It was one of those typical northern Sundays. Early doors and I was sitting in the back garden under a patio brollie crunching a freshly fried black pudding and bacon butty smothered in tomato sauce. The kitchen was still filled with fumes and ‘er indoors wasn’t too happy. The rain was coming down in stair rods bouncing of the whippets frolicking in the mud whilst the homing pigeons huddled miserably in the lee of the shed cooing softly and wondering whether it was time to find a better home. I took another crunch out of my butty releasing more sauce to drip down my chin. My glasses began to mist up. Not that it made much difference; the rose tinted lenses weren’t working today and the rain got heavier. I was suddenly roused from my reverie by Booker T and the MG’s playing Soul Limbo. It was my mobile.
“Howay, man. Yer got yer arse in gear today yet, Pet?”
It was Shazza, my sweet talking Geordie pal.
“How’s would yer like it if I took yer to a higher level of pleasure and happiness today? Make yer scream and shout, beg for more and hope it never ends? And afterwards we can gan and sink a few bottles of dog?”
I didn’t have to think for long and tossed my butty into the middle of the muddy pool that was my lawn.
“Sure, Shaz, when?”
“No time like the present, Honeyballs. Grab yer coat and meet us outside St James. I got two tickets for today’s game against Sunderland. Be a riot, Pet.”