The Drinking Game
By Matthew Green
Bill the bookie was standing in his betting shop staring into space, when Daryl the drunken Yorkshireman entered the premises, dragging behind him, on a lead (American translation: leash), his dangerously obese greyhound, Chickentree(?). He paused for a second, adjusted his flat cap and approached the counter, which he could barely see over, as he was considerably shorter than the height of five feet.
"I’ll have fifty quid on Kid Johnny to win the national drinking game this afternoon please Bill," he reciprocated vociferously (said loudly).
"You’ve gotta be kidding, mate," scoffed the bookie. "He won’t win, for he’s twelve years old if he’s a day!"
"Aye, that I know, but odds against him are in excess of thirty to one."
Just then a male of the southern persuasion entered the premises and approached the one who’s name was Bill.
"I say good man," he reciprocated, "would you be so kind as to allow me to place a little wager on the outcome of the three-thirty at Ascot?"
"Hey, read the sign pal," came the response.
The southerner squinted towards the sign that Bill’s finger was a-tapping. It read: We reserve the right to deny service to southern ponces.
"Well really! What a rotten geezer!"
The southerner stormed out of the shop.
Ignoring the southerner’s brief switch of stereotypes Bill continued with the main plot.
"I’ll give y’ ten to one on him."
"Fair ‘nough, seein’ as I was fibbing about the thirty to one anyhows."
Many weeks later…
Bill gaped in amazement (as you do) as he saw (on the television) Kid Johnny yet again down twelve more pints of lager than even his closest competitor.
About half an hour later Daryl staggered drunkenly through the door, demanding his winnings.
"Daryl you scoundrel," said Bill as he handed forty fifty pound notes over, "one day you will see your comeuppance, for Kid Johnny will one day be beaten."
Just then, there came a neighing from outside, as if from a horse and in through the door walked an American.
He approached Bill.
"Howdy pardner," he said, "I’d like to place a bet on the three-thirty from ascot, and might I add have a nice day."
"Hey, read the sign pal," came the response.
The American squinted towards the sign that Bill’s foot was a-kicking. It read: We reserve the right to deny service to American ponces.
"Why, a reckon that’s mighty unfriendly like," the American commented, as he produced an apple pie from his holster, which he threw into bill’s unsuspecting face.
He then left the building, saddled up his horse and galloped all the way to ascot.
And having already insulted everybody who could conceivably be reading, let’s push on…
Many weeks later Bill was watching Kid Johnny (on the television) at the Drinking Grand National at Ascot, praying for him to finally lose, for if he once again won he (Bill) would be out of business and would be trapped in a life of destitution (that’s DEStitution).
Well, God always answers prayers and here is what he made happen:
Kid Johnny was taking a swig from his glass when his alcohol stained hands, being a cause for some degree of slippage, caused the glass to fall from his hands and strike the table situated at a forwardly position. A shard of glass jumped in the air, presumably over excited by all of the glass shattering and slashed down Kid’s face leaving a five inch long cut, which he appeared not to feel, as he didn’t so much as flinch.
A bit morbid of old God you say? Well, read on…
Bill studied this closely on the television screen, intrigued by the fact that there was no blood and, being the observant fellow he is, noticed that the edges of the aforementioned gash were grey, and that there appeared also to be more skin beneath this kiddie’s face.
Bill manoeuvred towards the exit and, ignoring the insistant "G’day"s emanating from the Australian whom had just entered the premises, ran all the way to Ascot.
Bill huffed and puffed his way towards Kid (not having yet regained his breath and all), reached over, and pulled his face off (which everyone thought was nauseating, although they were all to macho to admit it) and was horrified to see the bum ugly mug of Daryl the Yorkshireman grinning up at him.
Bill was flabbergasted.
"Daryl you fiend!" he exclaimed, "This is a latex prosthetic piece!"
But Daryl’s mug was smug.
Adjusting his flat cap, Daryl was heard to remark: "Yes, but betting on one’s self is by no means a felony. There is nowt you can do about it."
"Maybe not," came the Ref’s retort, "but I’m afraid you are disqualified from the children’s portion of the competition and all previous wins must now be awarded to some other kiddie."
Now Bill’s mug had reason to be smug.
"I think under the circumstances," he guffawed, "you must return to me all your ill gotten winnings."
Daryl’s bum ugly face became glum.
THE END