tales from the twilight lockdown zone presents...Who the fuck has Lidl frozen peas in a gaff like this?
Well, guv, we was called out to the modestly extravagant suburban London gaff of the Arsenham United and England player in the early hours of Thursday morning. Apparently, a burglary in progress had been reported by the hysterical householder, so we got round there quick sharp with the old blues and twos on, roads was empty, what with the lockdown and all that.
One minor incident to report on the way, guv, Dave got a minor scald when he spilled his flask of tea on his bollocks when I had to swerve to avoid a jogger on a pedestrian crossing in Chelsea. 1-fucking-am and some Lycra-clad fatty is out there having a coronary to herself in the middle of the fuckin street in a pool of her own piss and shit. Reminds me, will need to hose down the side of the panda once we’re done here, sarge, might have got a bit of splash back on Dave’s door.
Aaanywaaay, we gets there, I jumps out, and a freak gust of wind catches the door, and it goes and prangs the wing of the Bentley parked in the drive. So I jumps back in and reverses it round the other side and, fuck me, do I not go and take the wing mirror off the McLaren. I gets out and has a butcher’s at the damage and thinks to myself, fuck it, and I goes and kicks the mirror clean into the rhododildo-fuckin-whatnot bushes, thinking the minted cunt can afford to get that sorted himself.
Fuck it, Dave, I says, lets go and see what the script is. No rush, mate, Dave says finishing his cuppa, it’s not like there’ll be anything of irreplaceable sentimental value been stolen, like fucking winners medals or cups! I know, mate, we had a piss laugh at that, so when I’d got my breath back, I had a fag and Dave finished his cornflake sandwich. What’s that, guv? Yeah, a cornflake sandwich, cunt’s missus is still in lockdown round at the mother-in-law’s, it’s been fuckin cornflake sarnies all week for Dave.
So we’re walking up the drive, and I says to Dave, burglars in a lockdown, mate, a bit suspect that, no? And Dave says, well, we’re not dealing with the sharpest knives in the drawer, are we? Times is tough, cunts have got no readies, they’re getting desperate. You’re right there, mate, I says to Dave, I bet these footballers are finding this lockdown fuckin tough, tattoo parlours and hairdressers all shut, scraping bye on their uppers on seventy percent of their hunder-fuckin-grand a week.
Yeah, we’d stopped pissing ourselves by the time we got to the front door. Ding-dong, lights on, and there’s young Delbert Alice whatsisface opening the door, lookin a bit roughed-up so he was, poor bastard had pissed his joggers and everything by the smell of it. And we could hear his bit of stuff stomping about somewhere upstairs in the gaff, screeching all sorts of stuff we couldn’t make out, on her fuckin phone or something.
So, I introduces us, then I asks young Delbert, is she alright? And before he can answer, Dave’s got his phone out and shoving it in our faces, shouting, Alright!? She’s fuckin luuuvely, mate! Did he not have a photo of Delbert’s strife as the wallpaper on his phone, guv? Not a fucking stitch on, tits out to here, legs all over the shop, you could see the fuckin lot. Well, young Delbert was blushing and mumbling some shite about it being her early work, and how she’s doing more tasteful stuff now she’s not on Babestation no more and, being a good lad, he goes and invites us in.
So we wanders through the gaff, nice digs, and sits ourselves down in the kitchen. Delbert’s making us a couple of brews in his shiny fucking Nespresso whatsit, and she’s still fuckin clattering about and screeching and wailing about fuck-knows what up the stairs. So Dave bellows, Fuckin keep it down a bit, love, you’re safe, the Old Bill’s here now! And she stops stomping about and goes a bit quiet, but Delbert’s looking at us now, with big fucking scared doe eyes and is shaking his head from side to side like he’s about to have a panic attack or something, and he says quietly, Guys, I wish you hadn’t of done that.
So the three of us is having our Ameri-fuckin-canos, very nice they were too, and young Delbert is spinning a right old yarn, some line of guff about an early night, slipping her indoors the old stiff one eye - sarge, Dave luuuved that bit - and then the old coitus interruptus on the account of hearing a noise or some shit down the stairs. Going to investigate, he’s confronted, he says and I shit you not, by two fucking ninjas, and they give him a right good pasting! Well, when we was walking through to the kitchen, I didn’t see no signs of a struggle, and Delbert wasn’t showing any apparent ill effects of the bleaching from the ninjas, maybe a blackened eye and a cut on his lip, but nothing broken.
So I’m thinking, mate, this sounds a right load of old cock and bull, is he that hard up on the furlough that he’s got a couple of team mates round to stage something for a fucking insurance scam or some shit, when out of nowhere his bird explodes into the room, wailing like a fucking harpy and swishing a golf club about her head like Tiger’s missus back in oh-eight.
I can tell you, guv, she wasn’t wearing much and it was covering even less, and Dave’s jaw would’ve been in his lap but for his fuckin hard-on. She’s obviously pissed out her fuckin nut, screaming dogs abuse and ranting about catching him wanking over some bit on the side he’s got going on a Zoom chat or some shite. Fuckin proper mental stuff, proper. Long story short, she goes and lunges for Delbert, slips on a puddle of Prosecco from a knocked over bottle, clonks him on the head with the golf club, and they both go arse over tit onto the floor.
And I’m thinking, what a fuckin mess, but Dave’s up out his seat in a flash with his phone out. She’s sparked out on the floor giving us an eyeful, and young Delbert is getting up slowly to his feet, a nasty gash – steady, sarge, not that kinda gash – above the eye. As Dave is busy snapping away, I help Delbert onto a stool, then go over to his freezer and get him a bag of frozen peas for his head. The poor bastard, I was starting to feel a bit sorry for him, and I remember thinking to myself, guv, Lidl frozen fuckin peas in a gaff like this, this really must be the end of days right enough.
Anyway, by now, guv, Delbert’s showing all the legendary mental strength and fortitude under pressure that got him his England caps, and he’s broken down completely, sobs wracking his body. He’s pressing the bag of peas to his head, and I’m watching as the melting ice is running with the blood into his eyes. The rivers of icy, bloody tears are running down his face, mixing with the snotters running down and off his chin and pooling in the lap of his already pissed joggers. A truly fucking pitiful sight.
By now, Dave’s ran out of space on his phone’s SIM card, so he checks her for a pulse, then takes a seat and starts reviewing his handywork. So Delbert starts blurting out what had actually happened earlier on, a garbled tale of a secret relationship with a team mate, the same team mate dragged up and performing sex acts in a Zoom chat, his wasted strife walking in on them and setting about him with a dildo. Or it might have been a rolling pin, he wasn’t sure, guv, and it was hard to make out what he was saying anyway, the poor cunt was coughing and chocking back the tears and wasn’t making a lot of sense.
But again, guv, I found myself thinking, who the fuck has Lidl frozen peas in a gaff like this? Well, next thing I know, the bag of peas splits open, and the bags of fucking Charlie are plopping down into the pool of bodily fluids forming in the lap of his joggers, like fucking croutons into tomato soup, splashing my fuckin uniform. Well, that was the final fucking straw, so we nicked both the cunts for possession. Nice fella that Delbert, makes a good Americano, and his bit’s well easy on the eye, but the rules is the rules, guv, and without rules, it’d be fucking anarchy. Right, sarge, right.
One minor incident to report on the way, guv, Dave got a minor scald when he spilled his flask of tea on his bollocks when I had to swerve to avoid a jogger on a pedestrian crossing in Chelsea. 1-fucking-am and some Lycra-clad fatty is out there having a coronary to herself in the middle of the fuckin street in a pool of her own piss and shit. Reminds me, will need to hose down the side of the panda once we’re done here, sarge, might have got a bit of splash back on Dave’s door.
Aaanywaaay, we gets there, I jumps out, and a freak gust of wind catches the door, and it goes and prangs the wing of the Bentley parked in the drive. So I jumps back in and reverses it round the other side and, fuck me, do I not go and take the wing mirror off the McLaren. I gets out and has a butcher’s at the damage and thinks to myself, fuck it, and I goes and kicks the mirror clean into the rhododildo-fuckin-whatnot bushes, thinking the minted cunt can afford to get that sorted himself.
Fuck it, Dave, I says, lets go and see what the script is. No rush, mate, Dave says finishing his cuppa, it’s not like there’ll be anything of irreplaceable sentimental value been stolen, like fucking winners medals or cups! I know, mate, we had a piss laugh at that, so when I’d got my breath back, I had a fag and Dave finished his cornflake sandwich. What’s that, guv? Yeah, a cornflake sandwich, cunt’s missus is still in lockdown round at the mother-in-law’s, it’s been fuckin cornflake sarnies all week for Dave.
So we’re walking up the drive, and I says to Dave, burglars in a lockdown, mate, a bit suspect that, no? And Dave says, well, we’re not dealing with the sharpest knives in the drawer, are we? Times is tough, cunts have got no readies, they’re getting desperate. You’re right there, mate, I says to Dave, I bet these footballers are finding this lockdown fuckin tough, tattoo parlours and hairdressers all shut, scraping bye on their uppers on seventy percent of their hunder-fuckin-grand a week.
Yeah, we’d stopped pissing ourselves by the time we got to the front door. Ding-dong, lights on, and there’s young Delbert Alice whatsisface opening the door, lookin a bit roughed-up so he was, poor bastard had pissed his joggers and everything by the smell of it. And we could hear his bit of stuff stomping about somewhere upstairs in the gaff, screeching all sorts of stuff we couldn’t make out, on her fuckin phone or something.
So, I introduces us, then I asks young Delbert, is she alright? And before he can answer, Dave’s got his phone out and shoving it in our faces, shouting, Alright!? She’s fuckin luuuvely, mate! Did he not have a photo of Delbert’s strife as the wallpaper on his phone, guv? Not a fucking stitch on, tits out to here, legs all over the shop, you could see the fuckin lot. Well, young Delbert was blushing and mumbling some shite about it being her early work, and how she’s doing more tasteful stuff now she’s not on Babestation no more and, being a good lad, he goes and invites us in.
So we wanders through the gaff, nice digs, and sits ourselves down in the kitchen. Delbert’s making us a couple of brews in his shiny fucking Nespresso whatsit, and she’s still fuckin clattering about and screeching and wailing about fuck-knows what up the stairs. So Dave bellows, Fuckin keep it down a bit, love, you’re safe, the Old Bill’s here now! And she stops stomping about and goes a bit quiet, but Delbert’s looking at us now, with big fucking scared doe eyes and is shaking his head from side to side like he’s about to have a panic attack or something, and he says quietly, Guys, I wish you hadn’t of done that.
So the three of us is having our Ameri-fuckin-canos, very nice they were too, and young Delbert is spinning a right old yarn, some line of guff about an early night, slipping her indoors the old stiff one eye - sarge, Dave luuuved that bit - and then the old coitus interruptus on the account of hearing a noise or some shit down the stairs. Going to investigate, he’s confronted, he says and I shit you not, by two fucking ninjas, and they give him a right good pasting! Well, when we was walking through to the kitchen, I didn’t see no signs of a struggle, and Delbert wasn’t showing any apparent ill effects of the bleaching from the ninjas, maybe a blackened eye and a cut on his lip, but nothing broken.
So I’m thinking, mate, this sounds a right load of old cock and bull, is he that hard up on the furlough that he’s got a couple of team mates round to stage something for a fucking insurance scam or some shit, when out of nowhere his bird explodes into the room, wailing like a fucking harpy and swishing a golf club about her head like Tiger’s missus back in oh-eight.
I can tell you, guv, she wasn’t wearing much and it was covering even less, and Dave’s jaw would’ve been in his lap but for his fuckin hard-on. She’s obviously pissed out her fuckin nut, screaming dogs abuse and ranting about catching him wanking over some bit on the side he’s got going on a Zoom chat or some shite. Fuckin proper mental stuff, proper. Long story short, she goes and lunges for Delbert, slips on a puddle of Prosecco from a knocked over bottle, clonks him on the head with the golf club, and they both go arse over tit onto the floor.
And I’m thinking, what a fuckin mess, but Dave’s up out his seat in a flash with his phone out. She’s sparked out on the floor giving us an eyeful, and young Delbert is getting up slowly to his feet, a nasty gash – steady, sarge, not that kinda gash – above the eye. As Dave is busy snapping away, I help Delbert onto a stool, then go over to his freezer and get him a bag of frozen peas for his head. The poor bastard, I was starting to feel a bit sorry for him, and I remember thinking to myself, guv, Lidl frozen fuckin peas in a gaff like this, this really must be the end of days right enough.
Anyway, by now, guv, Delbert’s showing all the legendary mental strength and fortitude under pressure that got him his England caps, and he’s broken down completely, sobs wracking his body. He’s pressing the bag of peas to his head, and I’m watching as the melting ice is running with the blood into his eyes. The rivers of icy, bloody tears are running down his face, mixing with the snotters running down and off his chin and pooling in the lap of his already pissed joggers. A truly fucking pitiful sight.
By now, Dave’s ran out of space on his phone’s SIM card, so he checks her for a pulse, then takes a seat and starts reviewing his handywork. So Delbert starts blurting out what had actually happened earlier on, a garbled tale of a secret relationship with a team mate, the same team mate dragged up and performing sex acts in a Zoom chat, his wasted strife walking in on them and setting about him with a dildo. Or it might have been a rolling pin, he wasn’t sure, guv, and it was hard to make out what he was saying anyway, the poor cunt was coughing and chocking back the tears and wasn’t making a lot of sense.
But again, guv, I found myself thinking, who the fuck has Lidl frozen peas in a gaff like this? Well, next thing I know, the bag of peas splits open, and the bags of fucking Charlie are plopping down into the pool of bodily fluids forming in the lap of his joggers, like fucking croutons into tomato soup, splashing my fuckin uniform. Well, that was the final fucking straw, so we nicked both the cunts for possession. Nice fella that Delbert, makes a good Americano, and his bit’s well easy on the eye, but the rules is the rules, guv, and without rules, it’d be fucking anarchy. Right, sarge, right.
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