“Howaya, Kevin?”

“Howaya, Mick, are you putting it in, or taking it out?”

“I don’t have much to put in these days. How’s it going?”

“All good, Mick, you’re looking well, are you sick?”

“You always look your best on the day you die.”

“Tell that to John Dowling.”

“How do I tell him that? In a séance?”

“That, or a medium.”

“Ronnie went to see a medium a few weeks ago.”

“How is Ronnie? Has she not left you yet?”

“We have a simple relationship, Kevin.”

“Go on, tell me.”

“I bring in the money and she spends it.”

“So what’s the story with the medium?”

“It was false advertising, for a start.”

“It’s a medium, of course it’s false.”

“Yes, and she was a large, almost an extra fucking large.”

“Did she come up with anything interesting?”

“I don’t know about interesting, but it was definitely horn-inducing.”

“How so?”

“The fucking fat bitch asked her if I was the type to run around on her.”

“It’s a long time since you ran around anything, Mick. If you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thanks for that, it’s not my fault.”

“Whose fault is it then?”

“I’m already on two fucking diets. I should be anorexic.”

“Maybe if you give one of them up, it might help.”

“I drank three, two litre bottles of Diet Coke last weekend watching the match, and I didn’t lose an ounce.”

“More false advertising.”

“I only look fat because Ronnie is so fucking skinny. Now, though, because of Mystic fucking Meg, I’m in the doghouse.”

“So who are you shagging?”

“No one!”

“Is there anyone you’d like to shag?”

“Are you serious?”

“We all have our fantasies.”

“What’s yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Fuck off!”

“No, seriously, I don’t know.”

“Is it that little blonde down at Ron’s Café?”

“No.”

“The one you try and flirt with every morning?”

“No, Mick.”

“Ooh, good morning, Collette, mind you don’t cut yourself with that huge bread knife.”

“I never said anything like that.”

“I see you trying to see her tits when she’s buttering your bread.”

“She doesn’t butter bread.”

“It’s a euphemism.”

“For what?”

“For ‘let me roll you in flour, my little French baguette, so I can see the wet bits’. You dirty little bastard.”

“Very funny.”

“You’re wasting your time with her anyway, Paddy Finlay’s riding her.”

“He’s not!”

“He is. He even got a pair of open-crotch overalls to wear for when he’s painting her house next week.”

“Paddy Finlay? Really? Sure he must only be about five foot tall.”

“The smaller the jockey, the bigger the whip.”

“I’d say Collette would appreciate a big whip.”

“She likes her cream to be well whipped.”

“With a cherry on top.”

“I think she’d prefer nuts, two nice big round walnuts. The dangly type.”

“In a hanging basket.”

“Under a long straight flag pole.”

“Like at the barber’s.”

“Where they could be shaved.”

“So, Mick, if you were to run around after a young one, who would it be? I always thought you had a thing for Marion down at the paint shop.”

“Fuck off, will you?”

“I see the way she always touches you.”

“She can’t support herself standing. Bad balance.”

“Have you never envisioned her stretched out naked in front of you, gagging for your cock?”

“To be perfectly honest with you, Kevin, at my age, I’d rather have a good stew.”

End