The Greasy Spoon - 12th March 2026
Joe and Bob discuss weddings, Cyprus, army service and flatulence
—I’ve got a right bloody cob on, Bob.
—Why? What’s up, mate?
—Dunno. You know when you’re just pissed off?
—Ah yeah.
—Hey up, did I tell ya?
—Er, go on.
—Our Gracie, she’s getting wed.
—Wha?
—Yeah.
—Bloody ’ell, Bob. When did that come about?
—They’ve been planning it a while.
—Bugger. That’s gonna cost ya.
—Fucking skint, mate, but it don’t matter.
—’Ow come?
—There’s gonna be no wedding.
—Er, wha? ’Ow does that work?
—Well, there will be, but not ’ere.
—Ah, they going away to do it then?
—Yeah. Cyprus.
—Fucking ’ell. That’s a bit of a jaunt.
—It is an’ all. Still, not to worry.
—Eh? ’Ow come?
—I ain’t going.
—Ah, now—
—Mate, I’ll be fucked if I’m spending tha’ kinda money.
—It is a bit yampy getting wed over there. Is it even legal?
—That’s what I said. But they’re using some company that sorts all tha’ out.
—Jeez. That’ll be costing.
—Yeah. More money than sense, the pair of ’em.
—Well, there’s one thing, Bob.
—Oh yeah?
—Yeah, they won’t ’ave to spend a fortune on clothes an’ tha’.
—Ah, wait. He’s ’ad a new suit. And she’s buying a dress.
—Well, fuck that. I’d ’ave got wed in shorts and flip‑flops.
—An’ me.
—Whereabouts are they going in Cyprus?
—Paphos.
—Get away.
—Why?
—I went there back when I was in the army.
—Did ya?
—Yeah. Nineteen‑eighty‑seven, I think it was.
—Nice place?
—Fuck knows. I was pissed or asleep. Sometimes both. I was there on leave.
—Ha. Good beaches?
—Yeah. I remember goin’ snorkelling. Me mate was still pissed.
—What ’appened?
—He kept thinking he was sinking.
—Eh? ’Ow come?
—I ’ad me feet up on his back.
—Hahahaha!
—Oh, ’old up…
—S’up?
—I need to fart.
—Nip to the John.
—Yeah, I will.
—Get a couple o’ fresh brews on your way past.
PFFFFTTTTTT!
—Balls. Too late.
—Tha’ better not smell.
—Nah. Wind. That bloke behind us ’as got a new hairstyle now.
—Right, time for another one?
—Yep. ’Ave a waft on yer way past. Just in case.