The nagging doubt

by NobblySan

Afternoon folks.

Earlier today, what with being stuck in the bloody house all day, I was bored enough to start clearing some crap off my hard drive.

Yesterday was worse – I actually cleaned the car!  Me! Cleaning the car! Absolutely unheard of, as my neighbour drily informed me, whilst polishing both his cars for the 18th time this week.

Anyhow, I digress.

I discovered a folder in the murkier recesses of my C: drive entitled ‘Soz Satire copy’, which contained some dubious stuff that I’d penned years ago, and submitted to a satirical blog, popular (or so they claimed) at the time.

In there was this effort: I’m not sure whether or not I put it on here at the time – but I did submit it to Soz as a two-parter –  ‘Life means Life‘ and ‘The Nagging Doubt‘.

In case I never inflicted it on the MH public (all 3 of you . . .) here it is – possibly again.


 

I was bored .

The landlord at my local had barred me for life again, and I was having to leave it a week or two before venturing back in. He’s a miserable old shite at the best of times, but last Tuesday evening his sense of humour was certainly having a night off.

“You are Arthur ‘genial’ Scrofula, landlord of The Hacking Cough?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“I am PC Danglybits. We found this sense of humour roaming the streets and looking up womens’ skirts. In the force, we take such things  very seriously. Do you have a sense of humour, sir?”

“No”

“Would you like to reconsider, sir. This particularly surly one claims to belong to you.”

“It’s taking the piss, ‘avin a larf, pulling your…..”

“I doubt it, sir. it seems incapable of being even remotely amusing; a most unusual state of affairs for a sense of humour. We suspect it has been drinking heavily.”

“Let’s ave a look at it then…… Nah! It can’t be mine, it’s clean. Mine is all covered in dust and wrapped in a copy of The Daily Express from October 1963, Besides I never let it out of its box under the bar”

Anyhow, I digress; but you get the general idea. Suffice to say that Genial was a miserable old bastard who did not appreciate me supergluing Nick Griffin to the end of the bar when he came in to ask the way to the local Indian Takeaway. (Oh! the irony….)

On reflection, I suppose the presence of a verbose and odious twat of large proportion and opinionated aspect may have lessened trade a tad, but it seemed a damn fine wheeze at the time.

Still, what’s done is done, and I suppose all will be forgiven once the right-leaning carbuncle has been surgically removed from the brass rail, and Genial has had the place exorcised for good measure.

Being bothered by a malevolent spirit?
Poltergeist had your car keys again?
Or have you got a fat sweaty neo-nazi glued to the end of your bar?

Simply give us a call on 0800-666-666
and we’ll shift the bastard within the hour*

Honest to God!

Exorcists R Us.

(* HMRC self-assessment and VAT returns may take longer)

For now, however, I was at loose end. Sure, there were other pubs in the area uncluttered by adhesive-based nationalist gobshites, but they were all so dull, lifeless, expensive and the beer was lousy. Who am I fooling, I’d been barred for life from them as well, but unlike Genial, as far as the other landlords were concerned, life meant life.

As I wandered down Market Street, passing the familiar shops and businesses, Iwas so lost in my thoughts that I failed to notice and take avoiding action of the eager, bespectacled woman standing in front of me, offering me a leaflet.

“Care to join the local branch of the Psoriasis and Alopecia Sufferers Society?” she asked, shoving the leaflet a little more eagerly in my general direction.

I shook my head, liberating a few dozen small bits of dandruff.

She perked up.

“Are you sure? You’re just the sort of person we’re looking for! We’re showing our very own TV programme at tonight’s meeting. Please come along.”

She thrust the leaflet into my hand and I scuttled off, suitably bemused.

I looked at it.

Tonight – The Great British Flake Off, it said.

I considered shaking my head sadly for dramatic effect, but decided against it this time, and walked on.

A nagging doubt was creeping up on me; I could sense it hiding in doorways when I turned round, or staring blankly into shop windows, whilst whistling a touch too nonchalantly to itself and casting furtive glances in my direction whenever I tried to catch its eye.

I already knew what this furtive, creeping doubt wished to nag me about. It was the fact that I had already waffled on at length without giving any thought to where this tale was going. There was no plot construction, no plan to introduce further characters, or to have a juicy murder or a bit of love interest.

“Hmmm….” I thought “this is no good.”

“No good! I’ll say it’s no fucking good” shouted the nagging doubt from a nearby shop doorway. “I was supposed to tell you all that, and nag you about it for at least another 36 lines. But oh no, you’ve gone and worked it out yourself, haven’t you? You bastard! I don’t know what they’ll say back at the office about this. There’s too much of this sort of free-thinking going on these days; people working things out for themselves, and the likes of me and the lads at the office are losing our livelihoods over it. You heartless bastard!”

“Fuck off!” I shouted, “You’re just an annoying thought process that feeds on the insecurity of fragile minds.”

“Did you turn the gas off before you left the house unlocked?” shouted the retreating nagging doubt, giving me an evil grin and a two-fingered salute.

The malevolent little shit – of course I did.

Didn’t I?

Oh bollocks.

3 Comments to “The nagging doubt”

  1. Well. That proved popular.

    What a senseless waste of cutting and pasting. I suppose I’ll have to go and join the queue at the shops now to buy some more scissors and paste.

    Like

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