Saturday, February 02, 2008

A tasty broth(el)

NICEY joined us from the Echo this week, all in the new caring and sharing spirit of Meeja Wales. And one of his first jobs was to send the Voice of God into the midst of heathens.
More to the point he was asked to go and doorstep some rather dubious Massage establishments. I can just picture the scene...
The Voice rings the doorbell of this ne'er-do-well establishment and a lady of the night - clad only in her negligee - answers the door.
She takes one look at The Voice, then exclaims: "Oh my word, is that a snake in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"
The Voice's response? "It's a corn snake. I call it Ursula Blake my f***ing snake".

That's the kind of quip that has been doing the rounds since The Voice returned, having been offered a threesome ("we're doing a special offer this week, dear, three-for-two" - it sounds like the vice equivalent of Tesco's) and a bargain deal on Oral. Imagine The Voice of God's deep baritone chuckle booming out before he responds: "I'm quite happy with my own voice, thank you very much."
Of course, the man of whom we speak more commonly goes by the name of Macca in the office, though it appears a new moniker might be catching on pretty quickly. His frequent trips to Vice dens over the past week have prompted a vowel change... Now he's called Mucca to his close friends.

Meanwhile, things just keep getting worse and worse in the gloomy world of the Wonderful Withers of WoS. He has now been four days without hot water, apparently, and is at a desperate stage.
While cold showers in the morning suit the image he has been honing of the most put-upon person on the planet, I think he might consider a more drastic form of action: like withholding his rent until the landlord gets off his arse and gets the boiler fixed.
Mind you, the wonderful one has found a temporary solution. Recently he has been seen sneaking upstairs to the MD's floor and making use of the deluxe showering facilities on offer there. "It's brilliant," he exclaimed earlier tonight. "Much better than my own shower."
Attaboy, Withers.

Had a few beers with Withers and Danny Boy (the poipes, the poipes) last night and the subject came around to relationships. The Poipes is smarting a bit on the basis that he has failed to assert himself properly when it comes to the TV gadget. "Every time I want to watch the football, she has to watch every blinking soap that's going."
So why, I suggested, doesn't he just get Sky multi-room and go to watch the footie in the bedroom.
"Oh, she won't have that - says we might as well not be together. She likes us snuggling up on the sofa while she watches all those bloody soaps."
Ah, right. Intrigued, I inquired further of the mechanics in this battle of the Sexes.
"I take it, then, that she watches the football with you when you finally get your hands on the TV remote control once a week," I suggest.
"Oh no, she buggers off upstairs and leaves me to it," he replied.
All's unfair in love and war, it seems.

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