Bespoke: A charmingly rural tale

Waaalll, Oi don’t know about you, moi lovers – but the bes’ poke Oi ever ‘ad was with that tarty li’l piece, Gertie Gusset, in the Goat and Merkin Car park. Roight li’l goer, er were: Nought to seventy afore Oi’d even found that there clasp to ‘er titty hammock (as we calls ’em down yond parts)…

‘Andsome gal she were ‘an all, which made Oi wonder who ‘er dad was, loike, cos er sister, Mandy, ‘ad a face what looked best gurnin’ through a ‘orse’s collar and ‘ad to shave twice a day. Gurt ‘ideous, she were: Wouldn’a poked ‘er for all the best Sheepshaggers’ Ale in the pub.


Oi reckon ‘er mam must’a done the dirty with ol’ Dick, the rag-‘n’-bone man.  ‘E probly give her a bone of ‘is own! ‘E ‘ad a face like a slapped arse, but all the girls loved ‘im on account of ‘is moighty lunchbox. Can’t see it moiself: Don’t see where sandwiches comes into the picture at all.

Any road, some geezer down the club last night, ‘e told Oi that Oi were a country bumpkin with no more brains than a dead sheep. ‘E swears on ‘is nan’s grave that Oi’ve got wrong end of stick and that the word it do roightly be ‘bespoke’ – and it ‘as to do with trousers an’ all that, loik bein’ fitted special boi some la-di-da limp-wristed bum-bandit, Oi dare say, oo’s never ‘appier than when ‘e’s measurin’ an insoid leg. Disgustin’, Oi calls it.

Where were Oi? Oh ar, poking Gertie. But Oi won’t tell ‘ee any more ‘n that!

Ta ra!

Bottoms up!



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