Dibbler
Perhaps it isn’t better to make punts in the bush than in prison
Last issue found me backing away from an unholy serpent of a turd, the lifeless body of its progenitor - a dear friend - and into the arms of plod’s Chod Squad. Members of this shadowy branch of CID then conveyed me swiftly to Kennington nick wherein I languish at her Majesty’s convenience. I am charged with causing GBH for illegal betting means. If by this, the judge means Grievous Bottom Haemorrhaging, then he’s on the money for once.
It seems that my pal ‘Chodder’ Cavendish not only shat out the most gargantuan turd ever recorded but, in the effort, managed to expel many of his vital organs through the same exit. His pluck lay beside his evil-smelling progeny like an ironic placenta. I couldn’t help a rueful chuckle: Old Chodder never did do things by halves.
Meanwhile, I have settled into prison routine with alacrity. I observe that much has changed since I was incarcerated for a 12-year stint as an eight-year-old. In those grim days, the screws wore scruffy tweed jackets and only performed ‘inspections’ outside the showers after rugger. These days, the screws are uniformed and their inspections are far more frequent, but involve less salivation.
One night, I was flicking through the usual turgid fare on the prison TV (Jap’s Eye for the Queer Guy, Celebrity Child Fiddle, etc.) when up came footage of last month’s NME Awards. With all my recent commotion, I had clean forgotten that the summer’s betting heat would soon be upon us again. And for the first time in aeons, I had neglected to wade in with an early thumping punt.
Leaning over to ‘Squodger’ Harrison (banged up for a spate of squodgings in the Lambeth area in the late nineties), I remarked on my oversight. Despite his indecipherable gurgling - common amongst untreatable squodgers - I heard him say he had cleaned up in the three main events at the Brits and NMEs!
“Am I to understand, my dear Squodger,” quoth I, “that you are privy to advanced info regarding the outcome of these events?”
Amidst the gurgling, there came a defiant, “Yes!” He thought for a moment and proposed that he would furnish me with the winners of June’s Mojo Awards on one condition.
Well, I knew what this condition would entail - a royal squodging - and I intend to remain unsquodged to my dying day. Accordingly, I offer you my own, conventionally acquired tip: Radiohead for best band. Again. Bon Chance!
