Thursday 5 February 2009

Nightmare III This time it's impersonal.

Sir Fitzurak McGrok and Sir McUrak Fitzgrok are relaxing in their club after a long morning making phone calls.
The Cuban cigar smoke around their two leather armchairs almost obscures the men in grey suits, quietly whispering all around them.

"More Hors d'age?"

Says Sir Fitz, prodding a crystal decanter at the red nose of Sir "Mick" as he is affectionately known by his employees to his face.

"Is the pope a Na-err-yes thankyou."

There is a loud crash from the cheap seats outside the inner sanctum.
A man is attempting to rise from a tangle of furniture but keeps falling on an elderly lady.
"Just that oik Cumnock again."
Says Sir Mick rummaging in a large briefcase.
Sir Fitz opens the humidor on the small table between them, and takes out a Montecristo.
Sir Mick takes a paper out of the the briefcase twists it and lights it in the fire.
"Only six thousand nine hundred and ninety nine to go."
He quips, lighting the cigar.

"I'm starving, do you fancy the spatchcock?"


  1. Brilliant, Conan - it did not take our gentlemen long to advance from swinging a club in North Britain with a packet of five Woodbine to smoking a Castro in a swinging club in London. Was the Cumnock chappie the cabaret or the cabinet? I can't wait to find out!

  2. Hey Conan! I found your blog by accident and I think it is great! I hope you don't mind me reading and looking at your posts. Great Job!

  3. As we say in Scotland, Nae Probs Josh.