CUCKOOS KNOB... ISN'T THAT AN ALE?

So I've left that middle age trollop that is the Wife of Bath. I cracked my medieval whip all over her ass and she's still annoying me. I'll go back to her in time, 'cause I'm not quite finished with the know-it-all whore. The Irishman in me is pumped up to full wife beating potential; I'm told by the Canadians and Aussies that I've surrounded myself with that it's an endownment of our angry celtic-viking blood, which is bollocks 'cause I've never laid a hand on any of those Canadians nor Aussies that I've surrounded myself with. Headbutted them all to f*ck, but never raised a fist.

After I wrote in PIMP MY BRIDE, I realised I know a real-life Wife of Bath. Recent nuptualissimo Knoola and her hubby Rimmer have recently bought a place in Bath, which is good 'cause they both need a wash. Probably a good thing they're leaving Wooten Bassett: Crapman highlighted some of their nearby towns, including "Sodom" and "Cuckoos Knob." Check for yourself, copy and paste their post code SN4 7DN into this website). As if the name "Wootten Bassett" wasn't bad enough, which doesn't sound rude as such but might as well have been called "flatulent dog" which is never pleasant.

Incidently I put in the postcode from when I lived in brighton, BN1 6DR and got this, which considering its being the gay capital of England, it's hardly surprising. Which by the way is NOT why I lived there. Ahem.
So, just to prove my heterosexuality, I'm off to whack a few ladies about the place.

YAHTZEE NAZI

Not having a television is bad for your mental health. Too many nights in the local, with no entertainment to go home to except a puzzle-book, a Scrabble board and a travel version of Guess Who. A shopping trolley on the way home from the pub becomes a veritible endophin-overloading medium of pleasure. I had Donna, my tiny wee Aussie flatmate pushing me in it up the topographical nazi that is the hill of Wellington Row. Her child-like muscles struggled with my portly frame, veering me this way and that until eventually crashing me into a car. A sing-song Cork cry rang out: "Be Careful!" signifiying that - the talented people that we were - we managed to whack against the only occupied parked car in the whole of the McCurtain Street environs.
Pure skill.
In an effort, then, to try and get us to spend more evenings at home not getting into mischief, Donna decided that buying dice was the only way to go -demonstating perfectly reasonable logic - and relax with some evening games of Yahtzee. I suggested nude wrestling but she wasn't going for it. I met her in the city centre and so began our quest to find dice. Toymaster, Smyths, the 2-Euro Store, both Euro Stores, The Pound Shop, the "Mmmad!" gadget shop, the other gadget shop, The Discount Store, the other Discount store, Other Realms, The Sports stores, Tescos, Dunnes, The English Market - none of them had dice, and Donna even found it hard to understand why newsagents didn't have them. I told her that lose dice weren't really stockable items, because most people lacked a degree of sanity that she lacked. So, our tails between our legs, we were about to head to the pub in consolation when we happened upon a small oldey-worldy toyshop called Pinochio's, where they stocked every variety of Donna's dice, whereupon she spent half an hour deciding on colours, and the another half-an-hour deciding on a size. This is a woman, after all, who spent a month trying to buy Jeans, and will only buy bog roll from Dunnes 'cause Tescos turd paper is "too expensive." So home we went to play Yahtzee, which is far shittier than our lost afternoon warrented; and do you know what else? It's perfectly playable in the pub.


Yahtzee: All you get is dice in a big box

WHERE'S MY FLOG YOU BASTARD

... so read an angry text from flogophile Crapman. He then had the audacity to ask me for a favour. Snivelling little f*cker. He wants me to help him think up his name for his website. Hmmm. What about something like this?