Thursdays With Uncle Boom #27

I winked at my good friend Lindsay Benrith over the bonnet of my car, Old Bessie. Lindsay was a fine fellow despite having a girls name and a face like dried out farts.

We had entered as a team into the Trempe La Course Des Chats which was hosted in our little town this year. It was a race for gentlemen and their cars. A 500 mile course through local streets and the surrounding hills. We were all very excited.

There were a few familiar faces with their cars on the starting grid. I nodded jovially to those that I knew and threw out the odd hello.

Lindsay passed me back my hip flask and I took a grateful swig whilst we waited for the signal to start. The flask contained a special distillation of whisky I had received from a friend. He called it Mad Agnes. The fumes of it made my legs twitch like I was receiving a hand shandy from a fisherman.

Shall we win this blighter today Lindsay?

I said with a confident puff on my pipe.

Lindsay grinned back at me and he tugged his driving goggles over his eyes.

Of course we will old chap. Let's show these cock sniffers what a winner looks like!

I gave a little chortle. He was a very colourful fellow was Lindsay. I think it came from all that time in the Army killing poor people in other countries.

I could see up ahead one of the race marshals heading toward the start line with his big flag. Almost time to start then. We took turns at the hip flask again. I winced after my swig. If only they had had Mad Agnes during the hundred years war, it would only have lasted ten minutes.

Gentlemen! I do hope you can put up a good fight today!

I whipped my head round. Who the blazes was this? In a childish looking vehicle to our left was a red-faced fellow. He had a simpletons smile. As if it was his turn at the wet nurses udder.

I nodded and raised a hand at the buffoon and got into our car.

Who the bloody hell is that?

I interrogated Lindsay as soon as the doors were closed.

Isn't he that fellow that owns the butchers? Ramsay something or other?

I coughed like I was trying to hawk up a fine pair of bulls testicles.

Ah bloody what? A boo-chur? A boot-chor? A meat man? A bloody bacon slicer? Racing with gentlemen in the Trempe La Course Des Chats??

I could complain no further as I saw the race marshal raise the flag and then lower it with a flourish. We were off.

I quickly gulped some more Mad Agnes and walloped the gas pedal down. In no time at all, a combination of derring do and Mad Agnes had pushed us into the lead. We drove at a sedate 120 miles per hour until we left the town behind and then opened up Old Bessie and let her have her head on the country roads.

We stopped after a couple of hours, Lindsay was complaining that he had filled his pish bottle to the brim and now he needed a shit. He squatted behind a bush groaning and occasionally shouting for his mother as he birthed some brown monstrosity from his vulvanus.

I puffed contentedly on my pipe and drained the dregs of my hip flask. Luckily I had several more bottles of Mad Agnes in the car. I felt quite pleasantly squiffy and sighed with contentment. Truly there was no better way to drive than with a lit pipe and a bellyful of hooch.

I heard a buzzing noise and waved in annoyance around my head. Bloody wasps. It got louder, then louder still.

What the bloody McFuck?

The butcher's car hove into view and rapidly approached before pulling up. The fellow inside got out and stretched his legs.

Hello mateys. Stopped for a smoke have we?

I gave him the narrow eye. What is the world coming to when a peon thinks he can just waltz up to his betters for a chat? Next thing you know he will be wanting to get his beef duster out.

Yes, one mustn't hare through life without stopping for a shit now and then.

At that moment Lindsay lurched up from behind the bush buttoning up his trousers.

What's all this then. Ah, the butcher! Is it time to compare our sausages??

Lindsay looked rather keen. I hoped that he was joking. After all, there had been no rum consumed as of yet.

The butcher's face lit up.

Ah, sausages did you say? I do not know if you know this dear sirs but I am a butcher. The finest in town!

I gave a wry smile and eyed him up and down.

Butcher eh, I have been known for a bit of butchery myself.

I couldn't help chuckle.

Ah, a brother in arms! Well, if you don't mind me being so forward you simply must stop by the shop and try some of my unique London Sausage?

I looked at Lindsay and then looked at the butcher, my face like thunder.

Dear fellow, are you suggesting that one of us comes to your shop and sucks you off? Are you mad?

No! No milords! I would never dare suggest for a moment that I was worthy of such a thing. No, I simply meant my new Sausage. Made from 100% bulls cocks. I call it the London Sausage. You know, after the cockneys.

Lindsay started laughing. Truth be told I felt a twitch at the side of my mouth. I started laughing too.

You named your sausage made of cocks after the cockney folk of London?

I guffawed.

The butcher laughed too.

Yes. And you know they really are the finest sausages you will ever put in your mouth.

Lindsay's laughter hooted even louder.

I reached into my car and then walked up to the Butcher, stopping in front of him.

My dear fellow... Your cheeky cock sausage has done you a great service today...

I thrust my hand forward at him.

His eyes snapped open and slowly he looked down at the bottle in my hand.

Drink!

I shouted exuberantly.

The Butcher fellow took a cautious swig. His eyes widened as he fought the urge to cough.

I patted him on the back.

It's good eh. Keep the bottle! Send me round a dozen of your London Sausages later in the week. Now, lets get back to the racing!

We all got back in our respective cars. The butcher waved his bottle of Mad Agnes at us before taking a swig and accelerating off. I nodded at Lindsay.

Shall we, old fellow?

Yes, of course. You were awfully decent to that peasant butcher, old chap. Giving him a bottle of the Mad Agnes and all that, it was lovely to see!

I smiled at this.

Yes, yes it was. I know you won't be telling anyone though, eh old fellow? After all, we both know,