Tag Archives: witty

Avoiding a Fight

23 Aug

A few months ago I was out drinking with a couple of mates and we found ourselves in the outside area of a large pub. It was quite a busy evening; there were no tables free so we were stood up by a small outside bar, chatting and smoking, keeping a look out for any tables that happened to be vacated. As I glanced towards the table opposite where we were stood, I saw two males sniff what was probably cocaine off of a card and up into their noses. I quickly looked away; it wasn’t any of my business, but I was surprised at how brazen they had been. I didn’t say anything to either of my mates, but looked over again and realised that both of the males were now approaching me.

As they neared, I remember thinking ‘He we go’. They were ‘proper lads’. You know the type; love boozing and chatting up the ‘birds’, three-styles-in-one haircuts, both dressed in attire usually associated with Jeremy Kyle guests and were walking like constipated apes. Proper-fucking-lads.

“What the fuck you looking at, mate?”

He was quite big, so I pretended I hadn’t seen him.

“Oi, mate. What the fuck were you looking at?”

I turned slowly round to face them.

“Me?” I started, pointing at myself. “Nothing”.

“You fucking what?”

“Nothing”

This went on for a couple of minutes; them asking me what I was looking at, and me responding with the same answer. My mates, ever helpful, stood and watched, sipping their drinks slowly. Eventually the two lads got bored with asking me the same question,

“Right, you little cunt, what’s your fucking name?”

With that, the larger of the two grabbed me by my collar and tried to pull me towards him. I stood my ground and for some reason, my Granddad’s (RIP) only ever words of wisdom came into my head – ‘If you’re ever in trouble, act like you’ve got a mental illness’.

Before I could process this thought completely in my head, I felt my mouth open and I started speaking in a posh gentleman’s voice,

“They call me The Mongdaddy, boys. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sputnik, Cauliflower, Wibble Jib-Jib!”

I extended my hand to the lad who wasn’t trying his best to remove my clothing.

“Mongdaddy? What the fuck are you on, mate”

“Why nothing fellow”, I carried on. Still I kept my posh voice. My mates now had their backs turned to us and were slowly sidestepping away from the scene.

”And it’s The Mongdaddy, parp, parp”.

With that, I pulled my hand down like you do when trying to get a haulage driver to sound his horn. I felt the grip on my collar loosen and the big lad stepped back away from me.

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Oh God no, treacle pie. The Mongdaddy is perfectly normal. Hoopla-Hoopla, come and play the hoopla! Whistle. Flute. Hairy Biscuit”

I was now doing a small jig on the spot. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a few people watching me. I must have looked like an absolute nut-job.

“Hoopla?” The lads sounded as confused as I was.

“Five attempts for a pound, my dear. Get in the cockpit and roll out the kipper”.

“Fuck off, you freak”

And with that they walked away. I returned to my mates, necked my pint and left for somewhere different.

Flowers

14 Aug

I bought you some flowers the other day,
You seemed happy to receive them.
‘But why’ you then asked, inquisitively,
Probing me for the reason.

 

The flowers I gave you were merely a gift,
A motive my Dear, I don’t need.
‘But surely there is?’ you asked me again,
And I began to regret my fine deed.

 

I love you lots, is that good enough?
I missed you today whilst away.
They’re for being you, for looking so lovely,
You’re perfect in every way.

 

‘Don’t give me that bollocks’, you started again,
Your eyes staring intently at mine.
I coughed and I spluttered and searched for an excuse,
But decided to confess to my crime.

 

‘It wasn’t the dog’, I said in a mutter,
‘That pissed on the carpet last night.
I got home drunk, and thought our room was the loo,
And that flowers would make it alright?’

 

‘The flowers are lovely’ you said with a frown,
‘But there’s something I need to tell you.
Not only did I clear up your urine today,
You left a small nugget of poo’.

The Next Sale

20 Oct

A poem about the Next Sale, for no reason in particular…

 

‘That’s a nice jumper’, I heard her say,
‘Have you worn it before today?’
‘No’, you replied, smiling intently,
‘It’s not mine; it’s one that my sister lent me’.
‘Where did she get it?’ She quizzed once more,
‘I’ll have to ask her because I’m not too sure’,
‘Please do, I love it, it’s really lush,
‘Pretty to look at and soft to touch’.

 

She approached you again that afternoon,
‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard back so soon?’
‘Actually’, you said, ‘She texted me back,
She bought this jumper, some boots and a mac’
‘Yes, but where from?’ she snapped once more,
Desperate for the name of the department store,
‘Well she got it in town at the latest Next Sale’
You watched as her face dropped and then it went pale.

 

‘The Next Sale?’ she cried and she looked rather angry,
‘That jumper, surely not? Tell me, it can’t be?’
‘Well it is’ you replied, ‘what’s wrong with that?’
‘Oh, I had a bad experience there quite a while back’.
I sat and queued up from 4 in the morning,
Whilst most people were in bed fast asleep, snoring,
‘It was the first day of the Next sale’, she said through a pout
‘And I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss out’

 

‘When the doors did finally open,
The crowd surged in, to each hunt for a bargain,
I tried in vain to push my way into the store,
But I had pins and needles in my legs from being sat on the floor.
The result of this saw me collapse to the ground,
And I could only watch as the bargains I’d found,
Were snapped up in haste by everyone else
I cried as they cleared every railing and shelf.’

 

‘By the time my legs had stopped feeling funny
I surveyed what was left on which to spend my money,
All the best garments had a long time been sold,
And all that was left looked dated and old.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that’, you said, ‘What a pity’,
‘I know’ she replied, ‘But then an idea hit me’
I punched one lady hard and made off with her bags,
I’d guessed that she’d bought all the best things that they had’.

 

‘But when I got home and had a peek inside,
I found that I’d completely wasted my time,
As in the bags were not the clothes I required,
My impromptu risk had completely backfired’
‘Go on’, you demanded, ‘what had she bought?
‘And how did you escape without getting caught?’
‘I escaped by simply running away,
And the items? Two cushions, a sheet and duvet’

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