‘Oh fuck’, I said as I saw who it was coming through the door.
Pete and Dave turned and said ‘Oh fuck’ at exactly the same time, Lucky held his head in his hands, Ron made that face he makes when he seriously considering battering someone’s face in with the iron bar he keeps under the bar, Splodge said ‘fuck this’ and left, old-timers Paddy and Tom at the far end of the bar looked at each other then went into the snug to join old Charlie and Jimmy stayed silent but wished that he had, for some reason, locked the front door of Ron’s even though it was only half-past seven. He has a very expressive face, you see.
‘Well, gentlemen. How are we all?’, said Pristine Pascal.
‘Oh, we’re all fine. Haven’t seen you in a while though. Thought you were dead’.
‘Hoped you were dead’, whispered Pete to Dave who snickered into his hand.
‘You simply can’t keep a good man down’, he said.
‘How would you know?’, whispered Dave to Pete who blew some snot out of his nose with the laughter.
Pristine Pascal is Dirty Dave’s sworn enemy. As filthy and disgusting Dave is, Pascal is neat, tidy and fragrant. Dave’s hair is wild and unkempt, Pascal has his hair cut on a weekly basis and the side-parting is perfect no matter what time of the day or night. And while Dave might be a rotten cunt he’s not an obnoxious, snooty cunt like Pascal.
‘I take it you’re all doing well despite the financial climate? Me? Well, I recently expanded my portfolio and bought up some soup kitchens, just in case. I expect to see you there soon, Dave’.
‘Will you do Mulligatawny?’, said Dave.
‘Rather too specialist for your ilk, I’d have thought. I always had you down as a chicken-noodle man myself’.
‘I’ll chicken your noodle, ya scabby shitehawk’.
‘Ronald, one pint of the finest Guinness in town, please’.
Ron didn’t say a word but poured the pint despite Pascal saying Ron’s Guinness tasted terrible the last time he visited. There was a good reason for that though with Lucky playing his classic ‘finger de merda’ trick on him.
‘So David, I take it you’re still wallowing in your own filth in that grotty little house of yours?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Oh, nothing, I suppose. Just that despite the property downturn I’ve upgraded to a new 7 bedroom shack in the ‘rock. Black or Fox, I’m not saying, just in case you decide to come visit’.
‘I wouldn’t visit you if you were being put to death and they told me I could visit you to go ‘har-har’ like that fat kid from the Simpsons’.
‘Nice clothes by the way. Are those slacks genuine Farrah?’
‘Is your face genuine twat?’
‘Oh, and the squiggly Dunnes Stores Christmas ’84 jumper is a lovely touch. Most fetching’.
‘It’s comfy’.
‘And the car? Chugging around in the old Cortina, are we?’
‘Gets me from A to B’.
‘Not as quickly as my Jag XF with its 4.2-litre naturally aspirated petrol V8 engine but then why would you need to hurry for? You don’t live life in the fast lane the way I do. In fact … what is it?’, he said as Stinking Pete tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Bleeeeuuuurrrrrgggghhhhhhh’, barfed Pete with his fingers down his throat, spraying vomit all over Pascal’s expensive suit and shoes.
‘Oh my God, what are you doing?’
‘Raaaaaaaaarrrrrfffffff’, he chundered again, this time into his pint and all over his hands.
‘My suit. It’s ruined. Why have you done this? Why?’
‘To make you go away’.
It worked.
Heh. Must remember that one – it might come in handy tonight if Dessiegee isn’t mannerly.
Nice juxtaposition of cleanliness and filthiness.
Jo – You are in for a shock – I am a suit and tie, side parting wearing, supermannerly, uber polite gent.
Can you puke on a puke?
Now that’s what I call chucking out time.
Is Pristine one of your aquaintances from the yacht club Twenty?
He is Dirty Dave’s motal enemy. There’s a big long history to it.
Ewwww! Sorry, but ewwww. And I don’t even use the word ewww!
A friend told me a story of drunken self sacrifice: he was out one night, on the way home, and one friend suddenly said ‘I need to puke!’ They were on the bus, I think – there was nowhere to do it and his other friend held out his cupped hands and nobly declared, ‘You can puke in my hands!!’
I think I’d get sick too if someone got sick on me. I don’t do so well with vomit. Or dog poo.
Your mini stroke has taken hold, two typos in two days, or is it early onset Alzheimers?
Hooronahonda – I do believe there is a town in Albania called Puke – So technically you can puke in Puke, you can work, rest & play in puke.
you can dine in puke,
Dont nkow what you would call a local though, A Puker, a Puke, a Pukonian, a Pukite,
Mmmm, dining in puke.
Must be the Alzheimers, P … erm … Z?
So pristine will be in the new book then?
Does Dave’s cortina have the vinyl roof and brown velour interior?
Pristine’s not in the new book. I can exclusively reveal that Dirty Dave is though.
Dave’s Cortina is like the Flintstones car.
That would be great for parking and the like but i preferred pat pending’s convert a car 03 so practical, so flexible
Once saw a fella whip out his mickey and piss on another fella’s trousers in a packed bar in Downpatrick, just to embarras him.
I remember in school one time a guy pissed on another guy’s trousers as we were standing around talking. Must have been in 6th class or something like that.
Heh, I know a girl who got sick into a woolen handbag in the back of a taxi.
It wasn’t watertight.
Jesus, you are an uncivilised lot, although I once puked in my mates girlfriends boots after having a severe whitey. I kind of forgot until I received an irate call the next day.
In the UK they have a brand of pie called ‘Pukka’, which we, being altogether too funny, pronounced ‘puker’. This was on account of the chicken and mushroom pie filling had a distinctly spew-like look about it.
Bloody dog woke me up at 10AM wanting fed. What a life. Jo – I seriously need a wife to take care of these sorts of things – is that friend of yours still available ?
What’s a ‘severe whitey’?
God, Twenty. You went to an all-boys’ school I take it.
It sounds like you should move in with your married sister, maggot. I’m sure she’d love to look after you.
Jo, a combination of too much drink followed by smoking too much skunk, makes one feel quite unwell, room spinning, puking etc
All boys, yes.
A whitey is when you get too stoned and you start freaking out and being sick and stuff. Only happens to rampant poofs, mind…
Maggot, just buy one, someone from my work has just got one from the Ukraine, good looking can’t speak a word of English, perfect.
Only happens to rampant poofs, mind…
fight, fight !
“Only happens to rampant poofs, mind”
And actually my mother-in-law despite my warning her that smoking on top of a bottle of Jamesons was not a good idea.
Maggot, I don’t need to fight that pussy, I have a lemur that can take care of that cunt.
Sensible woman…
I’m cheap PP – and any pal of Jo’s is bound to be a good catch!
I think you just ruined my sister’s day Jo.
I once came home from work to find a pile of puke beside my bed.
I had puked in the middle of the night, completely forgotten about it, got up and went to work.
I also puked out my window from about four stories up onto a clothes line in the back garden.
I think I mentioned this before here.
Thing is she blamed the gear, said it was much stronger than the stuff she had back in the seventies, which I find hard to believe. Certainly has put her off it in the future though.
Lemurs are rock – and as we know, he couldn’t even take a tamarind, the big girl’s blouse.
Should i bring a bucket to the pub tonight Holemaster?
We can have a “Who gets the worst Whitner” competition or something..
Heh – when I was student at the end of Easter term I went on the piss – got up at 5 AM and drank a pint of milk from the fridge, puked and packed and left my digs.
3 weeks later I got a terrible bollocking from the landlady as she had left cleaning the room until the niht before I came back – and went in to find a huge hairy beer, pizza and milk puke covered in fungus all over the carpet.
sheepworrier said
“Once saw a fella whip out his mickey and piss on another fella’s trousers in a packed bar in Downpatrick, just to embarras him.”
I once did the same thing in lovely downtown Kings Cross, Sydney.
What was it, PP? Resin or bud?
And speaking of other appalling situations that arise thru bodily excretions, a friend of mine related this tale to me many years ago.
He and his mate worked in a scrap yard. It was ‘fucking hard work’ as he constantly reminded me and therefore required the consumption of many pints of lager before staggering home every evening.
One night the urge for a curry, to cap off a very extended bout of drinking, came upon them so they legged it to the nearest balti house where they demolished dishes created from the the parts of various, unidentifiable animals.
Next day was a Saturday and earlier in the week they had both volunteered to do a mornings overtime. So they both turned up, a little worse for wear, but bang on time and proceeded to shuffle piles of scrap about the yard.
Suddenly my friends colleague goes into spasm and rolls around the floor holding his stomach. It was a desperate desire to evacuate his bowel and it was a ‘touching cloth’ situation. Looking round wildly he saw a dark and forgotten corner of the yard which seemed perfect for the purpose of dropping a load. Running behind the pile of old metal he whipped off the top of his overalls, pulled down his pants and, right on time, a torrent of shite squirted out. A short while later our man is feeling better and is pleased he hadnt shit himself. He proceeds to pull up his pants, then his overalls only to feel a warm, wet sensation on his back and shoulders. The silly fucker had only taken a dump in the top half of his overalls! My how they laughed and laughed (But nobody would go home on the bus with him!).
“a huge hairy beer, pizza and milk puke covered in fungus all over the carpet.”
Maggot! The hairy bit makes me gag (wide open to smart comments).
I have done some projectile vomiting in my time, once from about four feet back from the toilet, an arc of carrot and egg almost entirely into the bowl.
Bud, nobody really sells resin in the UK anymore. I once sold a wanker a Knorr Stock Cube in cling film.
hah, the old stock cube/peat briquette ploy.
During the college years we had a party once and found a guy passed out in the toilet. He’d obviously sat down to have a poo, felt like vomiting, knelt in front of the toilet to chuck up, done that then shat his pants and conked out. Stinking is not the word.
I’ve had that dilemma, puke or shite. Quick turn around, quick turn back. Which hole will give in first?
I did manage to puke into the sink while dropping one in the loo. And no I’m not the guy who ate his dinner from his lap while on the loo reading the paper.
Can I also add that these puking and shitting incidents are from my early 20s.
Who cleaned up, Twenty?
Bad karma, PP…
I’ve a horror of vomiting. It puts me off drinking too much – and these days I’d fall asleep before nausea started.
I can’t understand how people can keep drinking once they feel sick. Groo.
I lived in Amsterdam for some months until the locals realised what I was about and invariably on a Friday evening when all the weekend trippers would come in to my local Ronnsterdam bar they’d start banging the bud.
I lost count of the amount of six foot plus rugby players who keeled over while their four-foot nothing girlfriends were perfectly alright.
This calls for a fully funded European study and I’ve got an application in already.
Necessity Jo, It raised enough to pay for my own eighth, he was trying to be “cool” so him and his middle class mates could get “high” when Mummy and Daddy were at the golf club do. He used to get regular beatings from other people, I was merely an intellectual bully.
You only get Burned with a briquette once…
Never buy hash off knackers in Town I was told..
But i was young and stupid and the quarter of Bord na Mona i purchased was a lovely addition to the fire when i got home..I should have just thrown the money in the fire and saved myself the No7 roundtrip to town totalling about 3 hrs..
http://ie.youtube.com/watch?v=0qWautzlnEE
(Not for the easily queasy)
After too much tequila I chundered all over my mate’s back garden. I was quite pleased with myself as I projectile vomited away from my new shoes, until a second more strenuous bout which included shooting out of my nostrils, making direct contact with said new shoes. That wiped the inner smile off my face…
Intellectual bully? I think it’s called extortion… or possibly, em, theft.
Fleeting visit Twenty. But have to share the worst story shagging story from my years in college. We had a class party. It went downhill. Very downhill. Went back to someone’s gaff. Where the smoke replaced the beer. Usual story. Then heard a scream from upstairs. Somehow me and my mate made it up first. (We were actually trying to draw on the frontdoor). Verily we saw the remnants of a dodgy incident. In his state of intoxication, a classmate decided to go down on a lady from our class. Bad place to have a whitey.
Ew, Spudley. The smell, the burn!
That would give you a complex forever, if someone got sick going down on you. Not Good!
I farted in chapel once, i couldn’t not fart, it was much louder than my arse had led me to believe it would be. Does this count?
heh, takes ‘wash your fanny’ to a whole new level, eh Nonny? :)
I sharted at Confession once…
Country Gay once rolled down a window in a speeding car and vomited out it. When we got up the next morning the whole of the back of the car was streaked with dried vomit.
That priest never tried anything ever again..
Les the post – who of course ran the post office in our village was sat on our row and never ever made eye contact with me again.. the shame
The Sphincter ALWAYS lies..
Jesus Jo, I was fucking fourteen, just as well I am an agnostic and therefore have no guilt.
What, no guilt PP? Why is guilt the preserve of the godly? I would have thought all it took was conscience or some empathy to feel guilty.
Fourteen? Oo, you little scumbag ;)
better that than huffing, like the real scumbags were doing in my school. I think guilt is the preserve of Catholics, I didn’t gain empathy until I was 24
PP:Have you no soul????
and i mean that in a Motown/Stax kind of way
But all this use of bodily fluids in order to get rid of somebody! Wouldn’t a simple ‘fuck off dopey’ work and also make a lot less cleaning up after for the likes of Ron?
Nice story Ubollix, a hurl on a girl, heh, heh.
Well, it’s not working for fatcocksacker
Jo, ssshhhh…
Twenty, you sound like the original Ulysses trying to sneak past the sleeping Cyclops!
Are you working hard on our behalf, Fearless Twenty?
Behind the scenes, as always, Jo
Arse, he is working to make his second million from a hastily completed sequel, and as for fearless..I think his post about mini-strokes shows his paranoia about health…and of course I know a couple of primates that reckon he is far from fearless.
Next step is walking around the house in Kleenex boxes attempting an Atlantic Crossing in The Spruce Goose..
I was playing pool with the brother on our new Christmas present snooker table. We were in our jammies as we couldn’t wait to play another game and had leapt out of the beds on Stephen’s Day.
Leaning over the table for a particularly difficult slice shot I went for what felt like a snug release into the flannel only to pause in momentary suspicion.
That suspicion was confirmed by the brother who had noted the flicker of alarm cross my handsome features.
There it was- a nublet next to my foot where it had dropped on the mammy’s good Axminster in the front room.
Twenty five years later I still look across the room at family functions only to catch the brother looking at me with a smile on his face.
I know what he’s remembering.
Our year 3 English class was on the ferry going to Inverness to see The Merchant Of Venice. It was a howling gale, the boat was pitching and rolling and we were all lined up outside on the freezing sodden deck to puke over the side. I was up wind from my English teacher, vomitted and it whipped back in the wind to score a direct hit on his face, whereupon he too was sick.
Pristine Pascal – ha!
Ha. Laughed out loud, mate.
Pingback: Toenail Fungus Home Remedies