Mardy Part 3

Suburban Dictionary

P.P.P

A versatile abbreviation

1. Present, Practice, Produce—an overused and inexplicably popular English as a Second Language Teaching philosophy of the late 20th century.

2. Poofter Potwash Party- Steven Manson’s place of employment, according to Alan Saunders.

3. Plumber’s Pathetic Poems—Stuart Plumber’s creativity rated, according to renowned culture vultures James Marsden and Alan Saunders.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boxers- A Short Story

There are very few 14-year olds that would want to watch old boxing videos with their Grandfather on a sweaty, balmy summers’ day, but I was transfixed.

 

There he sat in his faded, grey arm chair. This Svengali of old fight films.

 

“Holding, bloody holding, look at him!” He’d shout every time Ali took a breather by leaning on Frazier, as if the fight were playing out live in my grandparents front room.

“He’s got style though Ali, you’ve got to admit.”

“I got to admit bloody nothing lad. Frazier twice the fighter he ever was. Never took a backward step, son.”

 

“That’s a good thing?” I questioned, which was unusual.

 

“Damn bloody right it is. Talent is one thing. But if can take whatever shit life gives you and keep going, you can be anything. Don’t forget that.”

 

And I never did, as we watched Frazier and Ali beat each other to a pulp in the 12th round of the Thrilla in Manila.

 

“One more thing, youthe.” He said, unusually verbose. Probably caused by his Ali hatred.

 

“Anything, grandad.” I said and meant it in that moment.

 

“Don’t tell your bloody grandmother I swore!”

 

Teacher Comments:

This has real heart sand well-drawn characters, a mix of bonding and comedy. One thing—name your characters next time! But overall, marvellous! You have actual talent, Steven; so please stay out of that pub on a Friday afternoon!

Jane Partridge-Wallis

Vixen- A Short Story

Esmeralda awaited his approach with breathy anticipation, her thighs quivering with love’s sweet eagerness.

 

She was ready to be taken, by the strapping, towering figure of a man she so fondly remembered.

 

There he was in the doorway momentarily, sweating with the exertions of mounting a hundred stairs as quickly as his huge, potent thighs would carry him. She was secretly greatly satisfied that he moved with such velocity, as he wanted her so.

Momentarily, he was atop her; kissing and caressing her with the kiss of a lover, but the enthusiasm of a starving canine. She had missed his caress so fondly, the touch of his stubbled chin, even the sweet, sickly swell of his sweat. Esmeralda had once thought that Captain Jimmy Madsen’s true love was the sea, but the thought had passed at the ravenousness of his touches.

 

“Esmeralda, in the morning I must go to war,” Madsen briefly lamented, a sadness in his manly throat she had never heard before, “but before then I must spend this night with you or regret it ever more.”

 

Esmeralda pondered this, but only for a second. “Take me Captain Jimmy Madsen and tomorrow be damned!”

 

And take her he did, but things were never the same again…

 

Teacher Comments: There are some interesting thoughts here, Imogen and you have some great descriptive adjectives. Marvellous!  But work on your dialogue and the overall flow of the narrative; it risks cliché and becoming just another Mills and Boon.

Jane Partridge-Wallis

 

The Doomed Poet- A Short Story

Samuel Taylor stood on a knotted, wooden chair that had begun to rot from the inside out. In many ways, it could be seen as a symbol for his own hopes and dreams.

As he lit the last of his manuscripts and watched it burn away to nothingness before throwing it into the hearth of the fire, he knew that his hopes are ever being anything more burned away with it.

 

For where he came from, anyone with his sensibilities would be branded a ‘poofter’ or some occasions ‘an actual cockwomble’. Each insult hurt, each time it happened a part of him died inside and his ambition died away. Now with the last of his poems burned to a cinder, he realised there was no turning back.

 

The rope secured around his neck, Taylor stepped forward to embrace oblivion and finally a peace that would never come to him in life, amid mocking, taunts and broken dreams…

 

Teacher Comments:

So dark, so deep, marvellous! Is cockwomble a thing? How creative these boys are with their insults! Consider a vignette with a flashback to how your character got to this point, but there is real depth here! Lovely!

Jane Partridge-Wallis

 

 

 

 

 

In the Closet- A Short Story

“Don’t go, not like this,” Shona encouraged.

 

“I have to…” he stubbornly stuck to his position.

 

“Come back inside, your friends are all here,” Shona continued to prompt.

 

“I’m so alone, all the time…” he continued, not really acknowledging her presence.

 

“You don’t have to be, Simon.” Shona decided using his name might help, a degree of hopefulness in her tone.

 

 

 

“Just pain that won’t go. Pain. Look, just leave me alone, right?” Simon definitely spat, walking away as he did so.

 

Shona was upset, extremely upset by this exchange. Simon had sung beautifully at the pub karaoke night, before storming out. She wanted to reach him, wanted to help him, wanted to love him. But he didn’t even know or care she existed.

 

Shona, deflated and defeated, went and sat alone in the toilet with the door closed. She cried so long and hard, she eventually fell asleep from the alcohol consumed and the exertion.

 

When Shona eventually blundered out of the lavatory, it must have been at least a couple of hours later as everyone had gone and the lights were off.

 

But there was a noise, a loud noise. Sounded like two men grunting, possibly fighting.

When she looked through the window of the main part of the pub, what Shona saw astonished her. The landlord of the pub and the DJ having rampant sex on the pool table. It was a sight both comical and obscene, as both were bald and slightly overweight. It was like Right Said Fred getting dirty.

The mirth was only momentary, as Shona pondered that like her love for Simon, the two men were in the closet. And eventually, secrets had a way of destroying you.

Teacher Comments:

Wow! I did not expect such emotional depth in our short stories, Fiona. Marvellous! Your tail of unrequited and twisted love is a highlight! Your characters feel so real. Lovely!

Jane Partridge-Wallis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Texts- Landlord and Anon

Tony: Need mor time.

ANON: NO MORE TIME, NO EXCUSES.

Tony: Gimme a break.

ANON: SORRY BENDER, MONEY OR WIFEY FINDS OUT.

Tony: Ok, ok. When and where?

ANON: TXT YOU THE DETAILS TONIGHT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manchester Evening News

18th October 2000

Violent Scenes mar Oasis Concert

In what should have been a triumphant homecoming on the back of their successful Standing on the Shoulder of Giants album, Oasis’s concert was marred by violent brawls involving both locals and those arriving from other cities to watch the band.

 

“Violence of this kind simply will not be tolerated,” Inspector Hunt of the Manchester Metropolitan Policy told us, “and there will be a much stronger police presence at the gigs going forwards.”

 

One concert attendee, Imogen Jones [19] shared further details with us, “They were just mindless hooligans looking for trouble. I was so afraid and it really detracted from the music, which is what it should be all about”

 

Going forwards, there will be stop and searches of any suspicious looking individuals as well as a heavily increased police presence, to avoid similar problems at the subsequent two concerts in the same location

Harry Shearer Reporting

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Texts- Sunglasses Ron

Alan: Heard you had a bit of shit at the gig mate?

Steven: Aye TB Steven

Alan: What happened?

Steven: This twat in sunglasses kept backing into James and Imogen TB Steven

Alan: So?

Steven: James asked him to stop, but he called him a lanky twat. So I gave Sunglasses Ron a final warning. He asked if I was wearing my Dad’s jacket and told me to fuck off back to Sherwood Forest. TB Steven

Alan: That’s surely not it?

Steven: No, ran out of space in the text! I smacked him. Broke his sunglasses. Started strangling the fucker, before we broken up by Plumber and a few other lads. Feel bad TB Steven

Alan: Why feel bad?

Steven: Started a massive brawl. The pigs had to move in. Fiona was crying. Imogen was whining. TB Steven

Alan: You’ve got to cut out this violence shit mate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Conversation by the Bins

“Fuck Amery man, he bullies all the young guys,” Simon opined, taking a drag.

 

“Hope my mate doesn’t get fired, he got me this job,” Alan agreed.

 

“Probably if someone else, but everyone knows Amery is a cunt man,” Simon offered between drags.

 

“Twat,” Wayne grunted, leaning on his mop.

 

“Could have killed the guy,” Alan shook his head in concern at his friend’s gradually spiraling temper.

 

“Wish he had, fucking Elton John impersonator,” Simon snarled.

 

“Why Steven hate him so much?” Alan asked.

 

“He bully the boy from his first day here. Calling him a poof, hiding his things, deliberately burning pans so Steven had to scrub them. Then Steven nested a girl he liked, was the final straw. He been even worse since. Not his fault the girl got sense and doesn’t like dwarfs with weird glasses.”

 

 

“Sounds like a total helmet. Hope he’s got it out his system now,” Alan said, with more sympathy now for his friend.

 

“Steven got it out of Elton’s system for him, by shaking it out of him!” Simon guffawed.

 

“Made him a rocket man,” Wayne grumbled.

 

They all laughed as they headed back to the potwash, united in hatred for Amery and not wanting to do any more work.

 

Their merriment didn’t last long. The potwash was filled from top to bottom with soap suds. Someone had filled the dishwasher with half a bottle of washing up liquid before it was turned on.

 

Simon said what all three were thinking.

“Fucking Amery.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loneliness

Steven felt so tired, even down to his bones. He’d barely slept in days and hadn’t been eating properly. The pain he felt inside seemed like it was eating him, piece by piece.

 

Despite being surrounded by friends, classmates or work colleagues, he’d never felt so alone. He had seen his old Forest mug sitting on the sideboard and it had all come flooding back. Since his grandad died, he had never felt the same. However, he didn’t think it was about that anymore. He didn’t really know what it was about.

He kept getting into fights and people were now starting to avoid him because of his tendencies. But this was just to feel something, anything; to escape the emptiness inside.

 

As he sat in his parents’ kitchen, Steven felt like he wanted to cry. But nothing would come. The tough guy persona that he wore as his armour to the outside world, had started to stop him feeling.

 

He rolled a penknife around in his hands and wondered what dying would be like. Would it be quick? Would it be slow? He rolled the cold metal along his wrist for a moment, just to get a feel. They always said suicide was for cowards, but he thought the inverse was true. It took courage to break with the pain, the shit, the hurt you were going through. And Steven Manson was many things, plenty of them bad. But he wasn’t a coward.

 

 

 

A waste of space (Reprise)

Stopping off at the pub for a quick pint, Alan felt good to be buying it himself. He was sweaty, stinking and tired. But it had been well earnt and he had something of a new sense of pride.

“No seen your mate around much, likesay,” Frank observed.

“Aye, he’s been a bit quiet,” Alan replied as briefly as possible.

Steven had more or less completely stopped seeing them all since the Oasis concert. He’d even outright ignored a couple of messages.

“You in here Saturday night mate? Might have a bit of a party at mine after my shift,” Mark the chef shot through from the kitchen.

“You just concentrate on cooking,” Tony snapped. He had been very short with everyone just lately, Alan thought.

“Sorry boss,” came Mark’s exaggeratedly sardonic response.

“How’s the son Frank?” Tony asked without subtly.

“He’s soond, visiting his new pad the morrow,” Frank lied, in truth he would be visiting him in prison.

Alan excused himself once he had his pint and went to sit quietly in the corner. It dawned on him this was probably the first time he’d been here without Steven, ever since their first visit. It felt darker, dingy. The curtains were stained with smoke and the carpets sticky and faded. It dawned on him that it wasn’t the pub itself that drew them in, but the company and the subsequent support it provided.

 

Alan had spent a bit too long in the pub after work and had now struggled to open the door with his key. This had woken his Mum up. She had taken this with habitual magnanimity.

‘What you think you’re doing waking me up, you bloody waste of space?” Alan’s Mum spat at him. Alcohol improved Alan’s well of courage and he was now spoiling for a fight.

“Well, I’ve found a job. Not such a fucking waste of space,” Alan threw back defiantly.

“Washing dishes with that other tosser? Yes, you’ll go far. What mother wouldn’t be proud of such a halfwit?” She really did have an acid tongue at times. He’d done exactly what she wanted him to and it still wasn’t enough.

“Oh fuck off,” he said in a tiny voice.

Her eyes narrowed to poisonous slits, “What did you say to me?”

A roar seventeen years in the making came out, “I said you can just FUCK RIGHT OFF!” There was a lot of catharsis in that moment, as he’d been taking her abuse for as long as he could remember.

 

“Oh no, it’s you who can fuck off boy! Out of my house! I should have had an abortion seventeen years ago. Go on, fuck out my house!” His mother physically pushed him towards the door and out into the street. Despite the depth of his resentment, Alan wasn’t going to overpower a pregnant woman. Her last act before slamming the door behind her was to slap him in the back of the head, before screaming through the letter box. “You’re a fucking waste of space!”

 

A tactical problem

James Marsden— ‘the Towering Inferno’—had a major problem. He was finally sure Imogen was going to let him sleep with her today. That wasn’t the problem.

What was the problem is that the last time he’d been on the start line, he’d had a false start before the starter had fired the gun.

 

So, he’d come up with a plan. He’d pull himself off twice before heading over to Imogen’s place later that day. He had created a schedule and everything:

 

8am- Get up.

8:30am- Eat breakfast.

8:45- Tommy Tank 1.

9:00-10:30- Nap time.

10:45-11:30- Listen to Craig David

11:45- Tommy Tank 2.

12:00-14:00- Watch Die Hard.

14:30- Head to Imogen’s 4 sexy time.

 

Marsden was rather proud of the almost military precision of his masturbatory itinerary and intended to stick to it with religious dedication.

______________________________________________________________

“So, you had 2 tacticals and then couldn’t get it up?” Plumber asked. Marsden wasn’t sure why he needed to summarise. He had decamped to the Pot Black to lick his wounds after his latest mishap.

 

“Aye. Now she thinks I don’t fancy her.”

 

“Not to worry mate, there’s always next time.” Plumber encouraged.

 

“If she’ll forgive me. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell the others,” James was partially worried about his future with Imogen, but far more about his mostly self-created reputation as a ladies’ man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suburban Dictionary- Tactical Wank

1. Sneaking out of a boring meeting or college seminar for a swift one off the wrist.

2. If having a history of premature ejaculation, getting in some practice before the main event.

3. According to Alan Saunders, what the other lads talk in the pub after every Forest game.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bills

It was Tuesday, 4pm. This meant that things in Fiona’ house could have headed one of two directions.

 

Karen, her Mum, might be full of life, talkative and vivacious as she was less and less of the time these days, but she was still capable of.

 

Or, as was happening more and more, she might have drunk herself into a stupor. She’d also lately and dangerously been mixing this with valium.

 

Fiona’s father had left the family home without much in the way of communication or explanation almost four years to the day ago and set up home with a younger woman. A younger woman it turned out who was already pregnant.

 

This had hurt Fiona—deeply, deeper than she cared to let on—but it had literally destroyed Karen.

 

Everything about her personality had been based around her husband, Fiona and her younger brother David.

 

Now, since the first of things had been painfully and inextricably taken away: Karen had been putting less and less effort into the latter two.

Fiona turned her key and opened the door discreetly, for she didn’t want yet another argument. A three quarters drunk Karen was not physically drunk, but she was verbally incredibly cruel. Fiona had been called every name under the sun, on multiple occasions. That didn’t bother her at all. But when her mum started to blame her for her Dad leaving, despite her always being a good girl both at home and school, following the rules. Or even wishing she’d never been born. Well, that wasn’t quite so easy to brush off. Fiona had contemplated more than once in the past couple of months; maybe she was done following the rules and living her life to be what other people thought she should.

 

But it wasn’t quite so easy, as there was her brother to think about. He was only ten and didn’t just deserve better, he was too young to comprehend fully what was going on. Fiona felt like she could cope with leaving Karen, although it would hurt. But leaving David—or at least leaving him alone—was out of the question.

As Fiona unobtrusively entered the front door, she got her answer as an empty wine bottle rolled surreptitiously along the floor and stopped next to her left foot. There in the living room in her father’s old armchair, was Karen, still in a sitting position. But slowly keeling forwards. Fiona felt a contradictory mix of contempt, apathy but still she had to admit a tinge of love and sympathy. She slowly and with great care picked her mother up, put her on the sofa and covered her with a blanket. As she seemed to do almost every day now.

 

Fiona then prepared David’s dinner, read him a story and put him to bed. She strategically avoided allowing to go into the living room by telling him the TV was broken again. By some miracle, he’d barely ever seen his mother in her current state. But it was getting harder and harder to hide the truth.

 

An exhausted Fiona then went to phone David’s school back about his upcoming trip. She opened the drawer under the phone. It was full of even more final demands and threats of cutting off various utilities.

 

For, her father was a top chartered accountant and knew every trick in the book to only pay enough money to look after his children, but no more for Karen’s habits that he saw as frivolous during their marriage. And now, she was drinking away whatever money she had access to, Fiona had to do something. Not even for herself, but for her brother’s sake. And perhaps also for the selfishness of fathers, who didn’t appreciate their children when they had the chance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Visiting Hours

The decibel-defying alarm then the sound of the door sliding brought back memories for Frank, but not good ones. He had spent too many years and too many regrets himself in Saughton that he’d never get back. Now the cycle was repeating.

 

Ushered into a sparse, clinical room, Frank awaited the arrival of his son. He didn’t know what he’d say. He’d been through all kind of options in his mind, but no words seemed to come close to the gravity of the situation.

 

Frannie was eventually led out after what felt like an eternity to Frank, but was actually only just over 15 minutes. Frannie had very slightly gained weight and had a bit more colour in his cheeks. Harder to get fucking heroin in prison, Frank surmised. The two eyeballed each other, utterly unsure of what to say or the other’s reactions. Eventually, Frank broke the ice by offering his son a cigarette, which he took easily and lit straight away. The eyeballing continued for a long moment, before the older man uttered a single word.

 

“Son,” Frank mumbled, then couldn’t find any further words.

Frannie took two very long, deliberate drags, before tersely replying, “What?”

They had never been able to have a proper conversation on the outside and here seemed even more impossible. But Frank was running out of time. He had to try.

“How they treating ye, likesay?” Frank asked, unsure of how else to continue.

“What do you think it is, fucking Butlins?” Frannie shot back, taking another Sovereign without asking.

 

“No, ye wee cunt. I’ve had enough time with these bastards to know, likesay.” Frank replied, in an effort at levity. Frannie’s eyes seemed to brighten, then harden again. If only momentarily.

 

“If you wanted to help me, now is a bit fucking late, Frank.” It cut deep that his son—now a lost, frightened boy about to serve a man’s prison sentence—used his first name.

 

“I did the best I could after your maither fucked off Christ knows whar’.” Frank protested, albeit halfheartedly.

 

“Your fucking best? A 10 stretch for armed robbery? What’s your worst, fucking noncing?” Frannie spat at him. It was like a knife straight to the heart, for Frank knew his son was right. Briefly, he lost control. Muscle-memory kicking in, he grabbed Frannie by the lapel of his collar with his right hand before the younger man could even move.

 

“Let me fucking tell ye, I’ve fucking shat harder things than ye. And I’m still your fucking faither,” Frank defiantly snarled at the youth. However, he was much more relaxed than on the outside.

 

“Go on then old man, belt me again. You’ll end up joining me here, ya doss cunt!” Frank sensing that Frannie was deliberately trying to agitate him, decided it best to simmer down. Especially as a guard shot him a “no physical contact” reprimand’.

 

“I’ve made fucking mistakes, son. I regret that the now. But you’ve had more fucking care than I ever fucking got in that children’s hame.”

 

“Poor you, once again. Always fucking about you, isn’t it?” Frannie shot back, lighting yet another cigarette. He’d never been as big a smoker as his old man. Must be to do with opium withdrawal, Frank deduced.

 

“For what it’s worth boy, I’m fucking sorry. For all of that shite. You’re still my fucking son, likes.” Frank opened up just a modicum, let his guard down ever so slightly. Perhaps for the first time in his life.

 

“It’s too late, Frank. Too fucking late for both of us.” Frannie whispered back.

The low, less confrontational tone ended the conversation. They simply sat looking at each other and smoking, until the thirty-minute timer ran out to end their visit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Towering Art of Seduction

James Marsden had been preparing all day, listening to Mint Royale’s Sexiest Man in Jamaica on defeat. His bedroom stank of Lynx Africa. He was wearing enough hair-gel for his head to double as a chip pan and he’d only pulled himself off once, which he viewed as the wanky equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge. He had been psyching himself up in the mirror for an hour now, with matching commentary.

 

“You’re a love machine.”

 

“You’re the towering inferno.”

 

“I am the Chilwell Trousersnake, Bo Selecta!”

 

Finally admitting his nerves, he had decided to just have one drink of his parents’ Drambuie. Then another. And a poorly rolled spliff outside the backdoor just to take the edge off.

Unfortunately, the Nottinghamshire equivalent of James Bond had passed out both drunk and stoned on his bed and missed Imogen ringing the doorbell, awaking an hour later to a series of furious and unflattering text messages.

 

Imogen: I rang the doorbell for ten minutes, you lanky streak of piss. If you wanted to break up with me, you should have just said so!

 

For the Towering Inferno, this was another knock to his fiery reputation. Perhaps a bit of fun for one would help him think?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Messenger- Lack of Fireworks

Imogen: You alright?

FIONA: NOT REALLY BABE.

Imogen: What’s up?

FIONA: DON’T WANT TO GET INTO IT ON MESSENGER BABE. PUB IN A BIT?

Imogen: Sure, I’ve got boyfriend problems to share.

FIONA: HE STILL NOT DOING THE BUSINESS BABE?

Imogen, No, mate. Beginning to think the towering inferno is more of a wet sparkler….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Real Men

“Looks like Elton John, nasty little bloke,” Alan opined.

 

“He also a bender?” Mark asked from behind the bar.

 

“Not as far as I know, but he’s a total twat,” Alan confirmed.

 

“So, Steven just pure attacked him there in the kitchen?” Mark questioned.

 

“Aye, straight round his throat. Been bullying him for months, was what I was told.” Alan continued.

 

“Got to say, at least Steven reacted like a real man, not a poof.” Mark said admiringly.

 

“So, to you, violence is the answer?” A slightly self-righteous Imogen, who had come to the bar to get her and Fiona another drink asked.

 

“If someone is that much of an arsehole, deserves everything he gets,” Alan said, not fully believing it but supporting his friend.

 

“Is that why no one has seen him for days?” Imogen continued.

 

“He’s probably reading for your poncy course. I know he loves gets better fucking grades than you.” Alan shot back.

 

“Where’s Marsden? Also not seen him around for a while.” Mark asked. James still owed him a tenner for an eighth of weed from the week before, as they were neighbours.

 

“He’s… busy,” Imogen replied hesitatingly, before exiting the bar quickly.

 

“Aye, busy yanking it!” Alan whispered conspiratorially to Mark. They both laughed aloud.

 

“Fucking bender,” Mark added helpfully.

 

Tony stood stony and silent. In the pub trade, he listened to years of these homophonic jibes from one generation and now it was continuing with the next. He really though the world would have moved on by now. But what did it mean to be a real man really? What were real men? All he felt like he was surrounded by was hypocrites and liars. He was roused from his musing by a text arriving on his phone.

 

ANON: TWO HOURS, DON’T FORGET.

 

He went to open the till to take out the required cash, as Mark and Alan were distracted in more inane banter and Imogen was deep in conversation with an upset looking Fiona.

To Tony’s astonishment and horror, the money was already gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frankly Marvellous

Frank had been thrusting away like a man possessed for over ten minutes now. Climbing atop Tunbridge Wells was akin to mounting a jellyfish, but he had eventually managed it. He had seduced her with his witty banter, despite being a man of few words. “Hey wifey, get em off! I’ll gie ye the fuckin’ message the now!”

 

He was reasonably sure he was doing a good job, as she intermittently called out “ooooooh marvellous!’ “looooovely!” and “lead on MacDuff!” His name was Forrester and he was not sure who this MacDuff fellow was, but it was fine as he’d also spent part of the time thinking about his ex-wife. Although he was not entirely sure if Tunbridge-Wells was panting and sweating so much because she was enjoying it or she was just knackered, due to her immense girth.

 

Finally, Frank convulsed, smiled and finished. “Ooooooooooooooooooh marvellous!” Tunbridge Wells let out one last time. Frank collapsed on top of her, seemingly exhausted and grinning. Tunbridge Wells lit one of Frank’s Sovereigns and began puffing away.

 

It was only after a couple of more puffs that Tunbridge Wells realised that Frank was dead, with a manic rictus grin on his face.

 

“Fuck me,” Tunbridge Wells exclaimed.