Today’s official prompt of using a Shakespearian insult or even those from Skeletor just didn’t sit right with me. Not when I’ve got a rich history of inventive and highly personalised barbs. When you mix two parts wrestling fan with five parts Mancunian you’re guaranteed a silver tongue that can shimmer as brightly as it’s slices are deadly.
So here’s a story from September 2007 on the 216 bus when an interloper was unclear which of my companions he was referring to.
“Oi mate, is that your bird?”
He warbled unintelligibly.
“No” I protested … with much chagrin
“I’m not into bestiality” I spat back at him.
“Wots bestiality?” bellowed the brute.
“Ask your mother…” I said being cute.
“it might explain a few things”
yet he offered no rebuke.
However what puzzled me most
wasn’t his chauvinistic candour
nor his obliviousness
to my cheeky backhander.
For all the fish in the sea that we swim in,
he just wasn’t clear…
for I was seeing