If you see any of these Poles - who have supposedly been raised on Wodka since the age of 2 months - adding Coke to their drink, please give 'em a slap from me.
I once took on a bunch of Poles in a little drinking race of sorts. They expected the English fool (me) would keel over after half a bottle but I took them all on and won handsomely. However, some what ruining their hard drinking image, everyone of them was mixing with coke!
I tried telling them they were gay but they just thought that meant they'd properly arrived in the sophisticated EU. I'm not surprised the Russians buggered off out of there.
Welcome in the hillside: a shaggy dog story by Sperm Lewis, it is.
As discreetly edited by his learned amanuensis, Owen Twat.
Robot Wars (Part II)
(The story so far. The Working Men's Club has installed an indoor racist, purchased at a fire sale down Barry Island. Sperm and Owen have put it through its paces and pronounced it fit for purpose. Now read on.)
The plan was this. Every Saturday afternoon a fat cunt called Polonius Knobber comes into the Club for a bit of R&R. Called Polonius because his father was a vicar, see? [No - OT] Great prop forward in his day, mind, but nowadays he's got shit all to do except wait for his dole cheque to come through and then drink himself unconscious. This is a well-documented modus vivendi in parts of the Australian outback, Northern Siberia and the length and breadth of Wales, spot the connection.
He always sits at the same table and by three o'clock he is invariably passed out, face-down on his table in a pool of Allbright. So this was the plan. We would rotate the Indoor Racist through a few degrees so it was facing his table, set the dial to Wales, see, wait until he nodded off, stick in a few coins, stand back and watch the fireworks.
At the appointed time, Owen Twat, jangling a load of pound coins, sauntered over to the Indoor Racist, decanted them into the slot and having, so to speak, lit the blue touchpaper, returned to the bar and stood well back. Well, we hadn't a clue what to expect ... but something in my vas deferens told me that the Indoor Racist would not let us down.
Pause.
"Oi, wake up over there, you fat Welsh retard!"
Bugger me if it didn't have an antipodean twang in its voice. Slowly, heads in the Club began to turn.
"Yeah, you in the poxy red shirt. Welsh twat! Meehhhh! ME-E-E-EHHHHH!"
Polonius Knobber was ever so slowly rousing himself from his coma. A wet, beery, bewildered face raised itself from the table and struggled to focus.
"Youse call yourselves a fucking rugby nation? Youse cunts couldn't win a kick in a riot!"
Slightly more incendiary than Danish cartoons to Johnny Mulsim, this was. Polonius Knobber looked as if he were going to hyperventilate.
"You talking to ME?"
"Mincing about on the twenty two, giggling and poking each other like a bunch of screaming queens!
QUEENS!!!"
"You fuckin' talking to ME?!?"
Like a charging bull, Polonius Knobber hauls himself out of his seat and goes galumphing over to settle with the Indoor Racist, only to be stopped short by a kick in the gonads that would have done credit to Neil Jenkins in his prime.
Polonius Knobber froze for about five seconds with his mouth open and his hands over his crotch, like a Frankenstein's monster in a film with the sound turned down, before keeling backwards, upsetting old Mrs Llamprey's table, her pale ale and her Pomeranian dog.
It was at this point that all hell broke loose. The Indoor Racist's arm shot up again and (presumably in default mode) he started belting out:
"ES SCHAUN AUFS HAKENKRAUZ VOLL HOFFNUNG SCHON MILLIONEN. DER TAG FÜR FREINHEIT UND FÜR BROT BRICHT AN! "
Some of the old boys could just about remember that little marching song - and they didn't like it. Everybody piled in like it was a Wild West film, see? Flying glasses, old Mrs Llamprey twatting the Indoor Racist over the head with a furled umbrella. The Pomeranian dog was attacking anything that moved; the automaton had gone into Bruce Lee mode, bodies being hurled through windows, the lot. One man had a sphere on his head! Polonius Knobber still stretched out rigid in shy naturist pose on the floor.
As is customary in melées like this (!), the Indoor Racist managed to escape and was last seen legging it towards the canal. The town went out looking for him that night, mind. Some with electic torches, most of them making do with fence posts wrapped up in a bit of tarpaulin soaked in paraffin. When someone said they'd spotted the Indoor Racist on the balcony of the Town Hall, in the traditional Nüremburg posture, everyone piled down there and congregated at the steps, brandishing their torches and hurling abuse.
And, you know what? Some canny chancer lurking in the background (in fact, one Owain Arwel Twat of this parish) goes and takes a photo.
Dieu, you should have seen the shit hit the fan when that made the front page of the South Wales Argus. Tourist Board closed down the town's website and the whole place was crawling with diversity counsellors from Caerdiff, cos each and every one of us had to have one-on-one counselling, see? 'Cept for Owen. He went on to a very lucrative career as a faceless bureaucrat with a big fuck off final salary pension, look you. Doing very nicely he is, diolch yn fawr.
Needless to say that after these shenanigans, the Indoor Racist was:
1. Out the Club. 2. On his arse. 3. In the street.
By way of a ghoulish coda or epilogue, some weeks later he climbs out of a skip at the dead of night, comes up behind a local slapper and honks her norks, prompting an attack of hysterics that woke the whole town.
And far as we know, the indoor racist is still on the loose. Only last week, he surfaced from a manhole in Dogturd Park*, startling three winos sitting on a bench. And something tells me, we haven't heard the last of him, see? ;-)
7 comments:
Do me a favour...
If you see any of these Poles - who have supposedly been raised on Wodka since the age of 2 months - adding Coke to their drink, please give 'em a slap from me.
I once took on a bunch of Poles in a little drinking race of sorts. They expected the English fool (me) would keel over after half a bottle but I took them all on and won handsomely. However, some what ruining their hard drinking image, everyone of them was mixing with coke!
I tried telling them they were gay but they just thought that meant they'd properly arrived in the sophisticated EU. I'm not surprised the Russians buggered off out of there.
PS.
I actually quite like the Poles really.
Apparently you just have to eat lots of salad before you turn in for the night.
pachemoo? an toi loobyet...
Wodka? You're on Whisky Lite?
Get those guys on the Ardbeg.
Welcome in the hillside: a shaggy dog story by Sperm Lewis, it is.
As discreetly edited by his learned amanuensis, Owen Twat.
Robot Wars (Part II)
(The story so far. The Working Men's Club has installed an indoor racist, purchased at a fire sale down Barry Island. Sperm and Owen have put it through its paces and pronounced it fit for purpose. Now read on.)
The plan was this. Every Saturday afternoon a fat cunt called Polonius Knobber comes into the Club for a bit of R&R. Called Polonius because his father was a vicar, see? [No - OT] Great prop forward in his day, mind, but nowadays he's got shit all to do except wait for his dole cheque to come through and then drink himself unconscious. This is a well-documented modus vivendi in parts of the Australian outback, Northern Siberia and the length and breadth of Wales, spot the connection.
He always sits at the same table and by three o'clock he is invariably passed out, face-down on his table in a pool of Allbright. So this was the plan. We would rotate the Indoor Racist through a few degrees so it was facing his table, set the dial to Wales, see, wait until he nodded off, stick in a few coins, stand back and watch the fireworks.
At the appointed time, Owen Twat, jangling a load of pound coins, sauntered over to the Indoor Racist, decanted them into the slot and having, so to speak, lit the blue touchpaper, returned to the bar and stood well back. Well, we hadn't a clue what to expect ... but something in my vas deferens told me that the Indoor Racist would not let us down.
Pause.
"Oi, wake up over there, you fat Welsh retard!"
Bugger me if it didn't have an antipodean twang in its voice. Slowly, heads in the Club began to turn.
"Yeah, you in the poxy red shirt. Welsh twat! Meehhhh! ME-E-E-EHHHHH!"
Polonius Knobber was ever so slowly rousing himself from his coma. A wet, beery, bewildered face raised itself from the table and struggled to focus.
"Youse call yourselves a fucking rugby nation? Youse cunts couldn't win a kick in a riot!"
Slightly more incendiary than Danish cartoons to Johnny Mulsim, this was. Polonius Knobber looked as if he were going to hyperventilate.
"You talking to ME?"
"Mincing about on the twenty two, giggling and poking each other like a bunch of screaming queens!
QUEENS!!!"
"You fuckin' talking to ME?!?"
Like a charging bull, Polonius Knobber hauls himself out of his seat and goes galumphing over to settle with the Indoor Racist, only to be stopped short by a kick in the gonads that would have done credit to Neil Jenkins in his prime.
Polonius Knobber froze for about five seconds with his mouth open and his hands over his crotch, like a Frankenstein's monster in a film with the sound turned down, before keeling backwards, upsetting old Mrs Llamprey's table, her pale ale and her Pomeranian dog.
It was at this point that all hell broke loose. The Indoor Racist's arm shot up again and (presumably in default mode) he started belting out:
"ES SCHAUN AUFS HAKENKRAUZ VOLL HOFFNUNG SCHON MILLIONEN.
DER TAG FÜR FREINHEIT UND FÜR BROT BRICHT AN! "
Some of the old boys could just about remember that little marching song - and they didn't like it. Everybody piled in like it was a Wild West film, see? Flying glasses, old Mrs Llamprey twatting the Indoor Racist over the head with a furled umbrella. The Pomeranian dog was attacking anything that moved; the automaton had gone into Bruce Lee mode, bodies being hurled through windows, the lot. One man had a sphere on his head! Polonius Knobber still stretched out rigid in shy naturist pose on the floor.
As is customary in melées like this (!), the Indoor Racist managed to escape and was last seen legging it towards the canal. The town went out looking for him that night, mind. Some with electic torches, most of them making do with fence posts wrapped up in a bit of tarpaulin soaked in paraffin. When someone said they'd spotted the Indoor Racist on the balcony of the Town Hall, in the traditional Nüremburg posture, everyone piled down there and congregated at the steps, brandishing their torches and hurling abuse.
And, you know what? Some canny chancer lurking in the background (in fact, one Owain Arwel Twat of this parish) goes and takes a photo.
Dieu, you should have seen the shit hit the fan when that made the front page of the South Wales Argus. Tourist Board closed down the town's website and the whole place was crawling with diversity counsellors from Caerdiff, cos each and every one of us had to have one-on-one counselling, see? 'Cept for Owen. He went on to a very lucrative career as a faceless bureaucrat with a big fuck off final salary pension, look you. Doing very nicely he is, diolch yn fawr.
Needless to say that after these shenanigans, the Indoor Racist was:
1. Out the Club.
2. On his arse.
3. In the street.
By way of a ghoulish coda or epilogue, some weeks later he climbs out of a skip at the dead of night, comes up behind a local slapper and honks her norks, prompting an attack of hysterics that woke the whole town.
And far as we know, the indoor racist is still on the loose. Only last week, he surfaced from a manhole in Dogturd Park*, startling three winos sitting on a bench. And something tells me, we haven't heard the last of him, see? ;-)
(Fin)
* aka Parc Dwgtwrd (OT)
If you wake up the morning after and remember what it was you were drinking, then it was not effective enough.
Agree with John Pickworth but remember poles are usually the best post-impressionists.
Crap comment = crap joke = crap poster.
@onefortheroad: ouch.
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