Post Number Forty Eight

“Mike Makes His Mark”

It was only a week or so ago that Mike Spilligan was Taser-chased off my doorstep, and already the sexploits of this now-legendary bonkaholic are putting him in grave danger of gettin’ caught. Not that his Hump Hound activity is indiscreet or anything. It can’t be. There’s a Beryl involved. If she found out he’s been poppin’ the toes of other hoes, then one vexatious phone call (from her) would be more than enough to pop him back in the dungeon whenceforth he came.

Just as well she’s a dumb, thick chick who believes the bare-faced fibby-wibbies Mike tells her when he staggers home from a hectic afternoon of TOM-CATTIN’, that’s all I can say! (NOTE: If, um… the other Beryl is reading this– and by the “other” Beryl I mean, of course, Mike’s wife and/or my Aunty– then I should say that the {ahem} “dumb, thick chick” I was– ironically– referring to (see above) is, err…a DIFFERENT. Beryl. To her– YOU. To you. A Beryl who–far from being “married” {like you are} to Uncle Mike is only… acting… like she is, and, err… and– ah, what the hell, I bet NEITHER ONE OF ‘EM’S reading this!)

As I was trying to say before I was interrupted by a small flock of partly non-existent Beryls, Michelangelo Spilligan has been a model of discreetness– and I don’t mean a catwalk model, jiggling his discreetness in public, either. So powerful, though, has The Legend become these last few days that the ‘burbs are abuzz with news of his neighbourhood pollinatings. Your Correspondent (me) has even stumbled upon a campfire where Minstrels Three (or More) were strumming beat-boxes and rapping folk songs about Mike’s womyn-wooing ways. That’s where the grave danger of gettin’ caught may be coming from because if you’re “playing a round (or two)” behind your wife’s back, then homeboys rappin’ folk toons about you in public is probably low on your “How To Be Incognito” list. (Walkin’ around all dangly-bollocks naked and sporting a “glad-to-be-home” stiffy would also be one to cross off that list, I’m thinkin’.)

Although, it is possible that Mike– master of disguise that he is–has put himself a jump ahead of the gendarmes by actually wearing stuff now (the cunning fox!) to throw them off his tail. By “stuff” I mean menswear (of all things). A shrood manoover, this, because the Porkies– hell-bent on getting him to serve out his final fourteen minutes– would’ve quickly seen through his “ladies clothing” cover (especially since a lot o’ that ladies clothing was literally “see through”), then would’a been closing in on “her” (i.e. Lady Mike) before “she” took off the duds an’ threw their investigations into a tailspin. Squad cars would’a driven past now-naked Mike, and– by comparing him to the artfully drawn sketch (or perhaps even delightful etching) they had of a “guy” in a dress– would’ve realised how Naked Mike did not fit The Profile, and thereafter they would’a let him jiggle on down the road un-molested and un-arrested. Then the partners in policing would’ve driven on for a while before one of them (possibly the driver) suddenly and unexpectedly slammed his foot on the brakes and said:

“Wait… one… MINUTE.”

At which point they would have (and I’m saying this with ninety-nine percent certainty here) WOULD HAVE (I’m insisting) twigged more or less right away to Mike’s bold new look. Which could only mean more work for the Sketch Guy back at the station– perhaps a reclining nude this time. And so the police inquiries would go on, with all squad cars (and those who drive ’em) on the lookout for a White Euro Male dressed in a cunning disguise of Nothing. But what they won’t be looking for (yet) is a FULLY-CLOTHED Euro Male– and I mean, good luck findin’ one o’ those, Mister Po-Po! Especially one who’s one jump ahead of “the law”.

And speaking of jumping… on…things… I myself would very much like to do more or less exactly that on-  or to the bones of Natasha De Nasha, my childhood sweetmeat. HOWEVER. In order for me to move onto the bone-jumping phase of my relationship with Natasha, I’ll have to get some handy tips from an expert. And who better than the abovementioned hump hound himself? Turns out I was in luck, too, because the nex’ time I met Mike he told me that he’d also been “wooing” (“for the last few hours, at least”, he said) a feisty wench very like the one I been wooin’. By “like” her I mean uncannily similar to her, in a wide variety of ways. For example:

  • just like Natasha, Mike’s would-be squeeze was moved on from the prison service;
  • then she ended up working at an airport (also like Natasha);
  • what’s more she works in the same job… as Natasha;
  • furthermore, she’s bad at bowling (but apart from the Great Athletes of Siam, who isn’t?); and finally
  • she has a v. similar-sounding name to my girl. That name is “N’TASHA”, which–to my eye– sounds African or something…

But of course these five minor details are where the similarities end. In most (if not all) other ways Mike’s “latest” is mega-miles removed from the Natasha I’m lusting over. The following points are some of the differences that prove it. Mike’s N’Tasha was:

  • “moved on” from the prison service for tormenting another guard, rather than the Prison Governor like my Natasha (note the spelling) did:
  • working UP-stairs at the Airport… whereas… y’know… my Natasha works… DOWN… the stairs;
  • … and…errrr…

I’ll get back to yer.



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