Tuesday, 30 August 2011

Lost In The Pub

So, there we were in the pub last night, celebrating amongst other things that we have managed to see it through another summer unscathed, when our evening drinking session was interrupted by the arrival of a family of tourists, hopelessly lost, and in need of some guidance.

Naturally, Tony stepped in to help the family, especially when he saw that the daughter looked like a real stunner, and seemed to be bored with having to follow her parents and younger brother around, when he reckoned she was looking "to be wined, dined and inseminated."

The boy wasted no time in taking the girl to one side, and even though her grasp of English was poor, she soon started giggling at his vulgar jokes and impressions of Adolf Hitler.

Sid, the landlord of our favourite drinking establishment, reckoned that the family was from Switzerland, which, as if we didn't already know, he said was a small country in the middle of Europe.

Still, after a few hand signals and attempts to communicate verbally with the family, we soon put them on the right track, and watched as they headed off into the night, the father grateful for our help, and thanking his lucky stars that his daughter was still wearing her panties, even though Tony was well on the way to seducing her into his bed.

Tony didn't seem too downhearted that another chance to have wild sex had passed him by, saying that he had been too busy enjoying his lager, and that the girl was just a pleasant distratction.

Naturally, the two of them exchanged e-mail addresses, with Tony reckoning that a trip to the Swiss Alps is just what he needs, to help get his flabby body in shape, for what he calls "a winter of reckoning."

Personally, I reckon it's just another one of his wild fantasies, and that he's got about as much chance as spending the next few weeks in Switzerland, as he has in giving up porn, and taking up bible reading.

Still, all the while the boy's happy, I will let him get on dreaming of skiing down the mountains, with whatever she was called following close behind.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Nostalgia & Burnt Sausages

Tony reckons that when he was a small boy, and life seemed so much easier, he knew that unemployment would be his thing by the time he was forty, and that the thought of working for a living after forty didn't really excite him, in the way a pint of ice-cold lager and a cigarette does.

The boy occasionally refers back to his childhood, which he says was a cross between bliss and utter misery, punctuated by moments of sheer joy or total depression.

I reckon he's right when he says everything that has happened to him is the fault of his parents, because they were the ones who failed to teach him that excessive drinking, petty theft and a hatred of all people foreign are not the things that make small, chubby boys into men that make their parents proud.

Of course, Tony's father was a hopeless, unemployed drinker, who spent most of his life either sat at a bar, or behind bars, whenever he got caught doing things that he shouldn't have been doing. And as for his mother - well, she was just an idle slut, who drank as much as his father, and slept with most men on the estate where Tony grew up.

Sadly, nothing good came out of Tony's childhood, even if he reckons that thanks to one of his aunties, he learnt how to cook decent, traditional food. Alas, if the burnt sausages he cooked for breakfast are anything to go by, I told him that either he's lying, or his auntie was just as fucking useless as his mother.

Still, as he says, at least he made the effort, where as I just sit there, and moan about the fact that he's a useless cook, and that he'd be better sticking to what he does best - DRINKING AND SMOKING!

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Sunday In The Park

Tony and me have just returned from the park, where we enjoyed a fine day with a couple of girls we met in the pub last night.

The two girls are in London for a few weeks, as part of a student exchange program, having flown in from America a few days ago, and according to Tony, flown into our lives like a gift from the Gods.

Of course, Tony told Jessica and Mary-Beth that they should take care not to talk to strangers, and avoid going out late at night. He even added that our flat would be a perfect place for the two of them to stay, instead of the crappy accomodation that had already been reserved for them.

Jessica thanked Tony for his kind offer, and although she said that she thought Tony was a "kind-hearted softy, with a heart of gold*," she told him that there was no way in the world that her and Mary-Beth could possibly invade our space, because the two girls, according to Jessica, are untidy, hopeless at cooking and have very little to offer us in return for our hospitality.

Naturally, Tony isn't interested in girls who can cook, but rather girls who will remove all of their clothes and share his bed with him. And, I reckon the boy's right when he says that untidiness isn't such a terrible crime, especially if it means that Jessica and Mary-Beth insist on leaving their underwear scattered throughout the flat.

Still, as I told Tony, girls are great company when there's not much to do in life, but now that the football season has started, even though the thought of wild sex seems too good to refuse, we must remember that we are nothing but two, idle bastards, who like to spend our free time drinking, smoking and watching football, in the comfort of our favourite pub.

Tony agreed with my ideas of what our priorities should be, and although he's taken Jessica's telephone number, he knows in his own heart that he just can't fully commit himself to a life of domesticated bliss, and that if his previous experiences are anything to go by, any love affair with either of the two girls would be doomed from the very start.

* He's actually a foul-mouthed, fat bastard, who drinks excessively and has a liking for double cheeseburgers and fries.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Tony's Getting Restless

Tony has spent the morning looking out of the kitchen window, wondering what life has in store for him over the coming years.

I told him that wasting hours looking at a block of flats, and a 24/7 mini-market, would be enough to drive even the sanest of men crazy, and that all the while he's in one of his reflective moods, time is passing him by.

As usual, he agreed with what I said, but reckons that London holds nothing for a man of his abilities, and that if he's ever going to fulfill his potential, then he needs to pack his suitcase, and get the fuck out of here.

Of course, I've heard this sort of rubbish a thousand times before, and although my fat friend has restless feet, his choice of final destination is limited, purely because (a) he doesn't have a passport, (b) he doesn't have any money to go anywhere and (c) it's too hot outside to be trudging the streets, looking for somewhere to call home.

I blame this latest bout of depression on the fact that Tony has recently heard from his son, Ray, who told Tony that he's happy with his mother, and after the last time he saw his father, he suffered violent nightmares and panic attacks.

Tony said that the boy is welcome to spend the rest of his life with his mother, if that's what he wants, and as far as he's concerned, fatherhood is right up there with alcohol-free lager and anorexia, and that he has no interest in trying to convince his boy that Daddy is not all bad, and that underneath all of the blubber, he does in fact have a heart of gold.

So, with his parental responsibilities well and truly behind him, the fat bastard in now deciding whether or not to start his new life in Scotland, or in the depressing depths of Wales.

Either way, I don't really care, and as I write, and tying my shoelaces, because I'm off to the pub, to cool down and get happily drunk!

Monday, 15 August 2011

Nightmares, Late Night Radio & Dolphins

If the recent rioting in London isn't bad enough, last night I had the misfortune to be awoken in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat, and screaming obscenities at the top of my voice.
At first I thought that I was sat behind a desk, sat in a stuffy office, surrounded by dull fuckers, compiling spreadsheets, and wondering if after all of my years of loyal service, I was ever going to get a promotion.
It then struck me, as I slid out of my sweat-soaked bed, that I had in fact been in the middle of a nightmare, and mercifully, my mind had been playing tricks with me, and that I am no nearer to being employed, as I am to giving up beer, and taking up religion.
Once I had managed to make it to the kitchen, I poured myself a whisky, and switched on the radio, to try and send me back to sleep.
Unfortunately, if my nightmare had been bad, nothing could be worse than the dross that started to pour out of the radio.
Is it me, or is late-night radio complete and utter crap, only listened to by (a) people who have just gone through a nightmare or (b) sad, friendless fuckers, who if not listening to the radio, spend their time playing with themselves, whilst drooling over the contents of porn magazines.
I mean, at three o'clock in the morning, who telephones a radio show to share with the world the fact that nine out of ten people, if they had the chance, would love to swim with dolphins. And then there's the guy who phoned in to say that he was waiting for Jesus to visit him, whilst another called to say that he thought that the internet is a moden-day evil.
Tony reckons that late-night radio is the work of the devil, and that whilst swimming with dolphins might be a great way to relax, drinking ten pints of strong lager has pretty much the same effect on him.
I reckon that the boy's right when he says that all late-night radio show hosts are cunts, and although the death penalty was abolished in England years ago, it should be reinstated sooner rather than later, so that the fuckers can be rounded up and hung.
I'm now off to wash my bed sheets, because the launderette is just next to the pub, and I'm need of a decent drink.

Saturday, 13 August 2011

Balls, Beer & Some People From Germany

Tony and me have just returned from the pub, where we welcomed the start of the new football season by spending all afternoon drinking heavily, swearing loudly and generally enjoying ourselves.

I thought that Tony was going to burst with joy this morning, when he woke up and announced that it was officially the start of the new football season.

I haven't seen the boy this happy for ages, and although outside of our shitty flat it's pissing down with rain, we've got no food in the cupboards, and we're still unemployed, seeing our favourite team playing their first game of the season gave us a real boost.

Sadly, however, the afternoon was ruined for two reasons.

Firstly, Arsenal could only manage a poor goal-less draw, and secondly, the pub was full of German tourists.

Sid, the landlord of the pub, said he could do nothing about the match result, but after looking at all of the Germans in his pub, he wondered out aloud what winning the war had actually done for us.

Tony understood Sid's angst, and although our continental cousins were buying beer by the gallon, Sid said that although he liked to take the Germans' money, he will never be a fan of the Fatherland.

However, when the football was over, and the Germans were still lingering like flies around shit, Sid decided to entertain us all with his impression of Adolf Hitler.

Needless to say, our German friends soon got the message, and although it's true that it's probably time that we forgot about the war, as Tony said, apart from double cheeseburgers and fries, the thought of bombing the Germans in the last war is the only other thing that leaves him feeling happy.

Now, even though I've said it a hundred times before, I'll say it again: I'LL DRINK TO THAT!



 

Thursday, 11 August 2011

The Chinese Problem

Tony's not laughing much these days, and as we're both confined to our flat due to having no money, I can't even suggest a visit to the pub to cheer him up.
And what's behind this latest outbreak of misery?
Well, the boy reckons that with all of the world's financial markets in meltdown, the value of the pound is likely to deteriorate even further.
To put his mind at rest, I told him that as neither he nor I have a pound between us, this latest financial crisis is hardly going to affect us. Although he agreed with me, he reckons that during times such as these, the price of beer and cheeseburgers should be slashed, so that people can buy more for their money, get drunk, eat more, and generally forget about what's going on in the world.
Now, although I've said it a hundred times before, I reckon that Tony is a man who could help get our country back on its feet, with his no-nonsense approach.
He then said that the Chinese are to blame for all of the world's current problems, with their cheap, crap products, which are flooding the markets, and putting great nations like America and England at risk.
Of course, it's well known that Tony and me have very little time for the Chinese, and reckon that it's a real shame that Reagan and Thatcher are no longer around, because they would have surely agreed that the best way to deal with the bastards would be by bombing them into oblivion, and not giving two fucks about the consequences.
Still, as the boy rightly says, we can but hope that one day soon the world's markets will stabilise, he and I will both get a job, and that we can spend more time in the pub, where the beer's great, but the conversation is shit!

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Free Beer, Free Televisions & Free Armchairs

After another night of rioting, Tony reckons that London is heading for what he calls "the mother of all meltdowns."

However, he's not overly concerned, because as he rightly says, with so much broken glass littering the streets, abandoned burnt-out cars, and loads of shops closed for business, we might at last have fewer tourists coming into the pub, bothering us with their stupid questions and ridiculous accents.

I reckon Tony's right when he says that every riot has a positive effect, and whilst fewer tourists is one bonus, the rioters have also been helping themselves to anything they can get their hands on, after smashing shop windows and doing some nocturnal shopping.

Whilst the boy and me agree that crime is immoral, the sight of seeing looters disappearing into the night, taking with them cans of beer, televisions and anything else they can get their hands on, tells us that shopping has never been so much fun.

Of course, as Tony says, free televisions is one thing, but free double cheeseburgers and large fries - well that's something else.

We're now off to the pub, for a few pints of ice-cold beer!

Saturday, 6 August 2011

Our Friends From Paris

Tony's been up all night on the internet, communicating with a couple of French girls called Sabrina and Emily, who he met in a virtual nightclub somewhere in cyberspace.
The object of the website is to help "students come together, to find real love in their lives."
It turns out that Sabrina and Emily are both studying medicine, and although they're not looking for love, they're looking to communicate with likeminded, English students, so they can improve their English, and get a grasp of what life is like in England.
Well, after Tony saw what Sabrina and Emily look like, he reckons that that the two of them wouldn't do any harm by grasping him, and giving him a much needed check-up. And in the hope that perhaps the three of them will come together, he told the two girls that he's currently studying law, and will probably start his own firm of lawyers in the next few years.
The boy reckons he's on to a real winner, and is now learning basic french, so he can impress his latest admirers with his knowledge of their language, before fucking them both on our beer-stained sofa.
Off course, Tony knows deep down that there's no real chance of him finding love with either Sabrina or Emily, and that he has little chance of learning french.
And what will a fat bastard like him make of a city like Paris? After all, it's all pavement cafes and people driving badly, whilst waving their arms around whenever they speak, and filling public places with their terrible body odour.
Then there's the baguettes, the Eiffel Tower and the fact that nobody understands a word of fucking English over there.
Tony says that London is where he will eventually find the love of his life, because somewhere out there, there's somebody who was made for him.
Personally, I don't agree with him, but as he's going through one of his periods of feeling terribly lonely, I can only help encourage him, and hope that after a few pints of strong lager at the pub tonight, he'll get back to being his normal self.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

It's That Time Of Year Again

The boy Tony has been in a good mood these last few days, and he says it's all because that the start of the football (soccer) season is just a few weeks away.
Football, to Tony, is like a drug, and whilst he agrees that summertime in London can be great, there's nothing better than going to the pub on a Saturday afternoon, drinking vast amounts of lager, and watching his favourite team play on the pub's big screen television.
I reckon the boy is right to take pleasure from the simpler things in life, and even he agrees that although he loves to upset tourists in our favourite pub, threaten people for no apparent reason and say nasty things about immigrants, he says that the sight of grown men kicking a ball about is one that always brings a lump to his throat.
So, to celebrate the impending start of the new season, we're off to the shop at the end of the road to steal a few cans of lager. We'll then call in on our favourite fast-food restaurant to treat ourselves to a couple of delicious cheeseburgers, before heading to the pub, to have a game of darts, and try and get some unsuspecting French tourists to buy us both a drink.
All in all, we reckon that life is looking good again, and as the boy rightly says: IT'S ABOUT FUCKING TIME!