Monday, 23 July 2012

Fifty Shades of Green

Fergal O'Flaherty, a rough hewn beast of a man, and a native of Cork City, pealed of his shirt, exposing a vest, and with a flick of his head tossed his mane of strawberry blonde hair down his back. A day of honest toil on the site and rewarded him with a wad of Euros in his back pocket, and a longing desire for several pints of the Black Stuff.

The doors of The King's Arms were wide open on this warm evening, lasciviously welcoming  this Son of Gael like a spiritual home.

'A pint of Guinness for me; and whatever you're having my darling!' he added with impeccably accurate use of the semi-colon, demonstrating the relative strength of Irish Literary tradition to that of their former oppressor.

'I'll have an Archers with a dash of Aftershock, thanks!' Aiymiei the barmaid replied, with all the class that her Sarf-East Landan accent afforded.

Fergal slid lasciviously onto the barstool with all the subtlety of a snake, which of course there were none of in Ireland, as St Patrick had driven then out, so his terms of reference were sketchy at best. This mattered little to Aiymiei, whose GSCE in Beauty Therapy had not contained an element of Celtic History that particular year.

Several rounds later, Fergal stood as firm as the Rock of Cashel, but Aiymiei was a little worse for wear, having vomited profusely into the half empty crisp boxes behind the bar.

Touchingly removing the last specks of puke from the corners of her mouth, Fergal leant over the bar, and whispered suggestively into her ear 'Have you got any Irish in you!'

'Me babe! Naaaaahhhh!!'

'Would you like some?'

'Oh you smooth talking bastard! Bring it on!' she announced, before passing out.


Thursday, 19 July 2012

Fifty Seconds of Ray

I wrote this yesterday left a few copies out, passed a few on and showed it on my phone, and created a few sniggers, giggles and raucous laughter. So here goes- another parody, but all my own work!


Fifty Seconds of Ray

Maria had looked forward to this moment all day. She had treasured her long soak in the hot tub, though the disappointment of the ‘Radox’ having dried up was more than made up for by the bottle of ‘Matey’ she found in the back of her bathroom cupboard, left there by a lodger several years, and several lovers,in the past.

A glass of rosé, a little sweet perhaps, but not bad for the £5 for two bottles bargain bucket, moistened her lips. She quivered in anticipation of the moment of pure rapture that would surely envelop her ‘ce soir’.  She sated her expectant appetite with a portion of ‘pain et frites’, although her burly, rough hewn object of her desire preferred the colloquial ‘chip butty’.

Maria slipped on her Bri-Nylon nightdress, pausing only to smooth it past the static electricity generated between the fabric and the hairs on her thighs. Lasciviously, she draped herself in a variety of poses on the DFS sofa, choosing the position that would best display her ample physique, without exposing her stubborn cellulite.  Finally, she decided on a pose demonstrating her longing for her beau, her right hand caressing her fading roots, her left hand suggestively cupping the half empty wine glass, and her right thigh raised on a cushion so as not to snag her varicose vein on that spring that had so surprised her grandmother the week before.

Meanwhile Ray was finishing his shift at the building site. He pulled ‘The Sun’ from his back pocket, gave one last longing look at the innocent young maiden on page three, and flung it lazily to the recycling heap where it sat, fluttering in the wind. He tugged his pants, rather hopefully labeled ‘Next’ over his cavernous bum crack. Tramping into the Portakabin, he grabbed the first spray to hand in his locker, showering the exposed hairs of his manly armpits with the clear but strangely aromatic scent. He knew just how much the pungent aroma, the heady mix of day old sweat and ‘Febreze’ aroused the flames of passion in his woman.

He drove home at a slightly daring 34 mph, pausing at each traffic light to swig from a bottle of ‘White Lightning’, to scratch his crotch and to sing along to the chorus of ‘I’m Horny! Horny! Horny! Horny!’ on the radio of his vintage XR3 Cabriolet. The wheels span and screamed as he pulled away from the final set of lights, and swung serenely into the cul-de-sac.

Such was his excitement that he forgot the dregs of his drink, which spilled on the fake leopard skin seats, adding to the other unidentifiable stains and smells. He slammed the door with his ‘Nike’ trainers, ran clumsily up the gravel path, and opened the door.

‘Come in my Big Bear! There’s something special for you in the cave today!’ came a voice from the boudoir.

‘Would my little pudding like a quarter pound of prime Barnsley sausage?’

‘No! I’d much prefer stuffing!’ but the double entendre was lost on his dinosaur brain.

Ray lumbered down the hall and into the living room, the backs of his hairy hands trailing along the floor, his brow furrowed not in concentration but due to his Neanderthal heritage. He ripped the t-shirt from his torso, unbuckled his belt and half fell, half lunged onto the chaise longue.

It was over in less than a minute. He rolled off,  expressed his gratitude in an explosive expression of flatulence, and pulled his pants back up from his knees.

‘Is that it?’

‘Sorry love. Footie’s on in half an hour and I’ve got a Chinese coming at quarter past. You know what I’m like without my grub. Do us a favour love, make us a cup of tea. I’m parched after all that effort.’

‘You old romantic fool!’ Maria said. ‘That’s why I love you so much!’ she added, whist thinking, ‘Is there room under the patio for this old bastard, just like the last two losers?’