Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Fat Brenda's Cream Horn


Well what a palaver! I’ve been squatting in Gail’s garage (not literally, loveys) for a while now after I left the shared housing I was in 'cos I found out Polish Pete had been spying on me through a hole he’d drilled into the wall – he told me it was to let steam escape as I was partial to a hot soapy bath of a Sunday night.
Perv!
Anyhow, I’ve been in Gail’s garage for a good year now and I’ve been very happy, but now I’m sharing with hundreds of jars of these green salty grape things! Oh loveys, proper mingin’ they are! It gets me why posh folk think eating stuff that’s horrible makes ‘em seem well to do! They turn their nose up at a Findus Crispy Pancake but give ‘em an artichoke heart or drizzle a bit of olive oil in their general direction and they’re all, “Oooh how delightful!” Get a grip posh folk and bang some McCain’s in’t oven!
Chips in't it?!
So I’ve been kipping with these jars every night and when Gail goes out I’ve been breaking into her house using a key I stole from Joe McIntyre’s corpse when he was in’t chapel of rest. Gail buries all her dead husbands with a key to the house so they’ll always have somewhere to stay in’t afterlife or summat like that. Anyway, I got this key and I’ve been sneaking in for me ablutions (that means me number twos an’ that) and to use her Lady Shave on me bits what want trimming back – although in this weather I usually like to go natural but they’re out of control, “nature’s thermals” as me friend Bernice calls it and she should know, her leg hairs get so long in winter she takes her jeggings off and it looks like she’s wearing mohair flamin’ trousers!

So while I was elbow deep in me leg hairs - like a young machete wielding Michael Douglas in that Romancing The Stone – I heard the sound of squelching and I went to investigate only to find Gail playing saliva bingo with the ever fragrant Lewis and in walks Audrey and I swear to Cliff I thought it was gonna kick off right there and then! I was up the stairs with Gail’s false teeth glass to the floorboards and the whole clan walked in! “It’s disgusting!” David cried forgetting it’s not as bad as pushing yer mam down’t stairs and getting someone to rob yer gran’s house or hitting folks' windows with a baseball bat or sleeping with Tracy Barlow so you’ll keep quiet about the brutal murder of a fella or pretending to be the dead ex husband of yer mam who drove you all into a canal after murdering folk or psychologically torturing yer mam’s FOURTH husband so he’ll put in a good word for you with his daughter, Tina, who you forcibly leapt on while she was dating yer best mate… “Its disgusting!” Yeah David, whatever lovey!

Ooh that's a bit tutti frutti!
And as for Nick with his ex drug addled, would-be arsonist insurance swindling lottery stealing prossie wife, well he can shut up an’ all! He’s not all sweetness and light if them looks him and Kylie are giving each other every time David knits another pair of booties are anything to go by– he learned how to knit in’t nick… in fact, you could say he was a nick knitter. If he knitted knickers he’d be a knicker knitting nick knitter! If he knitted knickers for Nick he’d be a Nick’s knickers knicker nick knitter… I’ve confused meself… What was I on about now? Oh aye, Gail!
Nick's nick knitted knickers!
So let him or her that’s done nowt wrong cast the first stone and turn yer other cheek in a glass house or summat cos in Weatherfield everyone’s done summat bad to someone – except maybe Roy, Hayley or poor Ty.
On the subject of Ty, if Dev was to start selling burning torches and pitchforks he’d make a fortune cos the folk of Coronation Street (and Rosamund Street) are after his blood!
“Kill Tyrone!” they cry outside Tina’s flat. 

How can Weatherfield have such a good hospital (the only person to have performed more sick healing miracles than them doctors is Jesus) and such a rubbish police force?! Mind you, at least it’s a fella who’s facing a miscarriage of justice instead of our Deirdre, Gail and Fiz! The only person who is actually guilty is Tracy flamin’ Barlow! Her gurning alone should be punishable by death let alone the killing of Charlie with a piece of objet flamin d’art!
So to cut a long story short, Tyrone has been abandoned by folk with no memory of what he’s actually like and Tracy is going on a date with that fella who’s like Dick Van Dyke. Meanwhile Jenna has lost her job after studying for two hundred and fifty seven years and she’s also come out as one of them lesbians. Kirsty knows how to “play the system” but not as well as me cos I work and claim housing benefit and dole! Who’s the best at playing the flamin’ system now, Kirsty, you evil witch?!
Remember loveys, in Weatherfield the truth always comes out in’t end… Do you hear that, Dev?! The truth always comes out! He’s been stealing folks’ identities with that cash machine of his! Maybe that’s why Sunita has had a total personality transplant! Maybe Dev stole HER identity so she replaced it with someone else’s!

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5 comments:

Anonymous said...

I'm still laughing! I'm so glad Fat Brenda has returned. We used to make something like Nick's knitted knickers, but we called them a Peter Heater.

ChiaGwen said...

So good to read you again Fat Brenda - excellent! 'Dick Van Dyke' LOL-LOL - though even he had more personality than dim Rob of the Faktry.

Anonymous said...

:-D I want Brenda to be my best friend!! Gawd, you make me laugh!

~JB in Canada

Clare said...

Best cream horn yet Bren! Absolutely beltin'

Anonymous said...

We should petition to get Fat Brenda a job as the new Corrie script writer. She'd be beltin'!

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