The question of compatibility

Other than fellwalking, they had few interests in common. She liked the Antiques Roadshow, while he found all Sunday evening television depressing. She was into cakes, whereas he ate hardly anything sweet. And she was hoping for a period of gentle courtship, whereas his explicit aim was to smash her back doors off within forty-eight hours of their first shared glance.

Don’t mind me

He lifted his feet up to allow the cleaner to hoover under his feet – irritating, but not so much so that he had to stop stroking one off. Nor was the sound of her wiping down the sinks in her rubber gloves a reason for him to avoid letting out a loud gurgle and belch as he synchronised his ejaculation with a squelching fart.

More than meets the eye

“Am I wrong?” he asked rhetorically. “No, you’re not wrong, Pete, you’re just an assho-” she tried to reply, but her gob was suddenly crowded full of steamy turds as he turned and demonstrated just how much of an ‘asshole’ he was. Even then, she was wrong to say that he was just an arsehole (note the correct spelling), and he made sure she knew it by swiftly turning again and slashing all over her face and hair, matting it to her flaking scalp and leaving her looking thoroughly dishevelled.