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A bit from my second book. . . . . . . . .
PROLOGUE
After finishing a few positions above Preece in the last match, Bloomer was desperate to fish the 2007 contest, ……………………… easier said than done, as his missus would only let him out of the house if it was a matter of life or death. This didn't deter him, he'd sat down on the bog one day in July 2006 to take a shit and hatch out a plan. He concentrated hard until the two, single brain cells, in his otherwise empty skull, merged. After a good three and a half minutes his master plan was complete, ….. he'd offer to do the washing up every day until next June, and in return, expect Lesley to allow him out to fish the match. He made his way down stairs to put forward his proposition. He heard her in the kitchen, so made his way down the hall and opened the door.
"Allo Luv"
"Where've you been?"
"I atta goo an 'ave a sh…… er…….number two"
"What's that smell?"
The Nethertonian Twat blushed, …… he'd concentrated so hard in the bathroom, and had got so excited about his plan, he'd forgotten to wipe his arse. This wouldn't have normally bothered him, but today of all days, he'd wanted to make a good impression. He quickly made an apology and rushed off to clean himself up, he even used toilet paper. He returned to the kitchen five minutes later.
"Lesley?"
"Yes"
"Yow know ow yow doe let me goo out very offen?"
"Yes"
"And yow know I day finish last in the fishin' match?"
"Yes"
"And I beat Preecey-Twat" he punched the air with his fist, still unable to conceal his glee.
"Yes"
He couldn't hold back any longer, and blurted it out,
"Well, if yoe let me goo and fish next year I'll do all the washin' up every day til then", there,……… he'd said it.
All of this had occurred nearly a year ago, but the conversation and events were still as clear in his ugly head as if they'd happened yesterday. It was now the eve of the 2007 match and he was on his way to the tackle shop to get his maggots. Although Lesley had granted him permission to fish, he couldn't help feeling that his plan had backfired somewhat.
After blurting out his proposition, she had sat him down and made some demands of her own. If he really wanted to go, not only would he have to do the washing up every day, but also the.ironing….. washing….bed making…..dog walking…..house keeping….. shopping ….gardening and cook the evening meal …….every day, oh,…………and must promise never, ever to pester her for sex cos she was sick and tired of repeating the word 'no'.
The sex thing wasn't a particular problem for Bloomer, He'd bought a dog a few months previous and day by day the animal had become more and more attractive, …. . . in fact so attractive, he had started a sexual relationship with it, as recently as a fortnight ago.
He pulled up outside the tackle shop, but didn't like what he saw. The place was in darkness. He looked at his watch, the time was 8:15pm, this didn't mean anything to him because he couldn't tell the time, that's also why he didn't know the shop shut at 5:30pm. He got off his Raleigh Chopper (which was stuck in 1st gear and sported a big 'whip' aerial bearing a small, triangular flag with the word 'Twat' embroided on it), and walked up to the front door. The sign hanging in the door window said 'closed', again this didn't mean anything to Bloomer, as he couldn't read. He knocked a few times, accompanying the knocks with a few, pathetic whimpers. After a short time, it did actually dawn on him that there was nobody in. He mounted his bike and made his way home.
Twenty minutes later he was standing in his garage staring down at his creel, on top of which he had placed what little bait he had, which consisted of half a loaf of bread, a tin of sweet corn, a tub of worms (freshly dug), and a tin of corned beef (the closest thing he could get to a tin of luncheon meat)……………………He needed maggots, even somebody with his limited intelligence knows you can always catch on maggots at the Fir Tree Pool. The sad, pathetic look on his face began to change, first into a smile, and then into a wide grin, . . . . how could he have overlooked the solution? . . . . . . . it was so simple.
Without further ado, he removed his underpants and held them above his open bait box. Within ten minutes around half a pint of the wriggly little beggers had dropped out of his skids, and into the box. He cursed himself cos he reckoned if he hadn't washed his underwear seven months ago, he'd have done a whole pint.
Now, in a jubilant mood, he cracked open a can of Skol Super, put another ten cans in his net bag for the next day,……….. and,……. as he'd got his trousers and pants off…………… went looking for the dog.
Posted on July 07, 2016 at 10:27 AM
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