The Terrible Birthday of Rod Hull

It was Rod Hull’s birthday, and he was very much looking forward to his birthday party. All the puppets and puppeteers would be there – Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog, Keith Harris and Orville, Ray Alan and Lord Charles, Roger De Courcey and that pervert bear of his. Rod could hardly wait!

“I can hardly wait!” Rod Hull told his malevolent puppet sidekick, Emu. Emu’s head began to quiver and his mouth curled up. “Oh fucking shit!” Rod shouted, but it was too late. Emu launched a frenzied attack on his master that left Rod with severe facial injuries and blind in one eye.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you in overnight,” the doctor told Rod in A&E.

“Well this stinks,” Rod replied. “I was supposed to be having a birthday party tonight.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” the doctor told him. “But it’s not all bad news. Manchester United are playing Inter Milan in the Champions League tonight, so you can watch that instead.”

“Hooray!” hoorayed Rod. Emu, meanwhile, sat next to him in an uncomfortable plastic chair simmering with rage.

Later that night, Rod was settling down to watch the match, but there was a problem – the reception was absolutely terrible. “I wonder if there’s a problem with the TV aerial, Emu?” Rod said. Emu snarled. “I’ll just pop up to the hospital roof to take a look.”

That turned out to be a bad idea because, as Rod was fifteen storeys up adjusting the television aerial on the hospital roof, Emu – who is a paranoid schizophrenic, by the way – got it into his head that Rod was Russell Harty and attacked him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” said Rod, as he staggered backwards clutching some brand new facial injuries. “NYAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” he also said, as he toppled off the roof and fell to his death.

Satisfied, Emu went back downstairs and settled down to watch the match. As he was just about to fall off the roof, Rod had frantically grabbed the TV aerial and that had sorted out the reception problem.

“This is great!” Emu fumed. “I’m going to watch this football match and then I’m going to kill every man, woman and child in this fucking hospital.”

THE END

A Private Sector Christmas Carol

Marley was dead: to begin with. This was a good thing because he clearly hadn’t been pulling his weight if he had the time to muck about kicking the bucket when there was work to be done and money to be made.

“Good riddance,” muttered Ebenezer Scrooge, a man with a sound business head on his extremely wealthy shoulders.

“Mr. Scrooge? Would it be possible to have tomorrow off?”

That was Bob Cratchett, Scrooge’s clerk. Apparently, Mr. Cratchett thought money grew on trees.

“No,” replied Scrooge. “You’re fired. Get out.”

And quite right too. Scrooge wasn’t a charity.

That night, Scrooge ate some cheese by candlelight in his freezing cold house and then went to bed. A bed, by the way, that he’d bought with money he’d made by working his boney old fingers to the bone. He hadn’t been given a free bed by some do-gooder because he was too bloody idle to work for a living.

“WoOOOOooooOOOOO,” wailed the Spirit of Christmas Past. “Ebenezer Scrooge! I am the Spirit of Chr-”

“Bugger off!” shouted Scrooge, grabbing his blunderbuss. He shot the spirit right between its eyes. This sent the following signals to the rest of the spirit world: 

1. He was not interested in any of their nonsense.
2. He needed to get some sleep because he had work in the morning.

The spirits got the message and didn’t bother him again.

The next day was Christmas Day. Scrooge didn’t care about this because he was a very busy man. Meanwhile, over at Bob Cratchett’s house, him and his scrounging family were turfed out on their ear by the landlord’s agent and replaced by a family who didn’t think it was acceptable to live on handouts. The landlord was Ebenezer Scrooge. Twenty minutes later, the Cratchetts died of hypothermia. This was more than they deserved.

“Why?” croaked Tiny Tim, as the last breaths escaped his workshy body.

Why, Tiny Tim? I’ll tell you, shall I? Because your mother and father decided to breed like RABBITS without putting a moment’s thought into how they were going to provide for you and your freeloading brothers and sisters. A lesson for you there, my boy.

Anyway, that night Scrooge went to bed a contented man. His agent had informed him earlier in the day that he’d kicked out a family of grasping thieves from one of Mr. Scrooge’s properties, and this had made his Christmas.

“God bless me,” Scrooge said to himself. “Every one of my properties is occupied by people who pay their way, not by sponging wastrels and cripples who don’t know the value of a hard day’s work.”

THE END

The Night Fascism Died – Starring Bob Carolgees And Spit The Dog

It was 1939 and Britain stood on the brink of war with its old enemy France. Sorry, not France. The other bastards. In London, up the apples and pears in the function room of the Arse and Elbow public house in Walford, East 17, the fascist pig Oswald Mosley was delivering a hate-filled speech about how Hitler was alright if you got to know him. Little did Mosley know that this would be his last night on earth, for in the audience that night was the British government’s deadliest secret weapon – Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog.

“The thing about Hitler,” thundered Mosley, stabbing his evil totalitarian finger in the air in a gesture that would be chillingly echoed by the Leader of the House of Commons, Penny Mordaunt, at the Conservative Party Conference in 2023, “is that he’s alright if you get to know him.”

It was outrageous.

“This is outrageous, Spit,” Bob Carolgees told Spit the Dog. Spit nodded his head up and down, then turned his head off to the side and flobbed all over the lap of a fascist. “I agree,” agreed Bob Carolgees.

“And Hitler’s girlfriend’s alright too,” bellowed Mosley.

Disgusted, Bob Carolgees rose from his chair, raised his arm, shouted “Take THAT, Oswald Mosley!” and shot the Nazi bastard right between the eyes with the gun he had hidden up Spit the Dog’s arsehole.

It was the next day and a crowd of cheering Londoners gathered to say thank you to their heroes, Bob Carolgees and what was left of Spit the Dog. On the podium, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill (who had brought his term in office forwards for the purposes of this story) placed a Victoria Cross on Bob’s chest and tried to hand the lifeless corpse of Spit the Dog a specially-created Bonio for Bravery.

“What’sh the matter with your dog?” Churchill drawled.

“I’m afraid I had to shoot most of his face off, Prime Minister,” Bob solemnly replied, “with a gun I had hidden up his arse.”

“Shoundsh like your dog wash the key to the shuckshesh of the whole operwation,” glowered Winston Churchill. “Hish shacrifishe will not be in vain.”

And it wasn’t, for from that moment until the fascist menace was driven from every corner of Europe six years later, Churchill shot a small black terrier in the face for luck every day.

THE END

Romeo And Juliet And Mr. Blobby

It was Day 9,365 of the war between the Montagues and the Capulets. Romeo and his best friend Mr. Blobby were leaning up against a wall in the Verona Meadowhall, fucking about with butterfly knives and looking all surly.

“Forsooth!” forsoothed Romeo. “I hope some Capulets turn up soon so me and you can fuck ‘em right up with these knives, Mr. Blobby.”

“BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!” shouted Mr. Blobby.

Just then, a couple of Capulets turned up looking for a rumble.

“You there!” It was Tybalt who – according to Wikipedia – was a cousin of Juliet (a fully-grown woman who you’ll meet in a minute). “Romeo Capulet and Mr. Blobby! Have at you!”

The lads started having a big fight in the middle of the shopping centre. Romeo slashed at Tybalt and nearly cut his willy off, whilst Mr. Blobby tripped over an emotional support dog and went crashing through the window of a Nando’s.

“STOP THIS!”

Romeo turned and saw with his eyes the most beautiful woman his eyes had ever seen. And I would like to emphasise the fact that this Juliet was a woman, not a thirteen-year-old girl. She was twenty one and had nice big tits and a lovely arse, all of which was perfectly legal, thank you very much indeed.

“BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!” bellowed Mr. Blobby, as he slipped on a peri peri chicken wing and fell arse over tit. “BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!”

“You can say that again,” leered Romeo. “Hi there, sugatits. My name’s Romeo. Would you like to get married?”

“Yes!” gushed Juliet, who had also fallen madly in love …

It was a week later and Juliet’s dad Alan Capulet proudly walked his twenty-one-year-old daughter down the aisle. Waiting for Juliet (21) at the altar was … Mr. Blobby! The moment the over-the-age-of-consent woman had laid eyes on him in that Nando’s in Meadowhall, stumbling to his big pink rubber feet, losing his balance and then cartwheeling backwards into a screaming disabled woman in a wheelchair, she knew this was the man(?) she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

“This isn’t how Romeo and Juliet goes,” muttered Romeo, Mr. Blobby’s best man.

“BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!” screeched Mr. Blobby. He took a swing at Romeo, missed, lost his footing, fell down a couple of steps, rolled down the aisle, knocked Juliet and her dad over and smashed his big pink rubber head on the christening font. “BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!” he furiously roared. “BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY! BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!”

THE END

Blood Vengeance – A Children’s Story

Father Christmas was in a jolly good mood because he was under the impression that he’d got away with stealing £5,000,000 from off of the Triads.

“This is the best day of my life,” he laffed, as he sat in a hot tub with his best friends Roy the Bear and John Kittens and a load of sexy birds with their big tits out. Everyone was drinking champagne and having a great time. “Those stupid Chinese bastards will never find us because they don’t know where the North Pole is in China, probably,” Father Christmas added, incorrectly.

“I reckon we should get one of them flat screen TVs,” said Roy the Bear. “One of the really big ones where you can see everything. I’ve got a load of porn videos in the van and they would look fucking cracking on one of them big flat screen TVs.”

Father Christmas agreed. “I agree with this,” he agreed. “We could also watch a video I made last year of me and Mrs. Christmas fu-”

Just then, a load of Chinese Triads burst into the hot tub room. The sexy birds with the big tits started kicking up a right stink, so the leader of the Triads, Ching Chong, shot them all in the face with his machine gun. This made John Kittens shit himself.

Shit himself in a hot tub, mind. Doesn’t bear thinking about, that.

“YOU THERE!” shouted Ching Chong. “FUCKING BEAR! WHERE MY MONEY?”

Roy the Bear jumped out of the hot tub and made a run for it, but the Triads caught him and cut his fucking fingers off.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGH!” bellowed Roy the Bear.

“WHERE MY FUCKING MONEY?”

Roy the Bear was in too much pain to say anything, so Ching Chong shot him in the face with his machine gun. Realising he was probably next, John Kittens went for his nunchucks, but you don’t fuck with the Chinese when it comes to nunchucks because they invented ‘em. After getting a good hiding from off of a load of Chineses in a nunchucks fight, Ching Chong held John Kittens down and cut his fucking fingers off.

“F-F-F-F-FAAAAAAAAAAAAAACKIN’ ‘ELL ME FACKIN’ FINGERS!” screamed John Kittens.

“WHERE MY FUCKING MONEY?” That was Ching Chong again. He wasn’t letting this go.

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR FACKIN’ MONEY IS, YOU CU-”

Ching Chong shot John Kittens in the face with his machine gun and then turned his attention to Father Christmas.

“You can’t cut my fingers off!” protested Father Christmas. “I need them to deliver presents to all the children of the world!”

“YAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAARRRGGGH!” wailed Father Christmas, as the Triads cut all his fucking fingers off. So that didn’t work.

“YOU TELL WHERE YOU HIDE MY FUCKING MONEY CHRISTMAS DEMON!” shouted Ching Chong. He didn’t care about all the children of the world because he was a violent criminal.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGH!” replied Father Christmas. So Ching Chong shot him in the face. With his machine gun.

Five minutes later, the Triads found the bag with their money in it and fucked off back to China. The following day – which was Christmas Day – was a load of shit for all the children of the world because there were no presents because Father Christmas had been shot in the face in a hot tub.

Merry Christmas, children!

THE END

Steve Seagal And The Streaming Subscription Service Cancellation Error Of DEATH

It was Thursday morning and Steven Seagal was angry. Not angry in the way you and I get angry, of course. Steven – wot with him being a Buddhist zen master type character – was angry in a very calm, focussed and extremely lethal way. Why was Steven Seagal angry? Because he had cancelled his television streaming subscription service and they had gone and charged him an extra £7.99 anyway.

“This will not do, Tojo,” Steven Seagal told Tojo, his Chinese kung fu manservant and best friend. “Steven Seagal cancelled his subscription, yet Steven Seagal has been charged for it. Come, Tojo. To the offices of Paramount+.”

Steven Seagal and his manservant Tojo arrived at the swanky offices of Paramount+ in London. Steven asked the receptionist to see the manager of Paramount+ immediately.

“Have you got an appointment?” asked the receptionist. She had no idea she was walking a deadly tightrope made from off of violence and pain.

“No,” replied Steven Seagal. “I am Steven Seagal. Steven Seagal does not need an appointment.”

“You do need an appointment, I’m afraid,” the receptionist replied. “The manager of Pa-”

Seconds later, Steven Seagal and Tojo were strolling into the office of the manager of Paramount+ leaving a scene of total carnage in their wake. It had started with Steven Seagal snapping the neck of the receptionist and ended with Tojo pulling the guts out of the arsehole of a security guard whose wife was due to have a baby next Monday.

“What’s all this?” shouted the manager of Paramount+.

“I am Steven Seagal,” said Steven Seagal, “and I am here to discuss the £7.99 you charged me for your service despite the fact I cancelled it last month. This displeases Steve Seagal.”

“You’re …? GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!”

This was a mistake. Shortly afterwards, Steven Seagal folded away his bloody nunchucks as Tojo prised £7.99 from the manager’s cold, dead, amputated fingers.

“This would have all been unnecessary if they hadn’t charged me that extra £7.99, Tojo,” Steven Seagal told Tojo. He then turned to YOU, the person reading this and said:

“Hello, I’m Steven Seagal. If a customer cancels a service you supply because he or she no longer wants it, don’t carry on charging them for it. That way lies death. Isn’t that right, Tojo?”

“That’s right, master,” agreed Tojo, wisely.

And with that, Steven Seagal and Tojo left the offices of Paramount+ and went and had a Belly Buster at a nearby greasy spoon. In the wake of the massacre, Paramount+ overhauled its cancellation process and everyone lived happily ever after apart from all the people who had been killed. Hola!

THE END

Rod Hull and Emu’s West Yorkshire Bird Shit Competition of Death

It was the annual Bird Shit Festival in Hebden Bridge and Rod Hull and Emu knew they were in with a shout of bagging first prize in the ‘Biggest Streak of Bird Shit’ competition in the town hall.

Emu had certainly done his homework. He’s been living from off of nothing but egg and onion sandwiches washed down with pickled gherkin juice and milk stout for a fortnight, and the shit he’d splattered across the parquet floor of the hall was very impressive in a horrible sort of way.

“We’re winning this, Emu,” said Rod, confidently. “The only bird wot comes close is Orville, and that streak of shit he’s done is bollocks compared to yours.”

Emu stared at Rod with his malevolent eyes and then his beak curled up and he launched a ferocious and completely unprovoked attack on Rod’s screaming face.

Later that day it was time for the judging of the bird shit competition. Rod was there with his head swathed in bloody bandages. Emu didn’t care about this because he was a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Lovely big streak of bird shit, Keith,” the head judge, Mr. Terrence Chocolate-Orange, told Keith Harris.

“Why thank you,” replied Keith Harris. “What do you think about that, Orville? The judge says your bird shit’s lovely.”

“I wish I could fly, Keith,” Orville opined. A single tear sprung from his big plastic eye and trickled down his plastic cheek.

“Now,” said Terrence Chocolate-Orange, “onto the next big streak of bird shit. My word! That’s enormous!”

“Hold the bird shit judging competition!” came a voice from the back of the town hall. It was Karen Matthews (the caretaker, not the one who attempted to swindle fifty grand out of the Sun newspaper).

“What’s this?” demanded Terrence Chocolate-Orange.

“A freak gust of wind has knocked the aerial off of the roof,” Karen Matthews replied. Everyone in the town hall except Emu gasped. “Unless someone can fix it, we won’t be able to show the Champions League semi-final between Manchester United and Inter Milan tonight, which is the last event and undisputed highlight of the Hebden Bridge Bird Shit Festival.”

“This is a disaster,” said Terrence Chocolate-Orange. “People have come from as far away as Ilkley to watch that match. There’s nothing for it. Rod Hull must go up on the roof and fix the aerial.”

“Hang on … what?” asked Rod Hull. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard that right because the bandages were muffling his hearing.

But he had heard that right, and ten minutes later he was stumbling around blind on the town hall roof, arms outstretched, hands grasping for a TV aerial he couldn’t see because his whole head was swaddled in bandages.

“Is it … is it here? Is this it? Is … where the fuck … am I getting war- OH SHIT!”

Rod slipped on a big streak of bird shit, lost his footing and fell off the roof.

“Is he alright?” asked Terrence Chocolate-Orange.

Unfortunately, he never got to find out because at that moment Emu – enraged at not having his bird shit judged – pecked his eyeballs out and then tore his head off. Screams went up from the crowd attending the Hebden Bridge Bird Shit Festival as one-by-one they were torn to shreds by a vengeful Emu. Nobody was spared, not even Keith Harris and Orville, who had all their arms, legs, heads, plastic beaks, green polyester wings, big nappies and Art Garfunkel hairdos ripped off. It was a truly horrific sight (unless you’re Cuddles the Monkey, who famously hated that duck).

As he lay dying (Emu had already buggered off at this point), Orville turned his bloody face to what remained of Keith Harris. “If only I could fly, Keith,” he whispered. “I could have flown up there and fixed the aerial and Emu wouldn’t have got all upset about Rod Hull dying because he wouldn’t of died.”

“Well actually he would have still got angry,” an eyeless, headless Keith Harris replied, “because if you remember, Orville, Emu wasn’t bothered about Rod Hull dying. He was pissed off that everybody came outside to watch the aerial being repaired instead of judging his bird shit. We would have all been killed by that fucking maniac puppet bird regardless of who went up on the roof, I’m afraid.”

And with that, Keith Harris died. As did Orville.

THE END

The Brian, the Hitch and the Ford Probe

It was half past twelve on a Tuesday afternoon and East 17’s Brian Harvey was staying with his Auntie Meg in her house in the countryside. The journalist Peter Hitchens was also there for the purposes of this story.

“Can you and Peter Hitchens pop into the village after lunch and pick me up a box of Anusol and some big knickers?” Auntie Meg asked Brian. “You can take my Ford Probe.”

“I sure can!” replied Brian. Peter folded his arms and huffed. “What’s for lunch, Auntie Meg?”

“It’s baked potatoes, Brian,” said Meg. “And you and Peter can eat as many as you like.”

“SKILL!”

After lunch, a queasy Brian Harvey climbed behind the wheel of Auntie Meg’s Ford Probe while Peter sat in the passenger seat. He would have preferred to go into the village in a Morris or an Austin, but there was no chance of that thanks to the militant unions destroying the British car industry in the 1970s.

“Jesus,” moaned Brian, as he drove away from Auntie Meg’s house. “I feel bloody awful.”

“Not as awful as I feel about the people of this country turning their backs on the Anglican church, Brian,” Peter muttered, wishing it was still 1955.

“Christ! I think I’m going to be sick!”

“I remember when we were labelled the ‘sick man of Europe’ when I was a much younger man, Brian. Well, as far as I’m concerned, we’re sti- here, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

To Peter’s horror, Brian opened the driver’s side door of the Ford Probe and leaned out to puke his guts up. He’d eaten far too many baked potatoes, you see. Suddenly, Brian fell out of the car and, instead of tumbling backwards, he tumbled forwards somehow and ended up under the front wheels of the Ford Probe. The laws of physics did a double-take.

“It’s happened again!” Brian wailed as the car he was driving ran him over. Peter raised an eyebrow and tutted that this was just typical of modern Britain as the Ford Probe veered off the road and went over a cliff.

Two weeks later, Auntie Meg was visiting Brian in hospital.

“It was a lovely funeral,” Meg told him, tearfully. “All the journalists were there to say goodbye – Owen Jones, Simon Heffer, Marina Hyde, Richard Littlejohn. Piers Morgan did the eulogy and at least a third of it wasn’t about him, which was nice.”

Suddenly, a porter appeared with a wheelchair. “Morning, Brian,” he said. “Time for you to wheel yourself unsupervised to the X-Ray department to see how all those broken bones of yours are getting on. Are you alright with that?”

Brian said he was alright with that.

But he wasn’t alright with that because when Auntie Meg had popped in to see him after Peter Hitchens’ funeral, she had brought with her a three foot by three foot Tupperware container full of baked potatoes and Brian had eaten the lot. As he wheeled himself towards the X-Ray department, he felt the urge to throw up and, well, you can guess the rest.

THE END

Huw Edwards And The £34,999.99 Sex Caravan Of Evil

It was Friday afternoon and BBC newsreader Huw Edwards was having a bad day. He’d just handed over thirty five thousand pounds to a drug addict in exchange for some blurry photographs of the drug addict’s arsehole, and he was fuming and wanted a refund.

“How the hell am I supposed to wank to this crap, eh Bongo?” Huw shouted at his amusing puppet sidekick, Mr. Bongo Bongo Bananas.

“Don’t ask me, boss!” Bongo replied. Bongo was no fucking use.

“Hello? Is that the drug addict I paid thirty five grand to for some arsehole pictures?” said Huw Edwards after ringing the drug addict’s number. “I want my bloody money back, you thieving shyster.”

“Ha ha!” laughed the voice down the other end of the phone. “This isn’t the drug addict you paid thirty five grand to for mucky pictures, Huw Edwards. This is the evil ghost of Sir Jimmy Savile OBE, do you see? Now then, now then ‘ow’s about THAT then?”

“Shit!” Huw realised he was in big trouble. The evil ghost of Sir Jimmy Savile OBE had a direct line to all the top cops and tabloid newspaper editors in Britain. Huw knew full well the damage Sir Jimmy could cause to his reputation if the patron saint of celebrity paedophiles revealed Huw had been paying drug addicts thousands and thousands of pounds for arsehole pictures.

“Alright, Sir Jimmy Savile OBE,” Huw muttered, “you win. What is it going to cost me to keep this story out of the papers and away from the prying eyes of the police, you horrible old dead bastard?”

The evil ghost of Sir Jimmy Savile chuckled. “Now then …”

It was three years later and Huw Edwards and his loveable sidekick Mr. Bongo Bongo Bananas were at the National Television Awards receiving a gold-plated statuette from off of Philip Schofield for being the nation’s favourite newsreader (and puppet sidekick). As he basked in the applause of the audience, nobody had the faintest idea that just three years before, he’d spent £34,999.99 on a brand new Swift Challenger Grande 635 sex caravan to buy the evil ghost of Sir Jimmy Savile OBE’s silence.

“You had a close shave there, Huw,” said Bongo after the show.

“I agree, Bongo,” replied Huw. “I’ve learned my lesson and will never pay a drug addict thirty five thousand pounds for blurry pictures of his anus ever again.”

But that night, Huw Edwards suffered another temporary lapse of judgement and paid thirty five thousand pounds for twelve poor-quality shots of a drug addict’s arsehole. Entombed in concrete up in Scarborough, the evil ghost of Sir Jimmy Savile OBE took a drag of his spectral cigar and chuckled to himself. He’d always fancied getting his demonic hands on a used 2008 Auto-Trail Frontier Mohican sex motorhome, and now, thanks to Huw Edwards, he would soon have the £34,999.99 he needed to buy one.

The End

Leo Sayer – Dragonslayer

It was nine o’clock at night and 1970s international pop sensation Leo Sayer had just finished an eight hour shift cleaning the toilets in Wetherspoons. He was just about to descend the fourteen flights of stairs to the ground floor to order himself a meat feast pizza meal deal with his 50% off staff discount when the manager, Benton Greasy, came huffing and puffing onto the landing.

“Jesus fucking CHRIST!” Greasy sputtered. He was a hideous shade of purple. “Why the hell do they have to put the toilets in these fucking places up so many stairs? Christ! Jesus Christ!”

“Can I help you with anything, sir?” asked Leo Sayer. He crossed his fingers that a regular with acute pancreatitis and alcoholic liver disease hadn’t just emptied seven gallons of bright yellow diarrhoea all over the disableds.

“There’s a dragon wot’s got into the top bar,” Greasy wheezed. “Deal with it, will you, and then you can have your supper.”

Leo Sayer wasn’t happy about this because he’d been looking forward to his pizza, despite the fact he knew it would arrive at his table cold and wrong. Grumbling to himself, he made his way downstairs to the first floor top bar on the second floor. When he got there, the dragon – a great big scaly monstrosity with horrible yellow eyes and fiery breath that could melt pots and pans – was standing at the bar looking miffed.

“About bloody time,” roared the dragon. “Can I get a pint of Guinness, please?”

Leo ignored the dragon, picked up a dirty cloth and started wiping down the fridge doors.

“Excuse me,” bellowed the dragon. “Did you hear me, mate?”

“I’m not on the bar,” Leo told him as he rearranged the Kettle Chips and KP nuts. “You’ll have to wait until Sally’s finished cleaning the lines downstairs.”

“What kind of fucking service is this?” shouted the dragon. “What the hell do you mean you’re -”

“Please don’t speak to me like that, sir,” Leo interrupted.

“Please don’t … WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TALKING TO?” thundered the dragon.

“If you carry on speaking to me like that, I’ll be forced to call my team leader,” Leo replied, turning his attention to wiping down the various customer service awards that the pub had fraudulently won by the staff being on their best behaviour whenever the regional manager paid a visit.

“This is a fucking outrage!”

“Right! I’m calling my team leader!”

Thirty five minutes later the dragon was being bundled into the back of a van by the police. They had been called after the dragon had lost its temper with Leo Sayer’s team leader. She was a very rude woman and her attitude towards the pub’s customers stunk to high heaven, which was why she was always wheeled out whenever there was trouble or somebody wanted to make a complaint. Leo watched as the door slammed on the irate dragon, who was shouting his head off about fucking Wetherspoons bastard fucking bastards. Needless to say, he had NOT got his pint of Guinness.

“Well done, Leo,” said Benton Greasy. “That was textbook dragonslaying.”

“Thanks, boss,” replied Leo Sayer. “Now, can I order a meat feast pizza meal deal? I’m starving.”

“I’m afraid not,” Greasy chuckled. “One of our regulars with acute pancreatitis and alcoholic liver disease has emptied seven gallons of bright yellow diarrhoea all over the disableds. I need that cleaning up before you have your dinner, and if you refuse, you’re fucking sacked, MATE.”

THE END