The Fat Tart’s Tale.
The Great Romney Marsh Tsunami Disaster, as it came to be known, may have never occurred if Bertha had not left their flasks and sandwiches on the kitchen worktop several hours earlier. This omission necessitated an extended lunchtime sojourn in the local hostelry. Big Bertha was Mac’s girlfriend and she was a very, very large lass, not surprising really when she had been saddled with an awful name like that. Now according to Mac; her size was not her fault. However, if Mac was to be believed she had the most unusual combination of Bulimia and Amnesia. Mac said: “She eats like a flaming horse and then she forgets to puke up”. This led her to having the figure and the sexual allure of a heavily pregnant hippopotamus.
We were fishing a part of the Military Canal which had recently received the attention of the local river board. As was the fashion at the time, this section of the canal had been dredged and the banks were left dangerously steep. As our loving couple returned from their refreshment they started to make their way down to the water’s edge. Mac, with all the agility of a mountain goat reached the bottom first and sat himself down. Bertha, with the agility of a walrus, started to descend and then quickly lost her footing. She slipped, shrieking and hurtling towards the water with ever increasing speed. If this in itself was not funny enough, her skirt had ridden right up over her head and she was displaying possibly the largest pair of knickers I am ever likely to see and a pair of buttocks that would make David Attenborough look twice. Splooooooosh! She hit the water like a bouncing bomb from the Dambusters film and the bow wave swept up the canal like a huge tidal bore. Wellies were swamped, tackle boxes flooded, keep-nets submerged and bait boxes swept away.
Some years later while trying to salvage their doomed relationship, the councillor at Relate said; “Mr McGonagall, when your fiancée is heading rapidly towards a potentially watery grave, then”; “Oi, look out for my feking rods you soppy fat cow”! isn’t really a particularly appropriate response and neither when your fiancée is in shock and up to her waist in filthy canal water, is it regarded as good form to leer suggestively towards your mates and say; “You will have tonight darling”, … when your loved one tells you, “Oooo Mac, I think I’ve got some tadpoles up me wotsit.”
The Paddy’s Tale – Some Fatherly Advice.
My cousin, Garry, was one of those characters who looked totally angelic but, in reality an absolute nightmare.
When Garry heard that I had started going out with the angling club he thought he would like to tag along and see if he could learn a bit. He knew Oscar the club’s secretary via Oscar’s day job as a school caretaker. At the time Garry was sporting a broken arm that was caused by him falling from the roof of Oscar’s school, while he was up there stripping off and stealing the lead flashing – not that Oscar knew about that when Garry wangled a few free trips from him. Garry had told him that he would like to try and learn a bit more about fishing while his arm was mending and Oscar agreed that he could come along for free, as long as he behaved himself.
As soon as Garry boarded the coach, Irish Mick sat down next to him and said “What have you done to yer feking arm dare boy? Did youse do it playing football”?
“No, I was bullied at school”, Garry lied convincingly.
“Oi knew a boy dat was bullied at my school” said Mick, “Yeah, he was bullied to fek, so he was. He feking well looked like you too lad, all o dem feking freckles and dat dare ginger hair an all, he was a bit of a dozy looking feker too. Do youse know what happened to dat lad, do yer Garry? Oi said; do you know what happened to dat lad Garry? No? “No”. No? Me neider. When we left school oi lost touch wid im. Oi did see him just der once though, in Dublin he was, sleeping rough on a bench in der park, all his worldly goods was in a carrier bag and he was wearing odd shoes, one of dem was brown and der other was black, odd shoes, what der fek was dat all about den, eh? Odd feking shoes for fek sake. Oi was tempted to give him a kick up de arse just for old times sake.”
More Fatherly Advice.
“Do youse loike school?” I said, do you feking well loike school, Garry? My boy isn’t so keen on school himself. Oi looked towards him der other day, Garry. He was just standing dere wid a stupid grin on his face, just grinning to himself. Oi said “what der fek’s up wid you den? What der fek have you got to feking grin about den? Do you know what he said Garry? He only feking said ‘I had sex with the teacher this afternoon dad’
“What a feking shock” I said, “what a feking shock Garry”. Den oi started to feel a bit proud loike. Ha, ha, ha, oi thought; der apple doesn’t fall far from der tree, he’s a right chip off de old block dere. So oi says to him “yer know you’ve been worrying der life out of me for a new bike for yer birthday next week? Well youse can have it right now if yer loike”. “I’d rather have a football dad” he said.
I asked him why, Garry, and do you know what he said? He said ‘Because I’m still sore from the sex I had with Mr Smith’
Kids eh Garry, feking kids!
The Cook’s Tale.
When we went fishing in Kent the Vista Café would always be our first port of call. Oscar, our clubs secretary, had a deal with Luigi the owner of the café. Luigi would open up early on Sunday mornings especially for us. Forty plus anglers all turning up in one go was probably as much trade as Luigi had for the rest of the days of the week all put together.
So, on almost every Sunday morning throughout the season, forty, hungry, flatulent, hung-over and argumentative pillocks would bowl through the door of the Vista Café.
Now the one thing that marked this café out as different from any other that we visited was the Mynah bird that Luigi kept in a cage in the customers’ area. Every time we called in, Mac and a couple of the others would seat themselves next to the cage and take great delight in talking to the Mynah bird and feeding it the coloured raffle tickets that Luigi gave out in order to work out whose orders were who’s.
After several months of our visits, the Mynah bird had disappeared. “Where’s your bird gone mate?” asked Oscar, as we went in. ‘I hadda to-a put eem in a da backa rooma’ said Luigi ‘He was a ve-ry naugh-ty bird, a first of all he a started to a crap all da colours of a da rainbow and a den he a kept, shouting out ‘The bacon a sandwiches are a friggin horrible, the bacon a sandwiches are a friggin horrible’. It was a not a very nice whenna da customers dey a come in a wid dare a children. Oh, a bye a da way, dere’s a nothing a wrong wid a my friggin a bacon sandwiches. Dat a friggina bird, he’s a friggin liar!!’
The Vicar’s Tale.
Wow, what a day! The sun had been blazing down on us ever since we arrived at the drain that fed into the Military Canal. A couple of early fish and that was it. The drain was clear as glass and only about two feet deep. It now seemed totally devoid of any fish life whatsoever. I had two small roach and then not a bite for three hours. Oscar was going to get well and truly rumped for booking this venue and that was for sure. I wouldn’t have fancied being in his shoes after the match. The suspicion was that he looked through the Angling Times and then booked the venues with the lowest weights.
Meanwhile, while waiting for a bite that was never likely to come, my tongue was starting to unravel like a roll of lino. The reflections of Mac, Garry and Baz appeared on the glass-like surface of the drain,and a voice from behind me said “Sod this for a game of soldiers; we’re off up the pub, coming?” I carefully weighed up all the available options and within a nano second I replied; “I’m in, where’s the nearest pub then”? Mac said; “Not a frigging clue to be truthful mate, but there’s a church over there in the distance and where there’s a church there’s usually a pub”. So off we went.
The country lane towards the church had a ditch each side and as we yomped down the lane we heard a car speeding towards us. It hurtled around the bend behind us, we turned in time to see the driver grinning like a maniac, as he approached he swung the steering wheel and the car swerved violently in our direction. My companions all jumped into the ditch, but being a bit slower off the mark I managed to get clipped with the wing mirror and worse than that, swiped with the whippy aerial that was all the rage at the time. “You all right mate?” Asked Baz, as the bright orange, souped up, Ford Escort disappeared into the distance. I had a quick check over, Hmm, nice bruise to the elbow and a wheal across of my back, the like of which I have never since experienced, well, except for that one visit to Mrs Manacles House of Correction, but I digress…
We heard a car coming back from the direction of the church and saw the orange paintwork flashing through the gaps in the hedgerow. “Hide behind that bush” shouted Garry. Now as this was the only bush on the entire section of lane, you may be forgiven for thinking that this was not the smartest place to hide. And what’s more, you would be right. Also, these thought processes would go a long way to explaining my young cousin Garry’s complete lack of success as a career criminal in later life and additionally his lengthy periods of incarceration at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. “Down in the ditch lads!” Shouted Mac. We all jumped down into the ditch, Garry managed to find a half house brick down there and as the car rounded the corner with the sun gleaming and reflecting off of the windscreen, Garry jumped out of the ditch and, showing the sort of blind Kamikaze bravery that either wins you the V.C or, far more likely, an early grave, he screamed out “Bastards!!!” and hurled the brick with unerring precision straight through the windscreen of the car…………… I’m still unsure as to who was the most surprised: Garry, the vicar, or the very elderly parishioner he was returning to her home after that morning’s service. The vicar looked totally stunned, but I think the old girl actually shat herself.
The Coachdriver’s Tale
The illustrious driver of our coach was Phil. It wouldn’t matter where in the South East of the country we were fishing, Phil had a bit of skirt somewhere nearby.
Some of Philip’s amorous adventures would have had Casanova reaching for the Viagra. In short, Phil was a Fanny Rat of the first order. His advice to Baz, Garry and myself has been worth its weight in gold over the years.
Try this little pearl of wisdom:
Phil: When you are looking to get married always go for an ugly bird and I’ll tell you why boys. What happens if you go for a really pretty girl? I’ll tell you what happens, all your mates fancy her and then try to pull her, if they succeed you lose a mate and a wife, plus you’re always looking over your shoulder because you have a beautiful wife and you’re scared that you may lose her. So guys, always take a plain ugly woman for your wife.
Baz: She could still leave you for someone else though!
Phil: Bloody hell Baz, that’s the whole point, if she’s ugly and leaves, who gives a toss, plenty of other ugly birds out there.
A Close Shave
Phil returned to the coach one day completely out of breath, red faced and with a rather panicky expression and almost naked. Before we returned home we had to have a whip round in order to donate some clothes for him to go home in. He had returned to his coach wearing one sock, one shoe, a pair of underpants, no trousers and just a vest.
Mac: What the hell happened to you?
Phil: Well I was giving this bird one, Doreen I think her name was, I met her when I was in Hythe last week. She said her bloke was away for the weekend and that she was really pissed off that he was leaving her on her own all weekend, while he was off having a good time with his mates on a motorbike rally. She said ‘Well two can play at that game’ so she arranged that I come over to keep her company, if that’s what you want to call it.
Mac: What happened to your clothes then Phil?
Phil: Give us a chance mate. Well, there I was riding the range, when all of a sudden there was a loud knocking at the door. This Doreen has gone as white as a sheet and she started saying: ‘Oh fek, oh feking hell!’. What’s wrong? I asked. ‘It’s Mad Mick, my boyfriend. He must have forgotten something’. Well, I looked out of the window and stood there by his Harley was the biggest Hell’s Angel I have ever seen in my bloody life. The bugger had arms bigger than my legs, he was absolutely frigging enormous. He shouted out ‘Doreen, Doreen you cow, have you got somebody in there again?’ He had a double headed battle axe in his hand and started to chop the bloody front door down. Well I climbed through the window and dropped down into the back garden stark flipping naked. What I’m wearing now is what she chucked through the window and I managed to collect before I legged it back here.
Mac: Didn’t stay to defend her honour then Phil?
Phil: No mate, and here’s some words of advice for you three – never, ever, ever, get involved, or in a fight, or in any trouble, or even work with any feker with a first name like that!
Garry: What, Mick?
Phil: No Garry, you stupid twat, MAD! They don’t call them that for nothing!
So Endeth The First Volume.
