Shafting some Bunglas with a FTC 871

FTC 871 is the part number for a Land Rover left hand rear half shaft.
That is the only fact based statement in this work of fiction and all the characters are completely fictitious although with such lifelike characters you probably know someone just like them.

The pavement glistened moistly after the rain storm as we huddled together in the 99p shop doorway as we kept an eye on Parson’s Street one Friday in late August 2001.

“That’s the cunt,” ‘Nobby’ Bagthorpe said quietly as he pointed to this ageing Asian bloke with his head down as he legged it up the street as he headed home from Friday prayers at the Parson’s Street Mosque.

“Yeah that’s him,” Al confirmed.

“What him, he looks past it?” I queried.

“Get a grip Allthwaite,” Nobby moans, “It’s the cunt’s kid, fucking Imran as been doing our Sheila not that cunt.”

“Right,” I says, “So what we following that cunt for?”

“Like the fucking Mafia Johnno,” Al says, “That lot.”

“Fucking top man Kuptar,” Nobby adds.

“Right,” I agrees, totally confused, “Now what?”

“Talk to the cunt,” Nobby says.

“Right,” I agreed, “So we fucking threaten him and get the whole fucking tribe round our gaff or worse claiming racial harassment?”

“You got a better idea?” Nobby asks, well as it happens my idea was fuck off down the Flying Horse for a few bevvies, maybe a curry and crawl away and throw up in canal, “Thought not,”
he added.

The bloke kept walking and we followed, we would have caught him up and had a chat except Nobby started wheezing because of the fags and that and Al said he had stitch and I didn’t fancy it on my own as our dad said they carried daggers down their socks.

So we followed ‘Kuptar,’ to his gaff the corner shop on the corner of Mafeking Street and Ladysmith Street and we went in, Mrs Kuptar was serving behind the high counter and she hid her copy of ‘Playgirl,’ and switched her telly to the Asian network instead of one of them porn channels she usually watched as we walked in.

“Hiya sexy!” Nobby said. She stared at him through the rectangular hole in the black tent she wore and she cursed him in Urdu with a Lancashire accent.

“You want something or you come to take the piss?” she asked nastily.

“Where’s the boss?” Al asked, “We know he’s here?”

“Michael,” she shouts, fucking Asian called fucking Michael, you couldn’t make it up.

“Yes,” he bellows.

“Some rough yobbos are here to see you Michael,” she says in English to wind us up.

“Who are they?” he asks.

“Johnno Althwaite and Nobby Bagthorpe, you know Sandra’s brother,” I says.

“I owe the girl nothing!” he said, “Nothing!”

“Not you fucking Imran, he got her up the duff,” Nobby insists, “Ring on finger time savvy?”

Kuptar appears, “Then you must take it up with Imran.”

“Look you’re fucking head of the family, you have a word right?” Al interjects.

“He is his own man and will marry whom he chooses,” Kuptar says and his missus has the decency to blush as we all knew the family planned who married who, a cousin from Bungla probably.

“Tell him to give us a bell,” Nobby said firmly, “We’re off down the Dog and Duck for a bevvy,” he lied and we strode out into the typical mist and light rain that is Weatherfield when it isn’t raining hard.

“That fucking told them,” Nobby said, “Lets get bladdered.”

We went down Flying Horse in case Imran came looking and got started on the Stella. (Artois).

“Hey Johnno, why don’t you marry our Sheila?” Nobby asks after about ten pints.

“No you’re all right mate, I don’t fancy your mum as mother in law,” I says.

“Might be you as got her in family way Johnno,” Al reminded me.

“For fucks sake I fucking paid her and I was rubbered up every time!” I reminded them.
“No offence but she is a pro remember.”

“Nice little earner,” Nobby said drunkenly, “It ain’t fair that tarts gets paid for fucking and blokes has to pay for it.”

“If you say so,” I says , “What do you think Jeremy?”

Nobby looks up all guilty like, he hadn’t seen Jerry France stood behind us.

“Very funny Johnno,” Jerry leers, “That was years ago.”

“What was?” Al asked.

“He got done for soliciting!” I said “Weatherfield’s only rent boy!”

“Oh, very funny,” Jerry says, “Anyway that’s all in the past.”

“Glad to hear it,” Al says.

“Simon and I are getting married in October,” Jerry says proudly and Nobby drops what was left of his pint in his lap.

“Fucking hell!” he protests and frantically tries to wipe his crotch with some blokes anorak that he left hung on a chair while he went to the bog, “They’ll think I pissed me self!”

I tried to ignore him, pillock.

“How’s the Band going,” Jerry asks, going on about Weatherfield Silver, the Brass Band I used to play in.

“Fucking packed it in,” I lied, I got sacked when I fucked up the Intermezzo from the “Ironmasters” in regional final, hit top A flat instead of top B flat you never heard such a fucking row, “You still play?” I asks.

“A bit, I’m back on Flugel now,” he says.

“You always did have good tone, remember when we played ‘Pie Jesu’ for the old folks party?”
I asked.

“The old biddy said it brought tears to her eyes!” he agreed,

“And I said it wasn’t that bad!” we laughed, old Jerry wasn’t a bad bloke for a shirt-lifter, at least he stuck to blokes his own age or older and wasn’t a pedo like most of the queers round our way.

“What about fucking Sheila,” Nobby says.

“No thanks!” Jerry laughs and he slips away.

“Better see fucking Imran,” I said.

“Better get a Curry then,” Nobby says, “Before we waste away.”

Waste away, Nobby’s gut had to be 46 inches at least and he must have been eighteen stone because Al’s Land Rover got quite a list on when Nobby climbed aboard.

We had a curry, “Why is it always Indians what sells curry?” Nobby asked idly as he stuffed his face.

There really wasn’t no answer, and then we met Sheila as we walked home, she was standing at bus stop by WH Smiths.

“What you doing our Sheila?” Nobby asks as if it wasn’t painfully obvious what a seven months pregnant tart in a red miniskirt half way up her ass and a top that was so tight it bulged where her her tits swelled an extra couple of inches on account of her being up the duff, and who was hanging about at a bus stop at near midnight when last bus was ten thirty.

“Go home Nobby,” Sheila says.

“We been trying to fix you up with fucking Imran!” Al says.

“Fuck off!” Sheila says, “He fucking did me bareback the filthy bastard!” she ranted “Its his fault I got caught!”

“That’s what I mean, he got a Merc,” Al adds.

“His dad’s got a corner shop,” I adds.

“Fucking grow up,” she said, “Anyway you met my mate?”

I stared, “Doreen?” there was Ted Atkins missus Doreen in high heels, fishnets and a bum freezer miniskirt hiding in Woolworths shop doorway.

“Johnno,” she says.

“What you doing here?” I asks.

“Lost me job,” she says, “I needs the money,” she said, I looked, she was a bit rough, roots needed doing which showed she was mousy haired really not blonde, too much lipstick, and dressed too tarty with the fishnets, but something stirred down below.

“How much?” I asked.

“No Johnno, I know you it would be like cheating on Ted.” she says.

“How much?” I says again.

“Fifty?” she says.

“Fucking twenty more like,” I says and I rummaged in my pocket, “I got seventeen pounds and eighty three pence,” I says.

“No way!” Doreen protests and then I produced a twenty.

“Oh go on Dor,” Sheila says, “He’s only got a little cock and he comes ever so quick.”

“Oh all right then,” says Doreen and she pulls her G string to one side and expects me to fuck her standing up in Timothy Whites’ chemist’s shop doorway.

“We can’t fuck here!” I says.

“Only take a minute, if we all stand round no one will see.” Sheila says, “Get on with it.”

I fished me tool out and rubbered up with a Durex, Doreen hauls up the hem of her skirt about an inch and I bends me knees and pushes upwards and eases inside her, she was all tight and warm and fucking lovely, “Oh that’s so fucking good!” I says and I humped her about twice and then, “Oh fuck!” I says and me balls are crinkling and there’s that feeling like there’s a red hot steel rod down the eye of your cock and it needs cooling and quite suddenly, “Oh fucking hell no!” I shot me load.

“Pound a second, that’s better than Merchant bankers!” Sheila chuckled.

“Very funny,” I said as me tool shrank.

“I wish my Ted was more like you,” Doreen said, “He keeps me pinned to the counterpaine for half an hour some times trying to get off.”

“Stick the whole fucking knife in why don’t you,” I suggested sarcastically as I chucked the spunked up rubber in the corner and cleaned me tool on me hanky, and they all laughed every fucking one of them.