Christmas Friday Feyt Neet Special ...

Good evening Ladies & Gentlemen … and welcome to a Christmas Friday Feyt Neet Special.
It’s a special occasion – so we’ve lined up a cracking event. After showing a ‘united front’ up to now, it seems the cracks have finally started to show … as we gather to watch two BFC Gladiators, Gord Shepherder & Rib Noodles, fight to the death.
The referee tonight will be none other than the beardy BBS God squadder – Farnham Red.

In the blue corner, weighing in at 16lb’s of slime, 4lbs of ectoplasm & 9lbs of jellied spine … wearing the snake skin shorts … The PR pussy … The Jugfaced Journo … The Tarn Tosspot – Rib ‘The Snailboy’ Noodles!!!!

Over in the red corner, weighing in at 16 stone of albino sexual power … wearing shorts fashioned from numerous writs … he’s the Chairman with white hair, man … put your hands together for The Milky Bar Flid – Gord Shepherder!!!!

Thank you for joining us this evening at the ‘Thurnscoe Happy Shopper Broken Biscuit’ Arena for what promises to be a real grudge match. There may be a 40 year age gap between the Super Red Tykes Supremo’s – but I’m sure it will be a fair fight, just like the war with Iraq.

With no further delay this evenings referee, Farnham Red, gets the fighters together and asks them if they need their last rites reading. Gord claims that he actually is God – and therefore can he have his bible back? It’s proving difficult to keep Rib in the ring, as the teflon coated grammatically inept buffoon keeps sliding across the canvas – like Barry Conlon on ice.

Ding, ding – seconds out – Round One.
Away we go then.
It’s easy to see by Gord’s face why he chose to be Chairman of a team that play in red & white.
His head looks like a barbers pole as he cries across the arena:
‘Come on Rib – I’m the boss around here, I made you what you are – without me you would be less than nothing … just like Nardiello’s contribution to the team this season’.
Rib looks ready for action. He senses hesitancy in the Santa look-a-like & lunges forward with a volley of low blows.
‘Have sum some of that, Gord’ the creepy one shouts ‘and their there is more were where that come from’,
With that – the PR weasel slinks to the ground, sneaks under a snakes belly whilst wearing a top hat and punches Gord straight in the white furry ballax.
‘Yeah – have that, Gord – my writing may not be accurate, but that rabbit punch shure sure was’.
Gord looks in trouble already & slumps to his knees.
Farnham thinks he’s praying & brings round one to a close 2 minutes early … he talks to Gord about ‘Lent’ – but he’s sure the Sterling Consortium have been paid off by now.

During the break it turns out that Gord simply had heartburn.
The blow in the nads didn’t cause any problems – as he got them blown off in World War One.
It’s always been a miracle that his Asian looking daughter & Caribbean featured son appeared by some type of immaculate conception.

The second round begins with the Retard Reporter howling at his mentor:
‘I’m going to screw you up & throw you away – just like most people did do with my ranting match reports’
Gord seems angry: ‘Boy, ahh said Boy, ahm gonna fry you like the dozen pork sausages that I had for breakfast this morning. With chips. And toast. And more chips.’ He states in a Boss Hog stylee
Gord then picks up a match programme, turns to Rib’s column … and curls out a gret big shat right in the middle of it.
Rib seems furious – the page was already full of **** before Gord cacked all over it.
‘That’s it know now – I’ve had enough of you’ … Rob then starts penning a letter (with crayons) to Paddy Cryne, basically saying that Gord has done some stuff & that Paddy should sack him.
‘It’s not there the first time I’ve done this’ Rib snarles, just like a nasty little Yorkshire Terrier who can’t spell.
Gord tears the paper from his hand, rips it to shreds, demands £10k from him … and stuffs his fake ballax (made from wolf snot) straight down Ribs throat.
Only the bell to end the second round saves Rib from certain defeat.
The White headed Warrior is jubilant … the crowd are singing ‘Get your writs out for the lads, get your writs out for the lads’.

Gord sits down for a cup of Earl Grey in the break, but the underhand Noodles has used the interval to tip toe round to Gords side of the ring & place Kevin Donovan’s contract in the happy albino’s sock.
‘Oy, Gord’ the sour Noodles roars ‘What’s that in your sports socks?’
The writmeister takes one look at it before keeling over, possibly with a massive heart attack.

Ding, ding – sounds the bell.
But what’s this? It’s not for the start of round three.
It seems Rib’s usual organisational skills have raised their heads again … he’s only booked the Arena until 7pm … and the Tongan National Rugby teams Christmas party is about to start.
They’ve not booked a meal, but it seems Snakeboy Noodles is the starter, the main course & the dessert.
Even worse news – the lube machine is broken, and is firing out grit sand instead.
Within 5 minutes Rib is being thrown about like a rag doll with big black men hanging out of every hole.

That’s it.
Farnham stops the fight.
Gord wins by TKO (Tinter Knocked Out).
Unfortunately Gord seems to have passed away peacefully in the corner … until Paolo jumps into the ring & tries to wrench his gold teeth out.
Farnham applies the myrrh & claims back the gold teeth.
Jays ‘Missus’ isn’t happy – in fact ‘Franks-incensed’.
Rib’s shat box doesn’t look ‘stable’ … groan on a stick.

… and with that – we bid farewell to Friday Feyt Neet for another year.
I hope you all have a fantastic Christmas … and that I have it off with most of your wives.
In a soup.
Au gratin.
Under mistletoe.
Sideways.

 

Brilliant

Merry Jesus' Birthday to everyone!

So, will you go to see Michael Jackson in Hobbit Land this year? You're running out of time...
Watch out for the paparazzis - probably the same ones who caught me spilling wine all over your house.

 

Nah.

Maybe next Christmas in NZ.

Aye - our lass has massive 'papparazi's' at the moment.

You have a great Christmas.
And your hair.

You wine spilling, wire wool headed freak.

 

I predict a riot

I predict a riot........

 

RE: I predict a riot

... and if there's anybody else round here,
who winges 'bout Gord after beers ...

... I predict a riot.

 

Welcome to the new quiz show

"Have I got views for you"

Where employees get a bit tipsy and slag their bosses off to a pubwide audience.

 

Superb...a welcome return.

 

Dear Dirk ...

... I wonder if your employees call you a 'fecking w4nker who everyone hates' when they've had a few pints of bitter?

Actually - yes.
They more than likely do.

I predict a writ,
I predict a writ.

Edit City.
I am Rib for the day.

 

RE: Dear Dirk ...

If they do, then they'd be correct so there's not a lot I can do about it.

But if that's how I really felt about my boss I'd look for another job. Pitiful when you think like that and remain in the job.

 

To be fair ...

... I think it's all about integrity.

Don't worry.
The employees like it nasty.
Oh aye.

 

Far from superb cocker.

But thanks anyway, you are a Gent.
And have a great Christmas.

Are you Morse?

 

RE: Far from superb cocker.

I could be Morse....or another regional detective.
I tackle vandalism in Norwich. I'm a bit of a maverick, I will travel 80mph on the motorway if I need to get somewhere.

Friday feyt neet always makes me chuckle...
Have a good Christmas/New Year pal.

 

Swallow?

That wasn't really a question.

I'm off to make bird noises.

God speed.

 

The very same...

Can't beat an obscure Partridge reference.