Preseason footy monologue with added crap, pigs arse, Gamah's toenail and spice

Discussion in 'Creative' started by Imgormiel, Jul 16, 2007.

  1. Imgormiel

    Imgormiel Part of the furniture

    to hide the taste....

    Disclaimer :

    The following characters, places and events are entirely ficticious and purely to be viewed for entertainment value.

    Note for mods,

    Yes, there's excessive profanity in this monologue and it wasn't designed to piss you off, as it's supposed to be as real life a story as I can get without it being real life. Please do not remove it as I spent hours writing it and it is entirely creative writing :)

    And finally, this is not meant to offend anyone who lives in Bolton nor any of the football clubs supporters. Apologies in advance if it does as I am not a football supporter of that club. But it seemed right to have a Mancunian/narthan accent when writing it :)
    Enjoy :)

    Pin man​

    ‘Oh fucking hell!’ Not again. It’s funny how nights out on the piss gets you into stupid corners. It’s five o’clock in the morning and I’ve got this terrible bloody hangover. I only went out to the off license to get the missus a couple of nibbles and some wine so she could watch NYPD Blue in the comfort of our matrimonial home. And what happens? Here I am in this boggy ditch in the middle of nowhere with clothes half covered in mud and a head banging inside worse than Led Zeppelin’s drummer could do his worst. Mi’ Bolton shirt is ruined!

    She sent me out about ten hours ago and I had absolutely no intention of going to the pub. ‘Be a good boy for me Dave!’ she said. ‘I want us to spend the night in together for a change’, she said. ‘Just for you sweetness’, I told her as I left the house with a sigh of relief.

    I mean everything was going great, all I had to do was just walk down the road and do the simplest of things - buy some wine and some nibbles from the offy and come back home. Not hard. But then I was in for the usual moment of disappointing her as I saw Johnny Beerhead walking towards me from far down the street. ‘Oh bollocks here we go’, I thought. Now don’t get me wrong, he’s alright. He’s a good mate. But not tonight of all nights, please!

    But I should have known that such idle pleas just were not going to work. After all Beerhead had already had a sherbet or three and things were just bound to go wrong now that I’d seen him. ‘Come on ya wimp, let’s get tanked!’ He shouted down the road, ‘She’ll keep for another night’, I remember him saying vividly. And I just couldn’t help bring that wild greasy floppy grin to my face and think to miself, ‘ah fuck it then’. And she was always right about me ya know. I’ve absolutely no willpower when it comes to getting pissed down the Bug and Bite. Life just couldn’t exist without it.

    Shit, I am so cold, what’s going on? This bloody mist is making me shiver all over – I am so cold. Johnny is still lying there three sheets to the wind. ‘Get up ya daft bastard’, I shouted at him. He didn’t move. But that’s not like him, normally if you shout his name he’s up faster than you can say ‘Mine’s a pint of cider!’ So I crouched down and started shoving him, ‘Johnny, Beerhead, it’s time to go home!’ He still doesn’t move and face is flat down in the mud. So I turned up over so I could slap some sense into him and get him moving. The pub would be open soon. He was always there for early doors, never missed it – ever. But he’d have no need of that anymore. I knew there was something wrong when I saw a small river of blood coming out of his gob.

    It was then I started to panic. He’s got a dirty great big shot gun wound in the middle of his stomach and there’s a pale white blank stare on his face. Next thing I knew I was dancing around in a circle, stomping my feet on the floor and pulling at mi’ hair. ‘Shiiiiiiit!!!’ I screamed aloud.

    What am I am gonna do? Mi’ best mate’s dead, I can’t bloody remember what’s happened and the missus is going to kill me for going AWOL and ruining her night.

    Mi’ heart starts pounding with panic and I am breathing ten to the dozen. Then I started feeling pain in mi’ stomach. It was a strange kind of pain though, not like you know when you have been running and you get a stitch - It was agony all over! I had to pull up mi’ Bolton T-shirt up and take a better look. ‘Oh fuck! What’s happened to me? Where did all this come from? Fucking, bastard hell!’

    I started looking frantically around me to see what sign of how we got here that could give some sign of what’s happened. But I couldn’t see anything save for the thousands of pins left stuck in mi’ fat lardy stomach. My mind started racing and yet I couldn’t think, and for some reason I couldn’t help but start to slowly try to pull each pin out of my belly.

    As I pulled at the first one, the memory of the previous night started to trickle in about what exactly had happened.

    The Bug had got a bit dull, which was a bit unusual. I mean it’s a great pub when the footy is on and we’re watching Bolton play. Just to sit there and watch the telly screen and see Diouf run down the wings, attacking the defenders and finally blast the ball into the net. It’s like the whole world outside that pub doesn’t exist, and everyone including yourself in that bar are the only people on the planet. There’s no feeling like it. Not even hanging on the terraces like the Herbert I used to be and then meeting the opposition supporters and then giving them a good kicking after the game – Mugs game that I tell ya. Vive la fucking Bug n’ Bite!!

    But there was no footy on last night, none. That’s why I was gonna stay in with the missus and give her that once a week matrimonial that we did when I wasn’t being a selfish twat. Beerhead had this idea to go down to the Pogue Madaneen and meet these Irish blokes to pick up some whizz - Just to liven things up like.

    Now Beerhead, he could keep some dodgy company at times, which wasn’t surprising as a character like him gets a bit reckless with people when spending most of the time pissed. He liked living his life just like the razor blade he used for his whizz – on the edge.

    We went down there to score fifteen bags of the stuff. I mean fifteen fucking bags of the stuff!! What were we, Mobile human vacuum cleaners? I only needed one to get off mi’ head. But not happy with that Beerhead had to add a bit of spice to the deal. The whizz was given to us while the Irish blokes went to the bar. They would only be a minute to get a quick pint and sit down have a laugh with us. Beerhead only hadn’t paid them yet, and at the time legging it from them seemed like a good idea as I thought it would be a laugh.

    The rest seems just a blur after we’d got back to the Bug. Pints just kept flowing and me and Johnny got into the usual banter of drinking like fish and talking shite all night till closing. The Irish probably came looking for us at the pub and tried to top me and Beerhead for ripping them off. They must have dumped us here after they’d waited for us to come out, easy targets too probably, too easy after we had arrived at that state of being so shit faced.

    Where in the fuck am I? I need a hospital. I need a fucking hozzy!! Shit fucking shit!!! Well, there’s nothing I can do for Beerhead now, fuck the daft bastard, no doubt the Police will find him after I sort myself out.

    The sun started to rise on the horizon and I could clearly see Bolton town down the hill. ‘So the hospital must be only down the road’, I thought as I started to walk as quickly as this fat bastard had ever walked in his life. Mi’ mind was clearly still racing, and the people in the cars driving past me must have wondered what I was doing pulling all of those pins out of my stomach with that lunatic laughing face I had while walking down the road. I just couldn’t help but have this strange fascination with the small streams of blood pouring down my navel. Isn’t it funny how you get fixated on yourself when you think you are dying? But at least I am still alive.

    Still walking like a madman after getting into the Bolton town centre. I only had to go and bump into one of mi’ neighbours. Only the world’s biggest loud mouth walking towards me – Arty Fact. Stupid bugger renamed himself by deed poll so he could stand out as one of the best senior journalists of the Bolton Star. He kept secrets worse than I kept the shits from mi’ arse after a night of beer and Vindaloo takeaway. He wasn’t mi’ favourite neighbour but he was alright despite being a stuck up bastard.

    ‘Arite Dave, been avoiding the missus again have ya?’ he said in that familiar smarmy sarcastic tone. ‘That beer stained rain coat doesn’t suit ya you know’, I snapped at him. One smart aleck comment deserves another in my ‘humble’ opinion.

    Well, I had to tell him didn’t I? I am covered in shite and mi’ blood coming out of mi’ stomach like I am a walking block of grated cheese. And he probably wouldn’t let me go as he sensed he was onto a right corker of a story.

    ‘Arty, it’s like I am pin man with all these pins in me! You’ve got to help me, I might be dying!! Do you think I am gonna need an X-ray??’ I pleaded with him. He just stood there laughing at me for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know what to say. It was then he turned to me and said, ‘You DAFT FUCKING BASTARD!’

    Cheers, and more next time when I get too on writing my novel in first person in too much when I should be writing more third and thus I found my remedy :)

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