a proper pint

Finzlebogs and Tea (The Mancunian Manipulation of '18), The Old Man Chronicles Pt 11


“Gahh! How’d you get in here?”


“Cardiff? What about Cardiff?”

“What are…what are you…what are you DOING?! Don’t ENCOURAGE him!”

“I’m bored. I wanna hear this.”

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god! Put me in my wheelchair! Let me outta here!”

“Tell me about Cardiff.”

“Aggghh! Noooo!”

“Twasn’t Cardiff as much as twer the aliens what were there.”

“Aliens.. in Cardiff? Like, uh, Albanian nannies on limited work visas?”

“Are yer daft or jes funnin’ me?”


“Yer don’t be lookin’ ignorant. Not like yer mate there a poundin’ his head agin tha door. Them there trans-dimensional polymorphic infiltrators what oh so blatantly seized monopolistic control o'er the infant, toddlers and small dog clothing market fer most alla Wales and Northumbria back in ‘18.”

“Back in ‘18? I don’t, uh, don’t recall hearing anything about that.”

“Course'n yer didn’t. The fake media instituted by that fake president fer the sole purpose of distractin’ from his obvious insanity weren’t bouts to mention it. Even tho, unlike mosta what he did, tweren’t no Russians involved. No sir. Twas the Mancunians.”

“The what?”

“Mancunians! Ya daft boondle stick! Those as from Manchester!”

“New Hampshire?”

“What? Ya daft bloody twat! New Hampshire? England! England! Land of bangers and mash and a proper pint!”

“The Land of Engs? That in China? I knew an Eng. Eng Foo Li. She made wonderful gazpacho.”

“Yer a great bloody… gazpacho? Ooh. Nice. Ach! Yer dilatin’ my attention! Twas a Mancunian spawned plot it twas. Outta some sense of depravity and desperation onna part of Wayne Rooney and some lorry driver fella what worked at the Manchester Airport. They had some sorta deep seated resentment agin the Welsh. Mebbe on account of Tom Jones.”

“Wayne who and Tom what?”

“Now this lorry driver fella, he weren’t no fan of United mind yer, but Rooney he provided the funding ya see. Purchased two Scanias that as were specifically and especially modified so as to be able to open a wormhole near the customs hold area fer freight. Aye, a wormhole to a terrible place. Aye, a right nightmarish hell. What, ta tha untrained eye, resembles Chelsea, but taint!”

“Chelsea Bronstein?”

“Oh, an tha things what came through from that infernal place! Right horrific eldritch abominations they were! Like the illicit love spawn of Gordon Brown and Margaret Thatcher! Made one’s soul bleed ta even consider their countenance! Can yer imagine! Can yer pictures it?”

“No ”

“Tis fortunate yer be then. Well Rooney and this lorry driver fella, they broughts through several hundred of em. Sent em all via rail to Bristol, whereupon they boarded coaches fer Cardiff. Ah, that mussa been a horror to be a coach driver on that run. Like taking part inna tha Dark Lord’s Wild Hunt.”

“Did they get a package discount for the group?”

“Well of course they did! Them as were aliens, not idiots.”

“Okay okay. Relax. So, wait. Are they still around?”

“Well, that lorry feller moved to Glasgow. Or were it Cherbourg? Barcelona?”

“No! The aliens! Barcelona? That’s nowhere near Glasgow.”

“What? Aliens? Oh cor! Course'n they’re still around. Cept'n not in Cardiff. No, once they cornered the market in wee fashions they sold to a group of venture capitalists from Zhengzhou. Made a lovely bit of profit they did. Then they moved to Tuscany an opened a winery. Ahma thinking they mighta also have become minority owners in a dairy and cheese operation outta Parma.”

“Okay hang on. You never explained Cardiff yet.”

“Cor. No one can explain Cardiff. Not even the Welsh. Course'n how anyone can explain anything in a language near bereft of vowels boggles the casual intent of even the most vaguely disinterested scholars ”

“The aliens? In Cardiff?”

“What? Tis no aliens in Cardiff? Has yer ever BEEN to Cardiff? Now, Tuscany, that there’s a place an alien monstrosity could call home. Well, there or Lagos. Maybe Schenectady in the fall.”


“Did I ever tells yer about when I…”

“Yes you did.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Did I?”



“Shut up! And you! Stop laughing! I hope you gave yourself a concussion.”

“I knows a feller who can…Ouch!”

“You say another word I’m gonna tranquilize you, stuff you in a crate and ship your ass to Albuquerque.”


“Keep giggling over there. I’ll stuff you in the crate with him.”

Imagine20- Stuttered words and mumbled whispers (Harry)

“M'tired…” he mumbled into your neck as the driver started towards the hotel. You chuckled to yourself and rubbed the fringe of his hair out of his face, “That’s what happens when you think a proper meal is 6 pints of beer and think that you can still ride the bull.” He chuckle into your skin and his nose would press further into your neck, “Niall made me do it…” You’d roll your eyes knowing that that wasn’t the case, “Harry…” He pressed kisses onto your neck and occasionally flicking his tongue across the smooth skin, “Hmm?” Your words got caught in your throat and you sucked in a breath of air. “What is it?” he’d whisper and you swear you can feel him smirking against your skin. His hand was slowly rubbing circles on your thigh as he blew his hot breath that cold down as it hit your skin. “I-I…” you took in a slow and steady breath, “I think…you should sober up.” You pried his hand off of you and sat up straight, taking away the heat he was giving off. He pulled away and pouted at you before mumbling to himself about how mean you were and crossed his arms like a child. You rolled your eyes and reached over to buckle him in safely, because he was “mad” at you. When you reached over he forced his body up to place a swift kiss onto your cheek not releasing his crossed arms, “Just wanted a kiss…” Before returning to his “upset” state.