ‘splains to this little wank stain just ‘ow much ‘e loves ‘avin’ our brave boys on the roof, an’ ‘ow ‘e loves to take ‘is youngest up there to look at all them uniforms and guns and stuff, ‘ow proud ‘e feels. I keep me mouf shut about ‘ow we’ve been floggin’ them boys with the S-to-A crack and ice and acid and let Mickey just tell ‘im that no tree-huggin’, bi-fuckin-sexual like ‘im can ever represent the workin’ man. Know what I mean?
Any’ow this ‘omo Cambridge cunt comes out with all this “…but even if we did intercept a genuine terrorist threat, the plane those chaps shot down would still, nevertheless, crash into a residential area, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people.”
“Yeah,” I point out, “poor people though, not dignitaries or celebrities, but people what don’t matter!” and while I’m wondering just what it is they teach these cunts at uni-fuckin-versity, i catch Mickey, out of the corner of me eye, searchin’ ‘is pockets for a blade. Now, I don’t wanna see some politician sliced up on me own doorway, that just ain’t democratic, if you know what I mean. So I send Mickey back to the console and deal with the situation meself.
I coulda been a good politician, I reckon. I only had to dangle that cunt over the balcony, by his ankles for 8.5 seconds before ‘e done what politicians call a U-turn. That’s faster than what Usain Bolt run the 100 metres. Know what I mean?
So Mickey’s boy, Brad, ‘as come ‘ome all pissed off and upset and cryin’ and shit, know what I mean. ‘parently ‘im an’ ‘is mates was pissing on some homeless cunt while ‘e was asleep, when the cunt gets up an’ smacks one of Brad’s mates right in the kisser an’ scares the shit out of ’em all. Little cunt’s only fuckin’ nine, know what I mean?
Any’ow, they’ve torn up his cardboard fucking castle an’ chucked some bricks at ‘im an’ shit, but Brad’s mate’s proper shook up an’ that.
Nah, don’t get me wrong, I love the fuckin’ ‘omeless, I always buy the Big Issue off that cunt that moves our rock down the Elephant, an’ I’ll chuck a dollar or two at any cunt what begs ‘ard enough. But this shit’s different, its on our own street and I ain’t puttin’ up wiv that, know what I mean?
So, we grab the kids and pay this fuckin’ toilet a visit an ‘teach the cunt a lesson. I learn sumffin’ too. I learn sumffin about ‘omeless people. I learn that they are ‘arder to set on fire than you might fink. Know what I mean?
So, me an’ Mickey are reminiscing about the football, like ‘ow it ain’t what it used to be, back in the day, in the 70s an’ 80’s an’ that. “S’all about fuckin’ money these days.” I say.
“Used to be different.” ‘e agrees.
“Used to be about skill and passion and hatred.” I point out an’ ‘e nods sadly into ‘is lager.
Me an’ Mickey never missed a fuckin’ game an’ never failed to get stuck in. They used to search you at the turnstiles back then, for weapons, an’ that. They never took no notice though, if all you ‘ad was a pocket full of loose change, an’ you can do a lot of damage wiv a 10p coin, if you chuck it right, know what I mean? “You remember that silly cunt ‘oo let me in wiv me darts?” Mickey grins suddenly, an’ we both ‘ave a chuckle.
“Yeah,” I grin, “and that cunt what shouted ‘One ‘undred and fuckin’ eighty!’ when you ‘it that Gooner in the eyeball wiv one” an’ we both ‘ave a right laugh.
“Shame they never ‘ad camera phones back then,” ‘e says, “one to show the grandchildren, that would ‘ave been.”
“Yeah, that was fuckin’ ‘ilarious!” I agree. Neither of us can remember the score that day but we remember the look on that cunt’s face. Coins was the best though, ’cause no cunt could stop you takin’ change into the ground. Mickey come up wiv the idea of sharpenin’ the edges. ‘E was always a clever cunt, even at school.
‘Course now they got CC fuckin’ TV cameras everywhere, and you don’t get to ‘ave no fun at all. We don’t even bovver goin’ these days. All that money’s fuckin’ ruined football, know what I mean?
Tomato fucking bollocks
We go to Costa Brava every year, know what I mean? Me ‘n’ Micky ‘n’ the girls and the kids. Fuckin’ love it, we do. The food is fuckin’ out of this world. ‘cept for this one place we tried once, the Montón de Mierda or some shit. Anyway, it was a fuckin’ disgrace, I mean you couldn’t call that pile of shit a fuckin’ restaurant. Any’ow Mickey decides its time to complain. “Whatchya mean there ain’t no fuckin’ chips?” ‘e says to the waiter, “I come ‘ere on a fuckin’ plane ya cunt!” ‘e goes, “I got fuckin’ kids ‘ere! What am I supposed to do with this tomato fucking bollocks?”
So, Mickey gets up like, an’ I grab ‘is beer, so’s not to spill none, in case it kicks off, and ‘e takes this pan of tomato shit and shoves it in this cunt’s face. Its like somethin’ out of Laurel and fuckin’ ‘ardy, except its scaldin’ ‘ot and this cunt is rollin’ round on the floor, clutchin’ at ‘is face an’ screamin’ like ‘e’d just shat a ton of fucking pineapples. Its hilarious, and me and the kids are pissin’ ourselves. The girls don’t even notice, they’re doin’ some shit on their iPhones, know what I mean?
Any’ow, we decide we’ve ‘ad enough of this shit and decide to go to our favourite caff, the El Inglés Son Gilipollas, they fuckin’ love us there, an’ get some proper grub. On the way out I pay the bill, an’ leave a tip. I mean, we ain’t rude, and we don’t wanna give us English a bad name or nuffin’. Know what I mean?
“Awright! Awright!” I shout, “Its a doorbell, not a fuckin’ juke box!” Some cunt’s in trouble, disturbin’ me when I’m on the Wii, know what I mean? But its Mickey an’ ‘e’s seevvin’ abaht sumffin’.
“Some fuckin’ paedo’ ‘as only just moved in down the the fuckin’ street!” ‘e tells me.
“Who?” I ask, already lookin’ for me Stanley knife.
“That posh cunt at 23.” ‘e says, an’ I’m not surprised, a right snotty cunt ‘e is. Any’ow this can’t be allowed to stand, can’t ‘ave the kiddies round ‘ere put at any risk from some nonce, it ain’t right, so we tool up and pay the cunt a little visit, know what I mean?
Any’ow Mickey’s kickin’ this cunt’s ‘ead around is livin’ room like its a fuckin’ football and ‘e’s David fuckin’ Beckham, an’ ‘is wife’s all like screaming “No! No! He’s a paediatrician! He’s a paediatrician!”
“Well, we fuckin’ know that, you daft bitch.” I tell ‘er, “Why do you fink we’re ‘ere.?”
Now, one fing abaht me, is I can’t fuckin’ stand racists, there ain’t no call for that kind of fing, know what I mean? So we drags this racist cunt outside, an’ ‘e’s all like “I’m not a racist.” an’ “My girlfriend is black.” Now, that don’t make no sense. Just coz a cunt likes a bitta black pussy, don’t mean ‘e ain’t a fuckin’ Nazi, know what I mean? I mean I fucked a Chelsea fan once, don’t mean I’m gonna support ’em, does it? Any’ow Mickey saw ‘im lookin’ funny at our mucker Black Gary, so we know ‘e’s a racist cunt, know what I mean?
So, Mickey widens the cunt’s smile wiv ‘is Stanley knife an’ ‘olds ‘is face down on the kerb while I stamp on ‘is head a bit. I use ‘is phone to call an ambulance an’ me and Mickey get back inside The Duck and Flick Knife for anovver pint, fuckin’ chilly out there, it was. A cunt could catch ‘is deff, defendin’ civil rights sometimes. Know what I mean?
So there’s this writer cunt, OK? Kyle sumffin’, an’ ‘e’s been saying shit abaht me an’ Micky on the fuckin’ internet, on his gay-arsed blog, the cunt. Obviously this can’t be allowed to stand, you know what I mean?
So, I bells Mickey an’ ‘e’s fuckin’ fumin’, right, gettin’ ‘is tools togevver, chargin’ up ‘is nail gun an’ that, so’s we can go rahnd there and teach the cunt a lesson. Then ‘e says, “‘ang on, why don’t we send the girls in?” Now, that’s a right cuntish suggestion, coz our women are way fuckin’ crueller than we are. I mean, I like to jump up and down on a cunt’s face like the best of ’em, but I like to get in an’ out, quick like, do the damage an’ get back down the pub, less chance of gettin’ nicked that way too, know what I mean?
Any’ow Mickey’s gotta point, this writer cunt needs needs shit explaining to ‘im carefully, an’ ‘oo better to do that than the girls? Likeisay, much meaner than us they are. My Trace fuckin’ revels in it, spend fuckin’ hours working on a cunt, that girl can. Once right, she come ‘ome wiv this bloke’s dick in ‘er bag an’ fed it to the dog. Fuckin’ ‘ell, ‘ow we laughed. Sometimes I fink she gets some kinda sexual kick aht of it, an’ I don’t blame ‘er. I mean, I ain’t ‘ad an ‘ard-on for eight years, not since the ‘eart attack an’ them puttin’ me on these beta blockers like. Well, you can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get ‘er rocks off nah and then can yer, know what I mean?
So I gives ‘er the writer’s address an’ tells ‘er to take her time but to leave the cunt breavin’. She gets ‘er little blow torch ready and some pliers and some fuse wire an’ bells Shaz, Mickey’s bird. Before she ‘eads off I say “‘Ang on, why dontcha take little Whitney wiv yer?” She’s eleven now and it would be good for ‘er to see ‘ow we do business. I mean, I’m a parent, it would be irresponsible not to take an interest in me kid’s education, know what I mean?
Hang on a sec, I will finish this post in a minute. There are people at the door, two women and a young girl.
So, they wanna put Mickey’s lovely little staf, Britney, down. Just cos she bit some cunt. I mean, she’s a dog, what the fuck do you expect, know what I mean? Ok, so she ‘alf tore off this fucker’s face and sunk ‘er gnashers so ‘ard into ‘is bollocks that you could’ve ‘eard ‘im screaming in Deptford. Wish I’d got it on me phone, funny as fuck, it was.
So, we go round the cop shop to sort it aht. an’ there’s this little dicksplash, Dembrow, I fink it is. ‘E’s allright though, ‘elped us shift’a load’a snuff movies last year, an’ I ain’t abaht to bubble him for this or nuffin’. I mean, you don’t fuck with a man’s trade, it ain’t respectful, know what I mean? We’re all nice ‘n’that. I ask ‘im how ‘is kids are. I know their names, their ages, wot schools they go to, wot grades they get. ‘E looks proper uneasy, know what I mean? I tell ‘im ‘ow pretty ‘is four year old Emily is.
Cunt gets the message, paperwork gets lost and sweet little Britney, ‘oo is brilliant wiv kids by the way and would kill any cunt just for looking at Mickey’s wrong, gets to live another day. You gotta ‘ave respect for life, is wot I say. Know what I mean?