No, he hadn’t brought the spanner she needed, but he did have another big tool that she might like to grasp in her oily hands.
He had been driving round and around for ages and still hadn’t found the place. He was already late and he was the one with the tools. Nothing could begin until he got there. And he was lost! His phone was about to die. The satnav had been talking complete bollocks so he’d turned it off. Ah – here was a local. She’d know. He rolled down the wi- BLURFFFBLBLB. Oh, no. He closed the window again and thanked the lord that the local hadn’t noticed. But fucking hell… the sheer amount of shit he’d just emitted into his corduroy bell bottoms was insane, and the stench was in proportion.
Her shrill declarations about the rights of women didn’t seem so compelling when she was on her knees in front of two huge schlongs.
Suddenly Jacques sprang up and danced a little jig. “I’m getting married in the morning! Ding, dong, the bells are gonna chime!” he sang breezily. But soon he sat down, his dejection impossible to ignore, and the mood became sombre again, all present grimly certain that actually they were going to be tortured to death and that the only sound the bells would make would be a slow, funereal toll.
Despite all his affected diffidence, he did very much want another hit. He just didn’t quite know how best to introduce it to his bloodstream without further blackening the blood vessel or touching the horrid gunge oozing from the part of his arm he normally jammed the stuff into.
She tapped his nuts lightly, and she was sure she could hear cum sloshing around inside.
Glyndebourne again! He kept finding himself back here, despite swearing off it – and at it – every year. He’d have to find somewhere to do a quick line or, fuck it, quite a few. In fact, he was wet-fingering the empty bag (oo-er) in no time, and less than an hour later he was being hauled out by two toughs who weren’t even wearing any sort of bouncer outfit and, they proudly told him as they shoved him into the pebbled car park, didn’t even work there. They just loved Handl so much that they decided to get a ‘Handl’ on him and stop him doing football chants over the music, as he laughingly related as an imaginary guest on BBC Breakfast the next morning, winking at Rita Chakrabarti when the camera was off him and wanking at her later before sinking into a pit of self-disgust that ended in him ordering another bag of much shitter bugle.
“Argh, yeah!” he roared, pumping his shaft faster and faster before letting fly with a substantial load.
He had left a dookie behind, perhaps deliberately.
It was a bare-faced lie, and she frowned angrily, then abruptly vomited as her nose admitted a hot blast of rectal gas from the zebra’s stinking rear.