Fanackapan

Archive for the ‘Drinking’ Category

Cassette Boys Youtube Channel…

Greetings fellow readers…. many regulars at the King’s haven’t seen yours truly for aeon’s. I am not dead. I am not avoiding people*.  I have not emigrated. I haven’t even won the lottery and got myself shacked up with the most beautiful buxom bird the planet has ever laid eyes on**… The truth is boring. Saving money for imminent car insurance renewal, MOT expiry and what will be an interesting adventure in Crete with the ever thoughtful Dribbly have all cast shadows on fund-age… Even the RHQM has been worried, as Mr. Woo informed me today on a flyby visit to the King’s, he’s calculated on average they’re taking for 65 pints of Carling per week less in my absence. Ah well… status quo shall be underway in the not too distant.

*may not be true.

**I fucking wish.

Alas as per usual I do have some news to report about something, and sometimes articles on here get me in trouble. So…

Disclaimer: I mean no harm! I thought it was funny. It wasn’t my idea to record the argument. It wasn’t my idea to put it on here!

During a brief visit to the King’s today, I was quite humoured by the grumpy corner when Hutchy asked Mr Woo for a Gill whilst sat comfortably engrossed in conversation. Here is the argument that ensued…

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…the unfathomable Mr. Woo strikes again…

A: Pelt them with Rice Crispies

B: Smash them in the teeth with a Croquet Mallet

C: Shit Yourself

D: Shoot Yourself

Answers on a postcard to the King’s Arms…BD9 4BB

For the delights of regular drinkers at the Kings I have sourced footage of Dribbly at a meager 16 years old. “How did you manage that?”
Simple. The idiot gave it to me. I cannot describe to you the nightmare that encompassed my dreams, bedsheets and wellbeing after viewing… like a descending incubus of thought, images that shock the pysch to the point of no return… (no audio on any by the way)

And just as a treat and suprise for the fragrant Mrs. RHQM… this was on the same reel… a man intent on going somewhere…

There’s been much speculation in the King’s… how the hell does Mr Woo manage to get himself a woman to throw up on? After much research I’m pleased to inform that Old Heatonian and Fanackapan have collaborated and found video evidence of Mr Woo’s chat up techniques! We’re both sure that you’ll all learn a disastrous lesson. Please do not hesitate to ask him about his skills, he’ll tell you how it’s done straight away!

I often ponder about the whereabouts and mindset of my good friend and acquaintance of the past 10 or so years. Gruff is the man responsible for teaching me everything I have forgotten over this period. We’ve done everything together… once I completely tidied his front room, and once he threw me down the stairs for a giggle. I’ve been on fire, force fed Viagra, been in various states of stupor all in the name of a good laugh and wouldn’t change it for the world…

On going up to his castle for a few drinks I discovered him sat in the dark waiting, bored and drunk.

“What the hell are you doing Gruff?”
“I was awaiting your arrival young squire… I’ve made you a video.”

Have a look at said video and ask yourself… what is inside the mind of Sir Charles Grufferson?

It came to our attention the other day, that Legalmaid Junior had set up Mr Woo with one of her best friends. Now, the long suffering acquaintances of Mr Woo naturally saw this as a bad idea, as Mr Woo is best known for speaking the faeces of our English language to an academic level. Alas, the date was set up, and Mr Woo carefully picked a stylish cheese burger bar in Leeds to accommodate his lusty desires…

Upon arrival in Girlington’s own horse and cart ride, seats were sat in and a meal was ordered. Mr Woo, gentleman that he tries to be, ordered a romantic bottle of wine in which Legalmaid Junior’s friend, who cannot be named for sympathy reasons, politely refused. Twenty minutes later, Mr Woo had downed the entire bottle and conversation sped into rapidity. Not sure he had quite quenched his thirst, another bottle was ordered when the meal arrived – cheeseburger and chips x2.

All seemed to be going swimmingly, until Mr Woo realised he’d been talking the faeces for far too long, and the last train had been missed. He stumbled outside the burger hut and hailed a cab. Now, a taxi ride from the centre of Leeds to Bradford takes a good half an hour – I realise this because I’ve suffered said journey with Spike whilst needing a piss  (the same night he was arrested and rectally penetrated by the fuzz!), and Mr Woo’s wine took its toll. Unable to control himself he looked at his future interest lovingly, and hurled all over her. Many apologies were committed to the conversation and the poor girl never wants to see the light of day again, especially in Girlington’s own horse and cart ride with the Woo. But!…

all was not over, for before the vomit the horse and cart driver picked up the slurring words between the young lovebirds that Mr Woo drinks in the King’s Arms, and the driver turned up the very next afternoon to claim damages for the puke clean up job that ruined his night. Mr Woo wasn’t there, so Aberystwithface, ever helpful bar maid gave the driver the princely sum of £50 to make him go away.

How Mr Woo can ever offer relationship advice to the American silver ring duo ever again beggars belief, and I just hope, in all his history of woe, that he never tries to enter America…

Watch this space…

He’s been here for weeks now, and still not paid any rent. Greenalsh is slowly going demented. A Mr P. Minestrone keeps calling me over – “Fanackapan, I want you to come away from that man! He’s a bad influence and he smells!”

“I know but you soon get used to it”, I reply.

Greenalsh went down to the cellar to adjust all the bungs on the beer barrels, but couldn’t get the Pirate out of his mind. He smashed his hand on the wall in frustration and it broke to pieces. He’s a rough rum bum and baccy sailor. He keeps letting off; and then you have to stand clear.

“Come away from that man!” – Minestrone again

“But he’s not doing me any harm,” I said.

“Come away before you feel the back of my hand!”

So I came away and felt the back of his hand. It was like playing a flesh covered piano. The Pirate is a very silent man by custom, all day hangs around the King’s with a brass telescope singing:

15 men on the dead man’s chest – Etc., etc., etc.

I’ve never heard a brass telescope singing before. There must be a first for everything.

Mostly Granny Smith does not speak when spoken to; so he doesn’t ever speak. Every day, as he comes back from his stroll he asks me if any seafaring men have been whilst looking at me through the crack in his trousers. He promises a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I keep my ‘weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg’. I don’t don’t have any weather-eyes so I never see a seafaring man with one leg. But now this personage haunts my dreams. Now the leg would be cut off at the knee, then at the hip, then at the shoulders, then the neck; now he is a monstrous creature. I now dream of him chasing me with his one leg joined to his neck.

Alas, now he sits and sing’s his number one in the charts. Madonna was a close second.

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest Etc., etc., etc.

Sometimes he calls for glasses all round, and forces all the bewildered company to sing: “Sing you buggers, sing!”

Often I have heard the King’s shaking with “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Bulmers, etc., etc.,” all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, each one singing louder than the other.

His stories are what frighten people the most; about hanging, walking the plank, swallowing the anchor and the clap. He must mix with the wickedest men that god allows like Charlie Chester, Chris Evans and Terry Wogan.

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