This is the first time I've put anything anywhere written by me other than to review my Denon amp on a different forum site. (It's good)
The premise is obvious reading the title. I hate the real show but my partner gulps it up by the flagon-full! I deliberately sit with my back to the TV but you can't help but catch some of the dialogue.
It's a short sketch of my version depicting talentless pillocks boring us with their daily diatribe!
Be gentle.
***Contains swearing and sexual references***
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Two highly fake-tanned male friends meet in a tacky wine bar wearing the latest in TK Max fashion.
Clint Flicker is a man about town. He has the ladies hanging on his every word. They can't understand anything he says but they love the delivery.
Moore Cross-Gunt is a slightly shabbier version of a Wessex Man. He's a few stone overweight but hasn't told his clothes yet. He loves girls but even the Wessex ones think he's a bit untouchable.
CF - OI OI
MCG - OI OI
CF - Where've you bladdy bin? I've bin 'ere ages.
MCG - I bin daan the shops wiv me Wessex sis. She's opened a Wessex tannin' and teef salon.
CF - A what?
MCG - Teef, teef. Yer know teef whitening and fings.
CF - Why dint yer fackin' say so. What's she called it?
MCG - Wessex Tannin' an' Teef!
CF - That's genius mate! Very Wessex!!
MCG - Clint, yer know ar we bin Wessex best mates since we were nips?
CF - Yea
MCG - And yer know ar we tell eachava everythin that 'appens in our Wessex lives?
CF - Yea
MCG - Well. I've heard your sister's mate; Dolly Trolley was daan the Wessex Tropicana Lounge on Saterdi night and she met me cousin Hannah Job's best mate Rick. Yer know the gay one Rick Teaser!
CF - Yes, get on wiv it boy!
MC-G Well, Rick told Hannah he was round your Wessex gaffe on Mandee night and you two got pissed.
CF - Yea.
MCG - And Rick sez you sacked 'im off in the 'ot tab.
CF - You fackin' wot? The lying Wessex barstard. I neva.
MCG - And she says you lavved it and swollered everyfin 'e 'ad to offa.
CF - I'll fackin' kill im!
Moore's sister, Phillamee Cross-Gunt walks into the bar. Like her brother she needs to lose a few pounds but again her clothes thinks she already has! The heels of her stilettos are creaking under the pressure and her hair looks like it's been done by a blindfolded baby playing with a Girl's World toy.
She sees Clint and makes a B-line for him. Her chest heaves out of her trendy plastic boob tube and the whiff of cleavage sweat fills the Aramis cloaked room.
PCG - OI OI
CF - OI OI
MCG - OI OI sis. What you doin' 'ere on this fine Wessex day?
PCG - Clint, You're lookin' Wessex fit today. What you 'ad done?
CF - Everyfin! I'm a Wessex Boy. Gotta look my best for the flaff.
MCG - Don't waste your breaff Wessex sis. 'E takes it up the shitter these days!
PCG - What!?!
CF - What?
MCG - Yea, 'e and Rick did the dirty in the 'ot tub. Clint's gay now!
CF - Wot you fackin' goin' on about. It's a fackin' lie. I neva!
PCG - Well I neva! Clint a gay? What a waste, wait 'til I tell the Wessex girls! They will fackin' piss their crotchless Wessex knickers.
Phillamee orders a triple Dubonnet and coke and tries to mount one of the ridiculously high wine bar stools, only managing one arse cheek. A faint whiff of Vagisil fills the nostrils of her immediate company.
PCG - You two goin to the big Wessex fancy Dress bash tomorra? The feeme is famous people.
CF - Yea, got my costume lined ap. Me and Moore 'ere are goin' as Elton John and 'is 'asband David Furnish. Should be Wessex mental.
PCG - Whose idea was that?
MCG - It was Clint's. Bein' as he's gay now and...........
CF - I'M NOT FACKIN' GAY!!!! FACK ME!!!
MCG - See what I mean?
CF - One more fackin Wessex word.....!
They all look at each other with vacant eyes when, breaking the atmosphere, in walks the gorgeous ex-model and top society Wessex girl; Mimi Fitall.
Her pink and orange leather mini skirt is so short, one eyebrow of the forehead of a monkey is well in view. She totters up to the group.
Everyone OI OI's and Mimi, being Wessex royalty does the fake cheek kissing thing she learned when she went modelling in the Isle of Man....outside Wessex.
Out of her Gucci bag pokes the head of the most miserable puffed-up looking Pug bitch; Naomi. They don't look happy at the best of times but this one has to put up with weekly botox and sitting in a handbag full of her own shit.
Moore drools into his drink at the sight of Mimi. Clint acts cool and looks at her out of the corner of his eye.
They hooked up some months ago and she ended it when he asked her to insert a Sky remote into his arsehole. He said it was to see if he could change channels with his bollocks but she wasn't so sure. She got it in as far as the red button and he seemed to forget she was there.
MF - Why the glum faces amigos? It's a lavly Wessex day. Botox is 'alf price and the sun is shining. Saves me a fortune on the beds!
CF - We were talkin' about the party. Wot you goin' as Mimi?
MCG - Whatever she goes as she'll be gorgeous.
MF - Alright saucy, put it away!! I'm goin' as Julia Roberts, cos she was in Pretty Woman!
MCG - That's clever, very clever.
PCG - Why?
MCG - Never mind Wessex sis.
They all sit there trying to catch glimpses of themselves in the numerous wall mirrors scattered around.
They are all happy in the knowledge that the world begins and ends in Wessex and they smile in tandem at this thought.
Mimi looks at Clint and thinks.....
I wonder if he ever did manage to switch over to Strictly when I left him the other night?
Moore sneaks a look at Mimi. He can smell her perfume....and her dog.
He wishes he was her little pug, sat in her bag, leant on a nail varnish lid that's cutting off the circulation to her back legs that are covered in faeces and slowly withering away.
He'd put up with all that just to sit in her bedroom and watch her.
Phillamee drains her glass and wants another but she is stuck on the stool. She looks around but no one seems to notice. Her new shop is up and running and she needs to get back but Clint is here, and, gay or not, her full attention is on him.
Finally she swings herself off the stool and onto her tottery feet. As she does a love egg slips out and rolls along the polished tile floor. 'Shame she thought. It was just starting to work.'
Everyone just sits and watches to luminous pink ball roll across the room and stop short of the serving hatch, halted by the accumulation of floor dirt on its journey. Behind it a thin shiny trail marks its path.
A waitress spots the orb and picks it up, sniffs it a
few times and pops it in her apron pocket. She then moves on to serve a couple their Nicoise salads.
Watching this no one apart from Phillamee bats an eyelid. She can't understand how it fell out. Then she remembers with an internal grin, she's wearing her Victoria's Secrets crotchless thong.
She won't make that mistake again; she'll have to get bigger eggs!
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