Some years back I worked in Luigi’s chipper after he’d had a bad accident and spilled a load of hot oil on his face by having his face held in the hot oil because of some money he owed a nasty fucker from Celbridge. Me and Jimmy used to do some shifts in there just to offer him a bit of protection and for the love of a fish supper.
It’s easy to forget, as a gainfully self-employed gadabout, what a vast range of people you meet. There was Elegant Bob, who always wore a dapper, pinstriped three-piece suit. Immaculate it was. And every Tuesday and Thursday he’d come in for a ray and a small bag of chips.
Luigi didn’t do kebabs, he felt the idea that a chipper should sell all kinds of fast food diluted the quality of the product, but that didn’t stop a young lad, with a face like a spoon, asking for one every time he came in. ‘Fuckin cunts’ he’d mutter when we told him he could go to Iskanders if he wanted a kebab and then he’d order a ‘bunburger, no onions, can o’ cidona’. Good old spoonface. Jimmy liked the look of one girl but Bulimic Mary only got her name when she began vomit one chip at a time moments after leaving the shop.
That summer Jimmy had to go away and see his son that he had with Michael from The Bangles. There was some kind of issue, he’d been hanging around with the wrong kind of people in school and had come home with a gun. Apparently it was a .38 special. Jimmy had to go over and sort it out. ‘No son of mine is going to be messing around with guns … well, not rubbish ladies guns anyway’, so we were a bit shorthanded.
Luigi indicated, via the medium of notepad and pencil (because his lips hadn’t yet uncrisped) that he was doing a favour for his sister who had, much to his dismay, gone and married a German just after the war. They made up eventually and now he and Immacolata were quite close. So it was that Immacolata’s daughter, Belladonna, had a family of her own and her youngest son Torsten, named after his father, wanted to come and learn English.
I thought this was fine and immediately set about ensuring the young man could swear properly. “You vucking cont”, he would try as I would laugh and help him to say ‘cuuuuntt’ like a real Dubliner. He was personable enough, for a German, and came in handy for the inter-chipper 5-a-side league as he was training to be a professional footballer. This was his life’s ambition and to be fair to him he did go on to represent his country years later. He scored the winner against the sneaky Borzas one night which was poetic justice as they’d drafted in Claudio Gentile as a ringer.
After a while though we noticed some odd things about him. He would only refer to himself using his surname and despite the need to be an eager, hard working multi-tasker in the high pressure, exacting world of fast food, he would only carry out specific tasks. These consisted of the duties his grandmother had told him he would have to do when she waxed lyrical about her brother’s ‘restaurant’ – cooking fish, putting salt and or vinegar on them or going into the back room to bring out buckets of the coating for the sausages and the fresh cod.
One day when I asked him if he might go back there and bring out another tray of coca-cola for the fridge he lost his shit altogether, ranting in Genglish about how this slapdash approach to job related tasks was just the exact reason Ireland was in such a state and why our economy and workforce was a joke to everyone in Europe … even the French. Ouch.
“But Torsten”, I said. “I just asked you to carry out some cans of coke”.
“How many times have I said zis?”, he replied, as if I were the dummkopf. “Frings will only get batter”.
Well, you got there in the end.
‘Claudio Gentile’ heh. He was cool.
you my friend, are a cont!
You put so much effort into it, Twenty!
Which German town was his father from?
I just wondered seeing as Luigi didn’t want any frankfurters or hamburgers in his chippy.
you kahn be making bad puns like that. load of ballacks
..he probably didn’t want anyone munchen on the food when his back was turned either.
With all the babbeling on there twenty you never mentioned the helmers mayonnaise.
a bit ungrateful he was, seen as you’s were nearly your klinsman!
his mother, a woman of few words, was unusually emotional on his return – “son. gladbach”
Could you say she was as quiet as a Lahm then Porridge?
“she waxed lyrical about her brother’s restaurant” heh…
klose, murty, but no cigar. she had very complicated throat surgery in her youth – won’t go into details – but in lehmann’s terms, it left her with a deep, löw voice. she was embarrassed about it and would only talk to her family and other klinsmann
Luigi has gaming potential as a rival to Mario, at the 18s end of the spectrum.
yay, 2 in one week, with these puns you are spoiling us mr ambassador
I try to spot clues to the pun as I read through but there were so many red herrings (haha) today – michael from the bangles, the gun, etc. Loved it
don’t get it Porridge – all sounds like a bit of a riedle to me
Whenever I went there I always ordered two burgers just to leave that little bit Voller!
would do, murty, until you understand why she had the surgery. coffin fell on her neck in a bizarre funeral accident. trapped there for ages because they couldn’t get the bierhoff
OUCH!!!
On a similar vain,
In the jungle, the African jungle, 3 lions sleep tonight …
….coz in the morning, the early morning,
they have to catch a flight.
No win away no win away no win away no win away
there’s more – later in lfe, she invented new sports equipment for the hydrophobic. combining her fear of deep water (a boateng accident) with her love of winter sports, she came up with the podolski
Chips are nice but I prefer a nice yoghurt and compote combo…
Is the podolski a modern version of the littbarski? It’s great fun if the weathers nice in the sammer.
yep, same as, just a bit neuer
They took the boat once to their winter sport location…..There was almost a tragic Titanic like accident though only averted because Mary was heard screaming Look out for the Effenberg!!!!!!
she sounds a bit olaf thomboy
* has no idea why I named the lady from previous stories Mary
used to drive people mad – i know she sent her husband jupp derwall
In her opel astrid?
Yeah, they couldn’t afford a fancy car cause they really were just Lehmann.
that makes allofs of sense
torsten spent a lot of time with his friend matthias growing up. anytime anyone was looking for him, his mother would just grunt “overath. matthäus”
one night torsten got home very late and his mother shouted at him (in a rare outburst) oh magath! you are bach so late!
your mainz will be cold!
seems that luigi’s sister in law was sweet on prewar national coach fritz szepan’s son, morris. didn’t work out though, because being a neat freak, all he used to do was hässler about bringing out the trasch
have to go do some work now
you do that – i’m going to sit on my porsche
that maybach fire on you – there’s been a lada rain, but i’m sure you couldn’t give two fuchs
Porridge, hydrophobia is not a fear of water. Aquaphobia is. Hydrophobia is a reaction to liquids, also known as rabies.
Sorry to be so fucking Prussian about it
looks like i should have checked my facts instead of rabidding on
ahh vielen dank the porsche doesnt handel well in the rein i’d better take the vogtswagon instead
Waiter this beer tastes like bacon
Well you did order Sweinsteiger sir
luigi’s had to change potato supplier after some complaints about dodgy chips. seems he was getting a lot of badstuber s
if his chips give you an urge to analyse your dreams it’s because they’ve been over-freud
Jung at heart … we’re so ju-u-ng at heart
I dreamt John Terry Scored the Winner for England to win the World cup last night. Horrible.
Must have been the freud eggs I had for supper
should have eggs marin-ara instead. and remember not to over do it; maier is less
Was that the Torsten who used to get that awful spring fever where whenever he got even close to a flower, his nose got so completely blocked that he couldn’t talk properly? He used to say
“I am berry thorry that I cannot bronounce broperly but it’th all the fault of that beckin’ bower”.
read this – it’s like a nice piece of tender meat – vealy good
http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2009/oct/18/england-world-cup-fabio-capello
ordered sausages in a german restaurant and they were taking ages – when I asked the waiter told me that the wurst was yet to come.
cheers murty,
bloody guardian, he still has to cop out at the end with the “we will we it” stuff.
Self: ‘What time does this place close?’
German till-pilot ‘We are open Monday to Friday 7am to 7pm sir. And one hour on German philosophy day.’
Self: ‘?’
Till-pilot ‘Schopen Hour, sir.’
hitler got so excited on seeing a bargeful of ponies on the rhine, he wrote a song about it – the horst wessel
ha-ha-hamman
Hey Finbarr, what’s that Heifer doing smoking a joint on that Rotterdam bound barge?
That’s the rhine stoned cow, boy.
*it’s a raincoat with hood and good winter lining*
cap’tin, was that same pilot that had the skin condition that always made him nietzsche!
nice choice of coat, hm. everyone else here is wearing a rather fetching white coat with the straps and buckles and the extra long sleeves
this could be your song twenty’ i said your song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPvRsLWlDXw
Gert, scorer of spectacular volley in 1974 WC final, now supporting sale of below cost alcohol, specifically, Müller light.
*Columbo gets grubby trench coat, lights cigar stub and doesn’t come back scratching head with question*
You utter ‘Kaaaaaaaant’
We had a little dachsund. She was always Wagner tail.
Alsay Sean was its name.
*grabs coat*
Hitler, as we affectionately called her, had a strange habit of only going for a dump around Fianna Fail members’ houses.
‘Where’s the dog?’ the mother would demand.
‘Hitler? Hiding out in Bertiesgarden,’ we’d reply.
Until I was 15 I thought my name was ‘Ucunt’.
Had a thing about Germany did the Ma. Came home one day and she was sticking lollipop sticks in apples and rolling them around in some sticky mixture in a bowl and then throwing them out the window.
‘What are you doing, Ma?’ we’d ask.
‘Making luftwaffe apples, son.’
Gone very quiet around here now. Probably the calm before Die Sturm.
I believe I can fly
Twnety, yer mealy mouthed little fecker, lovely to hear that everyone is alive, expect the feckers that aren’t. Bles them though. I have now got a Labrador called Goldfish