Thursday, 20 October 2016

Return to Slapam Down

Having been busy enjoying writing, among other things (other disgusting things) my regular column and articles for Index;Wiltshire, It's been a while since I released a new book, sorry but that's about to change my friends.

If you've not read A Chip off the Old Block, what are you waiting for, a sequel, Christmas, or the country to come to its senses? It's FREE on Smashwords here.

You need to read this, your life may depend on it and what is more, the sequel really is coming faster than a fast thing being fast; you have been warned.

Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet but this is officially certified the funniest thing you might read this week in accordance with the board of the funniest things you might read this week cooperation of Slough, Berkshire; if an elaborate tale of knob jokes is up your street.

So for your reading displeasure I humbly present the first chapter in a desperate attempt to lure you in, and if by some miracle it works, well, my work is done. Enjoy!


Big mouthed bigot, Jeremy Clerkscum, famous TV presenter and all-round knob-jockey, flicked through the menu and smiled. “Amazing, they do not have a single dish here that hasn’t had…. an animal callously butchered.”

It was obvious his signature presenting routine, of pausing midsentence, deepening his voice before continuing, was no gimmick for television; he really was stupid enough to think using it all the time gave him an air of superiority.

A shallow looking drip in a suit far too expensive for him looked nervously at Clerkscum from the other side of the table and advocated, “Oh, surely they have at least one vegetarian option available?” He took a quick scan of his own menu, using it as shield to shy behind when he observed, “I did not realise that you are a….ermmm…vegetarian Mr Clerkscum?”

The TV presenter was a gigantic man, twice the size of his dinner colleague, maybe even three, and he spat out some saliva when he barked. “I think all veggies should be hung, drawn and quartered at birth!”

“Oh,” the drip cowered.

“Along with any Jesus-creeping, work-shunning, left wing driblets that support the NHS, the BBC and, god forbid, them….them fucking tree-hugging, pikey hunt saboteurs; slay the fox I say, slaughter the stag now!” Jeremey raised his volume with every word until he bellowed in an insane giggle. He noticed a group of men staring at him, gathered at a table just two down from his own. “Isn’t that so Prime Minister?” he asked them.

One man nodded his approval, “Here, here, Mr Clerkscum; see you at the hunt what-what!”
“So,” his nerdy chum dared to peek over his menu, “this restaurant meets with your, ermm, satisfaction then?” His teeth chattered with the fear of Jeremey’s response.

Clerkscum took his time to answer, when he did he projected it with his trademark deep booming voice and the random little pause he did for effect, “This restaurant is the best restaurant…….in the world.”

“Oh good, I’m so glad. Now about your, ermm, about your contract with the BBC in connection with the comments you made on the Cbeebies show Out and About, you know, ermm, yes, the ones concerning, ermm, immigrant disabled children, Rottweilers, chainsaws and ermm, ethnic, ermmm, cleansing?”

Clerkscum downed his pint of Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru in one and let out a ground-shaking burp. “What about it?”

“Well, in….in….ermm…in light of, of ermm, recent complaints…..” stammered the chaperone.

“Complaints?” Clerkscum bellowed, forcing his dinner partner to grip the table cloth in fear of being blown back in his chair. “For the love of Thatcher, what can you say on the BBC these days if you can’t give a sly little joke about some towel-headed disabled kids meeting their maker, huh?”

“Well…….” The nerd slithered snake-like down his seat until only the topper most of his hair was visible over the table-top.

“Fuck this,” he bellowed. Clerkscum stood and took half of the cutlery with him, “I’ve gotta take a piss.” The nerd quivered as the plates and glasses crashed to the floor.

Bold and brash Jeremey Clerkscum waddled to the door of the gents and pushed the thing off of its hinges. He forcefully stepped inside; his hands already fingered his flies. He strode over to a urinal and gave a relaxing sigh.

He causally undone his button, slid down the zip of his trousers and straddled the urinal. At ease he looked to the wall and attempted to hoist out his great length of penis, “arghh, the best penis…….in the world….” he muttered deeply to himself with a grin.

As he fumbled some more an expression of shock and confusion flushed over his sweaty face, wiping it clean of the previous smug grin. No one outside the gent’s washroom heard his monumental cry, no matter how much volume he conducted it with. The toilets in this establishment were sound-proofed better than the recording studios of Abbey Road.


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