Hello there and Happy New Year to you all. Hope you had a nice break from work and didn’t drink/smoke/eat so much that you now need a month in rehab! If you do, I’m at the Priory in Roehampton. Ronnie Wood and Frankie Cocozza say ‘Hi!’
Apologies for not managing the Christmas shopping story I promised you in my last post, but you know, I was Christmas shopping and stuff…
Anyway, it’s all about the story this time! Big thanks to my friend ‘Prince Mick’ for the idea… and sorry – it probably hasn’t turned out quite how you expected 😉
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Barry was bouncing. The sun was shining and the girls on the High Street were blow-dried and fake-baked and blessed with bountiful boobs, ok, maybe not blessed but they’d certainly been under the hands of an accomplished surgeon. Oh how Barry wished he was a surgeon! Spending his time drawing circles on naked tits and repositioning nipples. He bet those surgeons got paid in more than moolah if they did a good job! Barry wasn’t bright enough to be a surgeon though. Barry was a banker. A good one, make no mistake, but the only tit tangling he got to do on a daily basis was with those thick fuckers in the back office… and it was this that had brought him to the High Street in the first place.
It was Jenny from accounts’ boyfriend’s fortieth birthday, and for some reason Barry had been invited. Barry didn’t usually get invited to things. He usually just turned up and hoped that everyone would be too pissed to realise they hadn’t invited him. See, Barry wasn’t just a banker. He was actually a complete wanker. He’d stopped caring about it years ago and just got on with it. He usually managed to find a bird somewhere. Sometimes it was one who was too drunk to take her own knickers off, but Barry was always on hand for that. He was a dab hand at taking off knickers. He kept them too. He had quite a collection in the bedroom of his penthouse. He jammed them all into a screw top jar from Ikea that’d he’d bought one day when his mum had made him follow her around the place buying things for his flat that he didn’t need. What the fuck did she expect him to do with a fucking garlic press, for fuck’s sake? Stupid old bint. The jar was good for storing the knickers though. Sometimes when he was bored, he unscrewed the top and had a good sniff while he emptied the chamber. They didn’t call him Barry the Wanker for nothing!
So, on this sunny afternoon in early January, Barry had decided to go and buy a fortieth birthday present for this twat that he didn’t know. Main reason being, Jenny was a bit of a whore and he was bound to get a grab of her under a pile of coats or something, once she’d swilled a few Whoo Hoos or Moo Moos or whatever the fuck they’re called. He thought about just getting a bottle of supermarket plonk, but then he remembered that Jenny’s friend was going to the party too. She’d just been dumped by a serial bastard from collateral that all the girls called ‘King Dong’. Unoriginal, maybe, but they queued up for it on a Friday night after the ‘buy 2 glasses get the rest of the bottle free’ offer had been taken full advantage of. So, deciding to go for the double, he walked into Majestic Wine Warehouse and had a good squint round at the selection.
The stuck up little shit behind the counter got the measure of him straight away. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘I need a bottle of red,’ Barry said. He leant one arm on the counter in an attempt to look blasé and cool. The kid rolled his eyes at him in a ‘What a prick’ gesture. Barry knew it well. He got it all the time. He wasn’t happy about this narrow shouldered little tax-dodger giving it to him though. Barry stood up straight. ‘A fucking good one, right? Some of that Chatow noof whatsit.’
The kid sniggered. ‘Who’re you?’ he said. ‘Del Boy fucking Trotter?’
That was it. Barry snapped. He had one of those tempers that came bang out of nowhere. Not even a warning, like the waves being sucked back before a Tsunami. It was one minute ‘Hello!’ and next minute you’d be on the floor, trying to wrestle your head out of an armpit. He leant over the counter to grab the kid by the lapels… but he was too slow. The kid had disappeared!
‘Oi, you little bastard!’ Barry shouted, leaning over the box of giant green Quality Street triangles that sat next to the till. The kid shot back up, brandishing a baseball bat. Barry lurched, and the kid swung. Knocked him clean off his feet and into a metal basket full of out of date Golden Wonder.
‘Fuck off!’ the kid spat. ‘Get the fuck out of my shop!’
Barry groaned and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to pull himself up. ‘You little shit,’ he said. He felt a tooth wobbling in his mouth. The kid whacked his fingers with the baseball bat and Barry screamed. ‘Jesus!’ Barry sobbed. ‘Jesus!’ The kid stood back and let him hobble away towards the door. ‘I think you’ve broken my fingers,’ Barry said, feeling blood, saliva and shame dribbling down his chin.
The kid just shook his head and walked back behind the counter. Acted like nothing had happened. Barry crawled out of the shop, pulled himself up on a post box. He stood there and felt stupid tears rolling down his fat cheeks, mixing with the bloody mess of his mouth. He stared at his ruined fingers and wondered what it was he’d done wrong.
A woman in an electric wheelchair buzzed alongside him and stopped.
‘Help me,’ Barry whimpered.
The woman just tutted; then slapped him across the face and hissed:
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Heheheh – sorry to all you bankers out there. Just a bit of fun… 😉
See you next time, Rat Fans.