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Eating at Waterside Restaurant in Barbados

Posted by Alex On October - 18 - 2011

Sophie Ellis-Bextor sipped her wine and admired her surroundings. If the food was as good as the ambience, this meal was going to be even better than that lost vocal she’d done for Murder on the Dancefloor.

At that moment, a shabby figure in large sunglasses shambled into view. The man bounced off a table and made towards her. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“Fucking Bextor,” said Witter.

“It’s Ellis-Bextor, actually. How are you, Richard?”

“I’m fucking not bad at all, Bextor. Not bad at all. Had a bit of a run-in with some fucking shitbag this afternoon, but other than that all’s fucking banging.”

“What happened?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “Was it one of those awful beach bums?”

“Aye, yeah,” said Witter. He sniffed forcefully and looked around. “It was this fucking book-weirdo. Started getting all up in my face and shit.”

“What, for just no reason?” spluttered Ellis-Bextor, outraged.

“Yeah, just no fucking reason. Look what he did to me eye.” Witter removed his sunglasses, revealing a giant, tender looking bruise.

“Golly,” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s terrible.”

“Oh that ain’t bad,” said Witter. “Not compared to the other place that he got me. He came off worse though and no mistake. He won’t be fucking with me again. You should see the state of him.”

“I hope you weren’t too brutal with him, Richard. Where else did he get you?”

Witter looked shifty. “Well, it was, er… He kind of… Did you see how I was walking before?”

“Yes,” said Ellis-Bextor. “You were most unstable.”

“Yeah, he kind of got me…” Witter trailed off, but his hands involuntarily moved to protect his genitals.

“Richard! He didn’t!” Ellis-Bextor’s hands shot to her mouth.

It was at this moment that William Shakespeare reappeared having been to the toilet. He was approaching from behind Witter and from his vantage point, all he could see was a gasping Ellis-Bextor, eyes trained on the Shed 7 frontman’s groin.

“This better not be what I think it is,” said Shakespeare.

Witter whirled round. “You!” he cried, cowering slightly, before the conspicuously unscathed playwright.

“First Chris Rea and now this cunt,” said the bard, addressing Ellis-Bextor.

“It’s not what you think,” cried the whey-faced popstrel.

“Perhaps I should have beaten you with greater ferocity,” said Shakespeare to Witter.

“There was sufficient ferocity,” pleaded Witter.

“I’ll give you sufficient ferocity,” replied Shakespeare.

“No!” screamed Ellis-Bextor.

“Yes,” drawled Shakespeare, unfastening the belt that was pinching in his doublet.

Reading on the beach at the Sandy Lane resort in Barbados

Posted by Alex On October - 11 - 2011

William Shakespeare looked up from his book in order to take in the spectacular sea view before him. He inhaled deeply and focused on just how relaxed he was feeling. His body and mind felt refreshed and alive. He tried to capture the sensation such that he might draw on it again at a later date somehow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure moving towards him across the golden sands, striding along as if he owned the fucking place. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“All right, mate,” said Rick Witter.

Shakespeare looked up at him from his sun lounger, but didn’t say a word.

“Do you like that, mate – reading?”

“I do, actually,” responded Shakespeare pompously.

“Does it relax you?” asked Witter and then without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I’ve never done that. I’ve never read a book. Don’t see the point.”

Shakespeare regarded the wiry frontman with contempt and again opted not to speak.

“What you reading anyway,” said Witter. “Some fucking storybook, is it? Is it Little Red Riding Hood or summat?”

Shakespeare closed the book and pointed the cover towards Witter. “It’s The World According To Clarkson, by Clarkson.”

“Clarkson?” said Witter. “That car guy with the shit hair?”

“The very same.”

“What you reading that for?”

“I hardly think I’ll be able to detail Clarkson’s many fine qualities as a writer to someone who seems so proud of never having read a book.”

“Try,” instructed Witter aggressively.

“Try this,” replied Shakespeare, raising his middle finger and thrusting it in the singer’s face.

“Not too shabby,” said Toadfish Rebecchi.

“I’m sure it impresses the likes of you,” replied William Shakespeare.

“Now come on,” pleaded Toadfish. “Don’t be like that. Let’s just try and have a nice holiday.”

“You’re a fat fuck,” said Shakespeare blankly and irrelevantly.

“What? Where did that come from?” Toadfish was genuinely taken aback.

“It came from looking you up and down and seeing you for what you are: a fat fucking fuck.” Shakespeare turned away from Toadfish and strode off.

“Come back, you poncy little shit,” said Toadfish. “Come back and apologise.”

Shakespeare turned towards Toadfish, folded his arms and closed his eyes. The stance, when combined with his jerkin and sheer linen collar made him look decidedly pompous. “I shall do no such thing. It was an honest and accurate assessment.”

“Whatever my weight, you can’t call me ‘a fuck’. That’s not accurate.”

Shakespeare retained his posture. It was like he was looking down his nose at Toadfish through his eyelids.

The Aussie lawyer lost his temper. “Look at you,” he said. “With your gay-arsed clothes and your pube-like facial hair, who do you think you are.”

Shakespeare remained impassive, so Toadfish continued. “Most men who slap back, like you have, acknowledge the fact. Any chance of a decent haircut? It’s like you’ve robbed a lesbian trainspotter’s wig and applied it to the wrong part of your head.”

Still nothing from Shakespeare.

“Fine,” said Toadfish. “Stay mute. See if I give a shit. It’s better than listening to you screaming at the staff, like you usually do.”

Perhaps feeling he had triumphed, Shakespeare allowed a smirk to creep across his face.

Toadfish turned to walk away and started muttering to himself as he did so: “Dickhead. She’d be better off with Chris Rea.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” screamed Shakespeare at the top of his voice.

About Us

A man who has no interest in writing about Toadfish Rebecchi, largely because his surname is annoying to spell.