Not much point to this topic other than to divulge the following:
Walking through Old St station in East London this morning and I come across a fuit stall bloke selling his patented 'fruit box'. Two bananas, two satsumas, a pear, an apple and some grapes - all for a quid!!
Obviously I had to snap one up and have just devoured it...
That's some good value right there.
that sounds suspicious.
were the fruits genuine bona-fide fresh gifts from jebus
or had this tramp-epeneur hoked through the bins out the back of tescos and scavenged any fruit that would hold up to a brief two second look and give me the fruit you smelly hobo im starving inspection?
Well he's there every day and is very well turned out for a hobo. He's not just some bloke with a long coat on who swings it open to reveal manky apples and putrid pears sellotaped to the insides.
Having said that.... I think I might be hallucinating...
this fagan-esque fruit-seller with the coat has me intrigued....
would you imagine he has an army of children, or indeed ex eastenders cast members out scaveging bins and landfill sites for fruit?? Only hunting at night using their keen sense of smell and 7th "enders" sense to locate the on the turn fruit??
Id like to think so.
In fact, i've decided that is indeed the case, and the guys name isnt Fagan, its O'Hagan.
McGuyver O'Hagan.
MacGuyver O'Hagan and his Band of Merry Street Urchins
They give the impression of being 'happy-go-lucky' cock-er-nee types, but really MacGuyver rules them with an iron fist.
What's that rustling? A fox? A badger perhaps? No. It's Lofty, scrabbling about in a stench-ridden refuse recepticle for mushy nectarines, fearful that if he fails to return to O'Hagan with his quota, he will be forced to spend another night in the potato sack with Pat 'The Butcher' Butcher.
Doesn't bare thinking about.
you sound like a man thats had a run in with McGoH in the past.....
his rule is severe, yet underneath lies a heart that bleeds for the orphans that are so alike to how he once was.....but OH TRAGEDY! he knows not how to show love like others, only how to rule with his iron rod, whipping their backs when they do bad, ruffling their hair when they do good.....but no more, for he is a lonely twisted man.
perhaps at christmas the orphans will try to melt his icey heart with a nativity play or a scene from santa claus workshop, acted out using the discarded trappings of wealthy society, a strand of tinsel here, a shattered christmas tree bauble there.....and whilst O'Hagan allows himself to be carried away with the moment for a brief second, a hard bought tear creeps from his eye, but suddenly he turns and he's back screaming incoherently...."STEAL CHILDREN FIND THE FRUIT ITS THE ONLY WAYYYYY DAMN YOU..........." lashing out at all round him leaving a trail of lamenting orphans in his wake as he stumbles out into the night coughing and spluttering.....
It's a veritable Christmas Carol for the modern era. Not a wholly plagiarised Oliver Twist, but pretty close - and with fruit as the central theme.
Those poor thieving scumbag orphans... How did we upset O'Hagan?' they must wonder. "I even let him buff my plums" says Little Jimmy Barnacle (easy now, remember, fruit is the central theme). And so they set about their evil doings with a vengeance in a bid to make their master happy.
Whilst all along, MacGuyver O'Hagan staggers through the smoky streets of London. Howling and wailing, he suppresses the torrent of love he feels for those little kleptomaniac bastards deep within, for he knows not how to manifest this love without fear of reprisal from the authorities. The years of fruit-based abuse put pay to that, so they did...
Do they not realise that he needs to destroy the fruit (or sell it on for a tidy profit) before it harms them in a similar fashion?? "Well if they don't undershtand, I'll beat it into them, so I will - Mua-Ha-Haaaa!!"
Poor poor MacGuyver O'Hagan...
Poor O'Hagan indeed, as he stumbles around in the gutters, coraling his snipes into fruit thievery, his twin, adopted into the neuvauex-riche uperclasses gazes out the snow brushed paines of his converted fruit warehouse, aghast at the wispey raggedy tramp that is ushering a gang of urchins through the howling wind, beating them ferverently and swearing oaths at their cowed shivering figures.......
"Heavens to betsy matilda" he cries turning to face his wife "how beastly....."
"what is mortigan?" answers the beautiful flaxan haired angel standing beside the blazing log fire......
turning back to the window he gazes out at an empty street....
"i could have sworn i saw a man just now....by the devils beard, almost the twin of myself......yet different in every way"
oh the irony.....the two long lost brothers, passing so close, yet so far apart, McGuyver a slaver of the worst kind, Mortigan a slaver of another at the head of a succesful fruit importation business......
*place of residence edited for continuity
Mortigan thinks nothing more of what must surely be a fruit-based winter mirage and returns to his silver service supper.
"Fruit crumble for dessert, dearest?"
"But of course, Morti!"
'Excellent' thinks Mortigan as he straightens the creases on his pantaloons before twisting the ends of his glorious handlebar moustache - which was the envy of all London Town.
'Of course it's fruit crumble', thinks Mortigan's good lady wife Matilda. 'It's always fucking fruit crumble, you moustachioed cunt!' She stifles a snigger at her impudence before reprimanding herself for such a lapse in composure.
But it isn't long before her animalistic urges bubble once more to the surface...
'What I wouldn't give for some cumbersome, tramp cock! I'm so tired of fumbling around in the dark with that toffee-nose twat. I want a real vagrant, one who isn't afraid to leave shredded wheat biscuits germinating in his rancid beard for weeks on end.... If only Mortigan was as ruffled as that mysterious fruit-based winter mirage he just witnessed at the window...'
Meanwhile, MacGuyver O'Hagan thrashed those deviant children long into the night...
our modern christmas tale has a somewhat ye olde slant to it....
I'm riveted. can you supply this by text?
beckett Wrote:
our modern christmas tale has a somewhat ye olde slant to it....
it's a "tale for all ages".
Hours later, as mortigan lay spreadeagled on the bed, fat, naked, his man mustard spent and sleeping like a child, matilda dressed hurridely, taking care not to knock over her Jasper Conran lamp, nor disturb the tastefully placed ikea object d'arte......
creeping down the reclaimed railway sleeper stairs of their lush old fruit warehouse apartment she donned her gucci scarf, matching hat, scarf, coat, gloves, socks, boots and fanny warmer, grabbed her porsche cayenne keys and slipped out into the night in hunt of tramp love.....
MacGuyver, thoroughly warn out from the recently administered beatings, continued to wander the streets - his inane ramblings only interrupted by the occasional whiff of pungent fruit.
Or fruit-based produce.
"Raar-raa-rar.... fuckin' kids... bleubleurgh.... how I love them so.... NO, MACGUYVER!! You must contain your heartfelt yet wholly inappropriate nether region rumblings!!"
In the far off distance, the dishevelled O'Hagan heard the faint echos of what, to his highly trained ear, sounded like a 2005 Porsche Cayenne. 'Cunts' he thought as he gazed down at his tattered rags and threadbare Lidl Air Max.
Matilda was ravenous, searching the streets for the right Hobo who could provide her with some vaginal vagrant action. She turned onto City Road, rapidly approaching the deserted Old Street...
As the low beams of her beautifully and spaceously appointed, with sea views, 4x4 (not for use off road) off road vehicle cast their ever searching sex beams towards old street (not unlike saurons x-ray eye from lord of the rings, which incidentally had the uncanny power of seeing through hobbits underpants to look at their tiny hobbit knobs) matilda sighed and thought to herself "my ladies garden wont be ploughed by a rasputinesque vagrant tonight" as Joe Cocker belted out "you can leave your hat on" from the custom built soundsystem
but lo and behold....into the halogen glow out stepped a thin gaunt figure, his ragged cloak billowing out behind him, his cold grey eyes gleaming like a cats, his red cod-piece drawing attention to his cockular region, almost as if his very groin was the glowing essence of sex itself......
Her heart skipped a beat and everything below the equator ached all at once....ramming her foot down on the accelerator.....
"SUFFERING FUCK" shouted O'Hagan as the sleek 4x4 accelerated towards him.......
Try as he might, this once proud and mighty child-beater found his feet were rooted to the spot. Something about the rapidly approaching sleek automobile was strangeley alluring - or perhaps he craved the sweet taste of tarmac and his impending death which would once and for all free him from his forbidden sex lust of thieving little oiks?
All of a sudden the Cayenne screeched to a halt. MacGuyver soiled himself, that familiar warm spongey feeling flooded his buttocks. 'No need to stuff a child in my pants tonight' he thought, somewhat disturbingly.
Into his blurred, Kestral Lager imbued vision stepped an enchantress. It didn't matter to MacGuyver that she had two heads, one mouth for each of his encrusted balls. Jobsa goodun'.
He staggered toward her, growling like a neanderthal with every step...
i need a moment to compose myself here....
From within her cocoon of luxurious porsche safety she could already smell the tramp sex off him....that familiar odour of lager, fruit and human faecal matter.....his hungry eyes leered out of the darkness at her, his insane mutterings barely audible over Rainbows Since you've been gone....
pressing the walnut encrusted window control, it slid down without even a sound, a blast of cold air brining her back to the moment.....
O'Hagan stumbled forward....
"riddle me dee, by the beard of a bee....who are yeeeee????" he said.....cursing himself for falling into the stereotypical rhyming tramp speak....
"i....im......mary....." lied matilda as the sex-hobo moved closer, his hot rancid breath setting her boosom heaving.....
"mary is it........" said O'Hagan, adding an entirely unecessary and startlingly girlish "teee heee heeeee" at the end.
"fill me with your urban-woodsman love" cried mary.....in a politically correct way of saying homeless smelly cunt
"what?" said o'hagan
"eh.....fancy some cross class shag action???" said matilda
"what????" said o'hagan...cursing the long hair growing out of his tramp ears.
"oh fuck it" said matilda "GET IN THE FUCKING RV"
"oh, right you be m'lady" he said, as he rounded the vehicle and hopped inside its leathery warmth....
Now fully lit, matilda drank in the hazy vision of her loafing lothario....
she was shocked to the core....
"IT CANT BE....." she squeeled in a suprised and shocked fashion, suggesting shock and suprise on her part......
"IT IS!!!" HE CRIED!!! thoroughly joining in the moment but not really understanding what that moment was......
Oh, shit! I'm in big laughter induced trouble here!
The bar has been raised, I'm gonna have to take a break before the next thrilling instalment of:
'A Modern Christmas Carol For The Ages'.
No-one ruin mine and Beckett's hard graft!
Sorry Shaman, but:
beckett Wrote:"fill me with your urban-woodsman love" cried mary.....in a politically correct way of saying homeless smelly cunt
I too must depart for the evening,
the modern day brothers grimm shall return!
As the smell of accrid piss began to permeate the crisp leather aroma of the 2005 Porsche Cayenne, MacGuyver, still babbling incoherently, hurriedly attempted to emancipate his swollen goods from their shackles of matted hair, Tesco carrier bags and corned beef hash.
It would be the first time 'The Colonel' would have seen the light of day for many a year - and the first time ever that it would be bathed in one of the 5 different lighting functions which came as standard within a Cayenne.
'Come on Colonel' he thought. 'Don't let me down now, there's a cock-hungry harlot right here wanting to engage your military hardware in filthy, ball-busting battle...'
Meanwhile across town, Mortigan stirred uneasily in his sleep. He decided that the best course of action would be to clear his mind in the crisp air of a London night, leaving behind him the inherent troubles which come with heading up a crack team of fruit importers.
Being careful not to rouse his glorious Matilda from her delicate slumber, Mortigan stumbled around in the dark taking great care not to make any noise as he elegantly ran a comb through his glorious moustache.
Which was the envy of all London Town.
Striding purposefully through those streets he knew so well, Mortigan became suddenly aware of a figure following a few short paces behind him. "Master?" came the words of what was unmistakably a child's voice...
"While you are correct in your assumption that I am indeed your social superior, young scamp, please do not feel obliged to adorn my fully moisturised, robust features with such titles. Are we all not afterall God's children and wholly dependent on the wondrous treasure trove of His fruit-based produce?"
Little Jimmy Barnacle emerged from the shadows, a puzzled expression upon his face. "Master? You look so... so different.... No matter, it surely is you. Please sir, would you be so kind as to buff my plums to a fine shine? Such a selfless act would bring me great pleasure, and you too I pray..."
Mortigan was taken aback, "BOY!! How dare you ask something so improper of one with such obvious perfect posture! Do you not see that I am a gentleman? A man of unblemished character! And one who certainly does not care for fumbling around in a child's growbag! Gently nurturing the bounty within and coaxing it to it's full and glorious potential!"
However, Mortigan's protestations belied the truth and was coupled with an uneasy feeling of temptation. Desire swelled within his impeccably pressed pantaloons as his nostrils filled with the most craved and alluring scent - that of virginal forbidden fruit-based produce...
apoligies but i have been away all day....
i'll compose the next installment thsi evening!
