If so, I'm sure it will be the making of you.
There's been a lot of talk in these parts that we shouldn't make fun of folk just because they're different. Gammon! It's what makes the world go around. Survival of the fittest, and all that rot.
It puts me in mind of a creature from my school days who we used to call Weasel due to his gaunt, pointy-faced, scrawny appearance. Now and again he'd wet himself like a big girl and we'd call him April (as in 'showers'). I never took the trouble to learn his real name - it didn't seem important, just so long as he had a bit of tuck money and completed my homework on time.
My partner in crime Tupper Clayton and I used to make his life a living Hell, roasting him over bonfires and painting his arse purple - you know the kind of thing, harmless fun. The Masters were no better and in fact actively encouraged it. In particular the games tutor, Bumper Norris, went out of his way to add to Weasel's woe, making him play Rugby naked or do press-ups in the mud. A terrific hoot, was old Bumper.
Anyroad, who should I bump into at the Golf Club Annual Ball last night but Weasel himself? I thought the only thing he'd amount to would be having a padded cell to call his own, but apparently he's now a Labour councillor. So I suppose in a way, I wasn't far wrong. He's typical Lefty material - wet as a virgin's nob-end.
He looked startled to see me, so to put him at his ease I gave him a manly slap between the shoulder blades, causing him to half choke on his Melton Mowbray. He immediately started toadying, lying through his teeth about how pleased he was to see me and introduced me to his delectable wife Mrs. Weasel. How this slimy chump ended up with such an enchanting filly beats me. She must have been on the make, I reckon – my kind of girl.
It was great fun seeing him squirm when I told the story of how me and Chalky White walked in on him snogging his pillow in the dorms one evening (I could have told far worse, like when Jumbo Jenkins made him eat his underpants, but this didn’t seem the right time). Wonderful watching the little squirt sweat, though.
I ended up getting him beastly drunk and when nobody was about I deposited him face down in the punch-bowl with his trousers round his ankles and a banana placed strategically where only a doctor should examine. To round off an excellent evening I bulled his wife all over the storeroom and judging by the moans and wails she made, Weasel is no match for Flashy when it comes to bedsports.
Aye, Gentle Reader, I know what you're thinking right enough. But if it wasn’t for ogres like myself putting oiks like Weasel in their place, the lunatics would soon take over the asylum. Imagine a world run by people like John Kerry - it just doesn't bear thinking about.
Flashman