Thursday, 30 June 2011

Dreams, Burgers & Lager

We've just come back from a trip to Hyde Park, where Tony wanted to "get in touch with mother nature."
Tony and me go to the park every now and then, because living in a flat, we haven't got a garden, and every now and then, even we like to get out and about, to get away from the shitty part of London, where we live.
Of course, the boy also likes to watch girls go walking by, wishing that he was a lot slimmer, a lot richer, and better looking, so he could have the chance of walking hand in hand with some of the more attractive women who live in London, instead of the usual dogs who we bump into in the pub.
I tell the fat bastard every time that he's destined for nothing better than women of the canine variety, and all the while he refuses to change his ways, women are hardly going to fall at his feet, wanting to have his babies, and spend the rest of their lives with him.
The boy reckons I'm right, but refuses to change his ways, saying that he's a man whose life is built on principles.
Well, of course, I've never heard so much crap in my entire life, and whilst principles are all very nice, I told him that sometimes we have to change, if we're going to get ahead in life.
Tony just laughed, and said that all the while he's got a cheeseburger to eat, and lager to drink, he doesn't really think that he needs anything else in life.
Once again, the boy has got all of his priorities completely fucked up, but if he's happy, who gives a fuck!

Sunday, 26 June 2011

Charming The Birds From The Trees

Tony was on top form in the pub last night, entertaining his audience with his vulgar jokes and telling everybody about his colourful past.
What's more, we were both joined by two American students, who are in London for a few weeks, to get a feel of what life is like in the big city.
Well, to Tony, this was a gift from the gods, and when he saw that Kathy and Melissa seemed to be in awe of him, he soon toned down his language, and turned on the charm, telling our latest admirers that when he's not in the pub getting hammered, he's usually sat behind a desk, running an investment bank in the heart of London.
Kathy and Melissa were most impressed, and when Tony added that he's got a yacht in the south of France, and a house in Mayfair, I thought that the two beauties from Chicago were literally going to wet themselves.
I reckon the boy was right to invite the girls to St. Tropez for a long weekend,  and Kathy and Melissa agreed to fly out in Tony's private jet.
Off course, at the end of the evening, the boy told the girls that in fact he's a hopeless loser, who hasn't worked for years, and who spends most of his time drinking, swearing and chasing after female tourists, hoping to lure them back to our flat, to "do things with one another."
The girls just laughed, and said that they just love the English so much, and that Tony, despite all of his faults, was a typical down to earth guy, who's obsessed with beer, football and fucking.
Needless to say, despite Tony promising Kathy and Melissa a night to remember, the two girls thanked us for our kindness, and left the pub, seemingly glad to have escaped the fat bastard's clutches.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

A Hairdresser From Hell

Last night the pub seemed to be the epicentre of homosexuality, as the place was overrun with a vast number of very gay men, all making a nuisance of themselves.
Sid chuckled when he saw them all arrive in the pub at the same time, and although he, like us, prefers men to be men, he was glad to take their money from them.
Apparently, all of the men were hairdressers, and they were in London to attend an exhibition.
Tony asked one of the men why is it that all male hairdressers are fucking queer, to which the hairdresser replied that he WASN'T gay, and was in fact happily married, with two kids. At that point, Tony laughed, and said that straight, male hairdressers just don't exist.
Well, the guy was most offended, but seeing that Tony looked like somebody who could become easily violent, he turned his attention to Sid, and asked him if he had a problem with gay, male hairdressers.
Sid smiled and said that he will serve anything and anybody in his pub, providing that it or they are older than eighteen, and it or they don't make a nuisance of themselves.
The guy was most impressed, and said Sid was an example of the older generation coming to terms with the fact that homosexuality is here to stay.
When the queers finally left the pub, to do whatever it is they do to one another, Sid bought me and Tony a drink, and said that the world has gone fucking mad.
Tony and me agreed, and after finishing our drinks, we headed off home, happy in the knowledge that Tony had refrained from beating the hell out of somebody, after being pushed to his very limits.
Still, as Tony said, since he's been attending his anger-management classes, he reckons that he's become a big, soft teddy-bear, who understands that the world is full of all sorts of people, even if some of those people are fucking odd!

Saturday, 18 June 2011

Pizza, Pasta & Ice Cream

The boy Tony and me have just come back from the pub, where we found ourselves in the company of two Italian, female tourists, who said they had come to London to get a taste of what life is really like in England.
Well, of course, Tony wasted no time in trying to get the two girls to come back to our flat, by promising them a lunch of pizza, pasta and ice cream, followed by an afternoon of wild sex, strong lager and cheeseburgers for supper.
Unfortunately, despite our efforts to woo two of Italay's finest exports, the girls were having none of it. Tony was not surprisingly hurt by this latest in a long line of refusals, claiming that either the girls were just too stupid to see what they had turned down, or that they were in fact a pair of lesbians, who preferred to, as he put it, "do things with one another, instead of doing things with us."
Anyway, as Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub said, it's no good thinking about what might have been, as God works in mysterious ways, and everything that happens in life, happens for a reason.
I reckon Sid is right, because when the girls finally left the pub, we were joined at the bar by three Australian girls, who said that they were on a hiking tour of England.
Tony wasted no time in telling the trio that Kylie Minogue is his favourite singer, and that when he was young, he was East London's junior boomerang throwing champion. Well, the girls just loved the attention they were getting, and what's more, they've agreed to come to the flat tonight, to enjoy an evening meal with Tony and me, followed by - we hope - a hike around our bedrooms.
Now, as we all know, mathematically, two into three isn't a perfect fit, but when it comes to wild sex, it's a number that opens up so many opportunities, so Tony and I can't wait to see just what our dinner guests have in mind, after our pizza, pasta and ice cream.

Monday, 13 June 2011

Sex With Her Downstairs

Tony's worried that the woman downstairs is coming on to him big time. Of course, Tony is normally flattered when somebody of the opposite sex shows even the slightest interest in him, but her downstairs? - Well, that's something else.
She's Spanish, you see, and apart from the fact that she can't speak a word of English, she also has a terrible problem with facial hair. Tony reckons that you would need nerves of steel to spend an evening with something like that, and in the morning, find it lying next to you in bed.
I told the fat bastard that he's being a bit fussy, and after ten pints of lager and a few whiskies, even the ugliest of women seem to be attractive. The boy chuckled, and said that I'm probably right, and right now he's stood in front the mirror, telling himself that he can see why women think he's so charming.
He also says that he's going to spend a few hours on the internet later, learning a few essential phrases in Spanish, which he reckons will show her downstairs that he's a man of many talents. The phrases he has in mind are (a) I want to fuck you senseless, but without feeling your hairy face against mine, (b) Can you go and get me a few bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, and (c) Sorry I can't see you tonight, because I slept with you last night, and quite frankly, I don't want to repeat the experience.
Once again, the boy has grasped the situation with both hands, and has asked me if I can go to the pub tonight, alone, so that he and the human hairball from Madrid can "join their bodies in mutual harmony."
I wish him all the best, but told him to make sure that he takes all the necessary precautions, because fatherhood just isn't his thing!

Monday, 6 June 2011

Wong Place, Wong Time

So, for what seems like the hundreth time this year, as Tony and me were enjoying another Sunday lunchtime in our favourite pub,  our afternoon drinking session was runied by yet another pain in the buttocks, this time it being Mister fucking Wong and his coach party from hell.
Now don't get us wrong, but as much as we like to help most people in their hour of need, especially if they're female, twenty years old and with massive tits, the Chinese just don't do much for us. So when a very agitated coach driver came into the pub, and in very poor English said that his coach had broken down outside, what did he really expect us to fucking do?
Well, Tony was already very drunk, and when Wong said that he thought he had a problem with his coach's rear brakes, Tony looked at him, and quite rightly replied that he really didn't give two fucks. Mister Wong seemed very upset, and after raising his voice higher than Tony and me liked, he asked us how he was going to complete the rest of his tour, which included a ride past Buckingham Palace and Big Ben.
Tony looked at Wong and said that there was no fucking way he was going to even contemplate giving communism a helping hand, and when he finally said that Sundays are for drinking lager and not repairing broken down coaches, our little yellow friend from Shanghai finally got the message.
Of course, some people would say that it's a shame that forty Chinese tourists missed out on seeing some of London's finest sights, because of mechanical problems with their coach, but as Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub, rightly said, the Chinese are a funny lot of bastards, who should be avoided like the plague.