A hand drawn invitation, with a cheap gold flash and lashings of garish glitter, plopped onto the coconut mat beside the 14th Century oak doors of Gripewater Grange. It excitedly proclaimed not one, but two social events in the village of Sozzlebury both on the same evening.
Firstly, that the village pub, The Goat and G-string, was under new management AND a new flavour of prongles was about to be launched onto the market that very same night.
How could the chavs cope with such a momentous event? It would be the highlight of their life for many of them, and their social diaries were cleared for such an important event.
The invitation went on to explain that the pub was also, in line with new management, being renamed The Bleeding Sheep’s Intestines. To give it a more traditional Olde Englande feel, and would from now on be serving traditional English fare such as Balti’s and Vindaloo. One free drink and nibbles per customer on presentation of the invite were enticingly offered to lure punters in to the launch evening.
Lady F was about to file the invitation in the bin along with all the flyers for ring-up-a-pizza and offers at the local Kwop, which mainly seem to feature baked beans and booze.
“One should never turn one’s nose up at a free evening out,” advised Skrowte as he dusted off the invite and placed it in his breast pocket.
And so it was, Chulls and his wife Cami-Knickers Park Your Bowler Hat, Lady F, Skrowte and myself in my basket, found ourselves ensconced in the snug of the Bleeding Sheep’s Intestines which had a centuries old carpet, soaked in beer and walls covered in anaglypta and coloured in a rather exclusive shade of nicotine yellow.
Chulls’ request for a chilled bottle of Cristal for his free drink at the bar was met with a withering stare from Chantel, the new licensee.
“You get either a badger bite or a lush legover if yer don’t want lager,” she sneered, her bouffant hair scraped up and held in place by a full can of hair spray over a week ago and looked like mice or the odd cockroach may be nesting in there by now. Her fake leopard skin mini shirt stretched tightly, straining over her ample thighs and huge bottom accentuating the cellulite. Chulls did his best not to glare down the grand canyon of Chantel’s cleavage, all fake tan and wrinkled and held up with an old grey bra which was straining at the cups.
The pub filled up with chavs from the village all desperate for a freebie drink, and the excitement and desperation to taste the new flavoured prongles. Cocktails were very popular with the ladies.
The Womble Fart, The Anal-Squeaker and The Boring-Bonker were especially popular and created by Chantel’s husband Norm especially for the evening. The main constituent of each cocktails was slops from the overflow tray from the beer pump.
After Cami-Knickers Park Your Bowler Hat had downed a Womble Fart in one she then went on the neck the Anal-Squeaker and two Bladder Busters. Chulls was jolly impressed. Especially when she got up on a table and warbled tunelessly: “When you are king, dilly, dilly, I WILL be queen”!
The highlight of the evening was the launch of the new flavour prongle. There was a representative from the prongle factory handing out freebie prongle beer mats and key rings in the shape of oversized prongles. Then, after a shot fanfare from Norm tapping a spoon on a set of sherry schooners, a white tablecloth was whipped off a huge plate of prongles as the chavs salivated in anticipation.
The new addition to the range, created personally by Heston Bloomingbollards at great expense, was Chorizo with a fusion of pickle and a mist of caramelised raspberries hand finished with goat hairs, resulted in a stampede across the pub as the chavs raced to be the first to get their grubby fingers on them and get the new prongles down their necks. The table collapsed, prongles flew everywhere as the sozzled chavs of Sozzlebury grabbed at the crisps as they flew through the air which then, being so fresh, just crumbled into dust in their grasping fists.
Anger started to boil as the highlight of the evening lay in crumbs on the grubby beer soaked floor, being licked up by the pub dog, Grunter. Skrowte quickly rounded up Chulls, Lady F, Cami-Knickers Park Your Bowler Hat and grabbed my basket as we hustled our way out of The Bleeding Sheep’s Intestines and into Roger the Roller before the usual Friday fisticuffs broke out.
“Another epicurean feast has passed us by Madam,” Skrowte commented as he put the car into gear and gently drove Roger the Roller back to Gripers. “Anyone for cheese on toast?”
“How quaint,” commented Chulls. “Would it be organic cheese, from milk raised by much loved cows wandering free on the estate of Douche of Cordwalls and hand churned with love by county virgins with ruddy cheeks and..………..”
“Oh, Chulls,” shrieked F Cami-Knickers Park Your Bowler Hat. “Who bloody cares. I could eat a scabby horse on toast. Just get on with it.”
So Skrowte found some mouldy old Kwop mousetrap cheese at the back of the fridge, and started grating.
One Cat is Company
"One cat is company.
Two cats are a conspiracy.
Three cats is an attempted takeover.
Four or more cats is a complete coup!"
Shona Steele (Australia)
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