October 29, 2017 by Jason Phillips
Any idea what that means? Well, its cockney rhyming slang. – Cobbler’s Awls? Balls.
But why not say Bollocks. Go on say it out loud. Nice and Loud. I just did. Forget who’s in the room, just do it. and don’t explain yourself:
Ahhhh, feels good that.
(not actually a swear word see Virgin court case 1977)
I went to the cobblers yesterday, I asked the woman to google the saying A Load Of Old Cobblers and there we have it. Shortly afterwards my good old buddy Norman turned up at my stall . All smooth for a while, I was making him a coffee. He turned to my friend on the next stall, Olive, asking if she would have made him a coffee. She cheekily said no, and Norm turned to her with venom and called her a ‘little fuckin slag’.
I confiscated his cuppa and told him to apologise. I said I’m fucking serious. He said this is how you Cliff a girl. This is what you do. She will love me forever now. I don’t give a fuck I said, this is no way to talk to someone I know and like. He said you lost your Rawness. I said I’m rawer than you, you big pussy. Im red fuckin’ raw, and i don’t need to pick on young girls. Now apologise. He wouldn’t. He bought himself a coffee and came back and was silent. I could see the rage building up inside him.
I locked up the shop as I had to go and meet my lodgers for the boxing tonight. He started telling me I had chosen her over him, and that I wasn’t loyal, unlike him. He raised his arms in the air and made himself as big as he could and began to spit about how Loyal he was, and how could I possibly treat him that way. And who was I to pass judgement. I said I can judge whatever I please. And that it wasn’t even the first time i had seen him do this type of thing.
He said you can’t be trusted. You change sides to impress the girl. He was following me down the isle shouting behind me and spitting about how loyal he is to friends. He was asking passersby to confirm how loyal he was. He was saying You know me innit. And high fiving his fans. I turned around and said I don’t give a fuck. FUCK OFF. Everyone in the market was looking at us. And some guy was filming us. He wouldn’t stop following me. So I punched him in the chest and told him to fuck off.
You gonna have to hit me harder than that he said.
LEAVE ME ALONE I shouted at the top of my lungs.
He finally stopped following me. I was shaking as I left the market and headed back to my flat.
But I felt ok. I stand by my judgement of him. Fuck that shit. I’m not being associated, being a friend of, or OKing that fucking bullshit behaviour from any fucker. I refused to make him a coffee because of the way he spoke to a girl I know. He then accused me of Disloyalty. You want me to back you up? Then act with some dignity.
I had to let in my tenants. So it was a good job i shook off the shrieking maniac. I was stood outside McDonalds, on the phone to Jake, and he was saying I’m here too, I can’t see you. I then noticed the lanky Londoner, with greased back hair and satellite lug-holes, he was peering right over me, ‘Down Here’ I exclaimed, he slowly lowered his head. Yeh, Short and Hairy I repeated. I shook hands with him and his dad and led them into the flat and showed them about and left them with a key.
His dad was a wiry short guy with a wrinkly bespectacled rat face, and a tiny smile with a fag stuck in it. He wore a round beer belly which his BHS grey jumper gathered upon. A yellowing vest perfectly outlined the tremendous bulge below the bhs ruffle.
I said they were very lucky to get a room next to the stadium at such short notice. I told them I had had a few enquiries, all of which looked a bit mental, possibly Millwall fans for today’s game, one a group of four boys who in their profile pic were all clenching steins of lager and snarling. I was glad I had held out and waited, a father and son. What could possibly go wrong?
I was on the floor in my room as I had put my bed in the other room for my guests. Sleeping bag on the floor for the night. I finished up my Art of Voluntary Poverty book. A classic, not that my poverty was voluntary, i was just shit at adulting. But i could pretend, alright? I laid down for a while, i put on my new Hans Zimmer’s Masterclass. I drifted off to Hans talking bollocks, subject hopping and name dropping and telling NOTHiNG of his craft.
I woke up feeling pretty lonely. I had no one to go to the boxing with (maybe cause I’m a judgemental prick?) but I fancied a look. I wrapped up in my waterproof and scarf.
I headed over to my mate Kev’s burger van that I had been helping renovate during the last week. It was looking good. He made me a cheeseburger and we had a chat. He had accidentally driven it with the serving hatch open and, if it wasn’t for a passing man with his dog, frantically waving, he may have clunked a lamp post and totalled it. He then got to the location, and reversed the fucker into a bollard and took the back lights out. He was there with a couple of freaky looking staff who looked like he had found on a street corner, smoking rollies, and dripping sweat from their eye bags into the sizzling meat.
I was walking to the main Gate to try and find a ticket. One girl said gimme a piggy back for a tenner. I said I’ll do it for free, hop on. I put my arms out and lowered my self, bending my knees. She didn’t look impressed, her mates were laughing. She put her bright red taloned podgy finger in my messy dirty hair, looked deep into my eyes and said, ‘Babe, I’d Love to Shit in Your Nest.’ The girls were laughing. ‘Worra a fackin mess!’ she shouted.
We laughed, I walked on. One of her mates latched onto my arm and said I love your teeth. Yours are better I said, they were pearly and perfect set off by a slight pursed pair of beautiful pink lips. We walked together laughing, calling ourselves the Colgate Kids. Weird sexy girl from Bridgend, with legs right up to her neck. We turned round and realised we had lost her friends. She was panicking so I walked her back and joined her back with them. I wish I had spent more time with them, but I was stopped by a tout and bartered for a ticket, for the big match.
£20 was my budget and I wanted the best seat I could get. He had a £60 seat and wouldn’t go lower than 25. I hung around, managing to finally get a £100 ticket for £25 and I was in. On the floor not too far away from the ring. The crowd were lively. I found my row and took a seat, there were a good few empty seats in my row and I sat down and took in the atmosphere.
The stadium was rammed. I heard a kerfuffle behind me and everyone had stopped watching the warm up boxing and were know watching two drunk Punjabi guys smashing the fuck out of each other in the row behind me. Several hairy security guards got them in head locks and dragged them out.
The couple in front of me were arguing. I asked you a Question you cunt! Screamed a large cartoon of a woman, pushing her blinking vacant head into the guy’s face. Even more vacant, he either was thinking nothing at all or was just stumped for an answer to her question. The guy wandered off, I don’t think he knew where to. She then swung her pastey corn beef like leg into the air, right over the back of her seat and planted it right next to me. Then leant over gripping onto me, and easing the rest of her heavy load into me and spilling her pint over me. She then said excuse me, and shuffled past and down the row. Where as her row was empty, she now had to pass several people. Maybe she just wanted to flash her bits to the gaggle of hairy Punjabi men, or maybe she was just plain stupefied from pouring cider into her hole all day. At the end of my isle a long girl with a beer belly and bare feet was arched over looking a bit ill, her head right between her legs. Her puke covered hair hung long and lank. From with in it, a line of dribble stretched down and collected on the cracked screen of the illuminated iphone she was clutching. She looked like a cross between The Ring and that weird long thing, Alice the Goon, from Popeye. The large angry girl spun the Ring girl around by her leg, she didn’t budge aside from swinging around like a turnstile, the big lady squeezed herself free.
Anthony Joshua made his big entrance and the crowd were pumped up. Everyone stood up onto their foldable chairs, fist pumping the air. A fat Punjabi guy’s chair flipped closed with a snap, and his legs were jammed tight together in the gap behind. He was yelping and his mates were trying to pull him out. Then another snap, another chubby person a few rows in front had stood too far back on the seat causing it to flip closed and sending them to the floor, trapping their legs between the closed seat and its back too. And snap! Another. It was like the mole game as you spotted all the rounder people suddenly sinking and then yelping and panicking. Next to me the The Ring girl with the iphone had been joined by another identical Ring girl and somehow both of them were balancing stood up on the foldable chairs, completely out of their minds on alcohol, i think, without shoes, and dribbling over themselves. There was nothing going on. In an absolute mess. Anything could have happened to them. I asked if they were ok, one of them turned to me, with blank eyes, and looked up as if I had suddenly appeared, she looked so sad and lost. Hmmmmmmmm? She said. I turned back to the action and Snap! The 1st Ring girl was trapped in her seat gap. Hardly making a noise she put her hands in the air to cheer, she was completely devoid of any sense at all.
The big cider swigging lady came back and ignored her row, tears were flowing down her face, as she squeezed past me again and tried to jump over her seat back into her row. She got stuck this time, just straddled over the seats, slumped, crying, spilling cider down her cleavage.
COME ON JOSHUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAA bellowed her gargantuan friend. Her boyfriend had returned also, he still looked lost. He turned around and looked beyond me into the stadium stands, tapped the girl with the foghorn voice, pointed and said look, that’s all people up there. His Mrs was still straddled wiping her tears away. A big Punjabi guy with a healthy beard, who stood next to me, help push her into her own row. The genius who had just noticed the other people in the stadium then turned to his sobbing girl and said, Babe, we are stood on the rugby pitch. This guy was really having some breakthroughs here.
Ding Ding round1! Very slow start. I thought the opponent looked tiny, and that this wasn’t going to last long. From the stands up and around us bellowed that modern chant, the Welsh have adopted:
Doooooon’t Take me Home
PLEASE don’t take me home!
I just don’t wanna go ta work,
I wanna stay here,
And drink loads of beer,
Please don’t, please don’t take me home!
(repeat 153 times)
I feel like a cunt in laughing at these people, coming over all holier than thou, but there genuinely didn’t seem like a collective brain cell in the entire stadium, expect mine of course, I’m amazing, (twat) maybe being sober made me think I was better than everyone else, but jesus, seriously. What was that series, ‘Nathan Barley’ possibly? Charlie Brooker’s RISE OF THE IDIOTS? But this was another level, this was Rise of the Pond life. Zombies, who’s rally cry was DONT TAKE ME BACK TO MY LIFE LET ME DRiNK MYSELF INTO A STUPOUR AND GET TRAPPED IN A CHAIR DRIBBLING INTO MY OWN TITS.
Ding ding. Round 2. 3 4 5 6/ boring. The most entertaining thing was the Punjabi guy next to me who had now taken to screaming abuse at Joshua. ‘Embarrassing!’ ‘Fookin Hit Him you Pussy hole!’ ‘Come on you tit’ ‘Fookin knock him out ya fooker’ ‘ya mams embarrassed go home ya fookin pussy!’
Joshua had looked strong, but then Takam started bouncing back. The beer bellied Ring girl was still trapped in her seat and whooping at nothing. She caught a glimpse of some punches on the big screen and mumbled, ‘oooh, I really don’t like it.’ She had spunked a hundred quid on a ticket before working out she didn’t actually like boxing.
Takam wasn’t tiring, he was up for it. He started attacking and giving Joshua a bit of jip. He seemed stronger and his packed frame flung out tight strong punches, now finding the much larger Joshua and planting a fair few. I was sure he could nail Joshua, or at least go the full 12 rounds. No real big punches were coming. Into the tenth round and Takam was looking good. Joshua then let forth a flurry of his best punches in a row and the ref got Takam in a head lock and called off the fight. Over. The crowd booed. Takam had his hands in the air as if to say what the fuck! People were not happy. Joshua even looked a bit embarrassed. In the after fight speeches, Josh actually got a boo. Not strictly Joshuas fault, the ref should have got a slap for ruining Takam’s chances, but if he had won, that would have killed all these sell out stadium shows Joshua was attracting.
Takam said I respect Joshua, he is the world champion, and I respect the referees decision, but I want a rematch.
I got back to the pad, and stripped off and laid on the floor listening to Hans Zimmer further confuse himself. People talking about their craft- it’s an odd one, I’m not sure they are the best person to ask. It’s like they don’t quite know how they do what they do. Geniuses in execution, for sure, but trying to put it into words? How do you distill decades of work and experimenting into an hour chat. These masterclasses I had managed to nick off the internet were very expensive. I was so glad I didn’t pay for a mumbling mess of ideas from a confused old man in a chair. I wondered if he were to be secretly filmed hard at work, in the zone, would this be of more value as a masterclass?
I thought back to that experiment in some art class I had heard about. The class was divided into two groups, one told they would be marked on quantity and the other quality, at the end of the term. One group studied and studied and tried to learn and compose the ultimate piece to submit. The other just kept churning it out, aiming for the most they could possibly finish in order to get their grades. At the end, the quantity group also produced the better quality work.
Should we study the process and engage our pre-frontal cortex in the how and why? Or should we just get on with it. Get the work done.
I was drifting off into reverie when I heard, what sounded like, someone dragging a body up the stairs. I chucked my clothes on and went to investigate. The father with the belly was stood in the front door filming something on the stairs. It was his own son Jake, draped over the top step absolutely paralytic. He was smiling but his body wasn’t working, occasionally squealing in what seemed to be a numbed happiness. His dad was saying, wait till your mum sees this and sniggering like a rat. He dragged his large son into the flat almost standing him up but he fell back down, his legs in the air and then rolled around on the passage floor. He crawled into his room and jumped upon the bed. Then rolled off it. Smashing the table over. Wooop woooop! he bellowed. He looked deranged, happy and was completely out of control. I thought about the window. He wouldn’t would he? In this state, maybe. A four storey drop and a lump of cockney bollock for the road sweepers to peel off the pavement. The dad and son then decided to box each other. Dad looking upright, the son doing rolly pollys and shouting and falling and hitting his head repeatedly. I put a pint of water next to him and said see you in the morning.
I went back to my room, thinking fuck this. Never again! I was just dozing off when their door slammed open and Jake came tumbling into the passage. He went into the kitchen slammed load of doors open and was mumbling to himself. He then tried to get in my room, luckily i had fitted a new lock the night before. And then he fell into the bathroom where I could hear him retching into the toilet. It went quiet for a minute and I went in the kitchen to see what the fuck they had done. He had pulled out my eggs and some other things, opened all the doors, and got some chilli sauce out. Like he was planning to cook. I packed it all back away. There was more screaming, and whooping. They were having the night of their lives. I lay back in my sleeping bag just hoping it would stop.
It slowly quietened down. I went to the toilet. Sat down. My arse got drenched in these idiot’s piss. I cleaned myself off and back to my sleeping bag. I picked up The Boswell Diaries off my shelf and snoozed off to the diary of a man 350 years ago drifting about in London.
Then i heard a voice. ‘Jaaaake.’ Whispering and a tap. Knock knock. ‘JAKE!’ Then spoken ‘FUCKSAKE’. Dad began banging and kicking the shit out of the door trying to wake his now comatosed son. It weren’t happening. He was locked out for the night. I got dressed and luckily managed to locate a spare key to their room. At this point the Dad was shouting his head off, ‘Wake up you little cunt!’ Kicking the door in. I went and opened the door and spotted a snoring Jake, thank fuck.
I said goodnight. Turned off all the lights and went to bed. The clocks went back, which now meant I would have to endure another hour of this. But all was quiet in the dead of night. I drifted off into a deep sleep.
I woke at 6am and began to write this shit.
What a load of ol’ cobblers