Content feed Comments Feed

“Well of course you’re losing,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “Why do you insist on wearing those clownish clothes even when you’re doing sport?”

“There’s nothing clownish about them,” spat William Shakespeare, turning to pick up the volleyball once again.

“You’ve got no freedom of movement,” countered Ellis-Bextor. “Look at everyone else. Look what they’re wearing.”

Shakespeare glanced around him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You just want to strip me of all my sexuality, that’s what you want.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare pointed at a group of 20-something men kicking a ball about nearby. They were all wearing tight swimming costumes, sunglasses and nothing else. “You want me to wear safe, sexless clothing like that,” said Shakespeare. “I’m standing here in a stunning padded doublet and you hate the fact that women are eyeing me up.”

“Trust me, no-one’s eyeing you up,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“No-one?” asked the bard, rhetorically. “No-one? What about that group of girls over there?”

“They’re boys.”

“Or that smartly dressed young lady over there?”

“That’s Martin Rossiter from Gene.”

Shakespeare squinted at the figure who was partly silhouetted as a result of the late afternoon sun. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is Martin Rossiter from Gene, the twat. I see you don’t have any problem with him wearing sexy attire?”

“He’s wearing a blazer,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor incredulously.

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “Put a nice broad pair of paned hose underneath in place of those ridiculous narrow trousers and he wouldn’t look half bad.”

“Hello,” said Martin Rossiter genially.

“Fuck off, you little prick,” screamed Shakespeare.


Get each week's story sent straight to your inbox - subscribe to the Weak Holidays email
Posted by Alex On October - 4 - 2011

Leave a Reply

About Us

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