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“Listen mate, right, you’d best check yourself before you wreck yourself. That’s right you wanker, best chickiddy-check yo’self before you riggidy-wreck yo’self WIGGA!”

So that’s what he said to me. I was lost for words momentarily at the man’s sheer gall. I stepped forward and slowly reached out my right hand in front of him. He watched it. I wriggled the fingers a little and he watched that too. Then with my left hand I cuffed him around the side of his head.

I took one step back and looked at him as he rubbed the back of his head with both hands. He was emitting an ‘Owwww.’ He was whining like a pussy.

“You sound like a bitch. Get a grip.” I told him flatly.

“Owww…shit man, that hurt.”

“Well, you sad little twat, looks like you’d best check yourself. Now,….fuck off.”

He sloped off down the street. The audience started to dissipate as I turned and walked back up to the video shop.

“I just ran into that try-hard twat Wayne.”

“O yeah?” said Gary, the shop manager and infamous online warrior.

“That boy needs serious mental aid. He tried walking through me and when I stopped him he went ballistic.”

“Did he tell you to check yourself?”


“What a twat. Did you smack him one?”

“Aw, I feel sorry for the poor sod. He’s either deep in some morose depression or he’s going hyper. I just cuffed him one around the head.”

“Nice. Hopefully we won’t see him for about a week.”

“Maybe. It depends what pills he’s presently munching on. He’s a mentalist.”

“He’s a twat.”

“Yep. O yeah, and he called me a wigga.”

“What the fuck is a wigga when it’s at home?”

“Well, I guess it’s like the white equivalent of nigga.”

“People actually say that? Fucking hell. What is the world coming to Bruce?”

Hello doughnut,

Are you going to send that design down or what?! It's sunny as a motherfucka down here. Hope your office is air-conditioned (actually, I'm sure it is. I mean, if battery hens get looked after I'm sure you guys would do as well!) Joking - anyway, you can laugh at me in thirty years time when my monthly pension can only just help me get a mortgage on a can of cheap beans.

Wot you upto this w/e? Scratch that, I just remembered you’re down to Wilts. I'm sorry I couldn't make it but I have to work and sort out my new car. When I say sort out, I mean the important bits, like my slamming, earth shaking stereo. BOOOOO!

Anyway, I'm in the shop for another couple of hours and then it's beach time baby.

Had a girl come in yesterday with her young kid and gave me a bottle of Sprite, coz many people know I love it so. Then about thirty minutes later she called up and explained she'd been too embarrassed to ask in the shop but would I like to go out for a drink with her. Now, she's a lovely girl and everything, about a five out of ten, so not really that fit unfortunately, and nothing special between the ears so, actually, I suppose she’s not that lovely. Although I’m sure she is a good person and everything. What I am trying to say is that she is not my type. Yes, that sounds much better. I said that I didn't even know her name. She then told me that we'd met, talked and then snogged in the Carriers one time. I couldn't remember a thing about that but I knew I should not string this girl along. I had to quash her hopes immediately!

How the fuck could I say no without sounding like a total twat? I was all ,"Ummm, errrm, welll, I'm not really sure..." expecting her to say "O, okay, bye." Instead, she just waited on the other end of the line saying nothing listening to Bruce flounder about, tying himself up in verbal knots. I finished with "....No, sorry. I gotta go. Customer. Bye."

I mean, for Christ's sake, where are all the extremely fit, tanned, toned, erudite, intelligent, mildly twisted birds? Eh?!!!! Answer me that! Actually, I know where they are. Everywhere. What I mean to ask is where are those birds with all of the above, plus with the additional facet of wanting me and my little chap? Eh?!!! Calm down Bruce, you do all right.

Anyway, I'm still trying to disengage myself from this last dalliance. The large bird. She is actually turning me off now. I can only be forced into it by her when I am totally pissed and stoned, with my glasses off. Waking up next to her in the a.m. is pretty fucking horrible actually, man. I run away. She just wants all she can get of the Bruce-man. I've said for the last couple of months or so that she should be aware that there is nothing between us and it's just a bit of fun. She nods and launches he considerable self at me. My legs buckle. She is quite heavy.....fuck.

Anyway, enough rambling.


Dear Bruce,

As I have always said, you’re a total slapper. You will poke anything in a dress that comes within ten feet of you when you are pissed. You need to get some self-respect. Just because you can doesn’t necessary mean that you should.



That’s a bit rich coming from you. You’re as bad as me and you live in London so the scope for slutdom is much larger. Just because you look like Thor and you get all the fitties, does not mean you can preach to me. Had any STDs recently?


Hello Monkey-boy,

Fuck off. That shit happens, as I know you well know. Why don’t you move back to London and then you can go hunting for that combination of ethnicity that you so like. You know, dark skin, dark hair. Isn’t it all blonde surf chickettes down in Bude?

Go catch a cold


Blonde haired, blue eyed, tanned. Yep, everywhere. C’mon down. Anyway, back to the point. Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never gone and done something regretful under the influence? I know you have. Remember Doris the Donkey….



Never was that supposed to be mentioned! This discussion is at an end.

Go drown some.


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