The Greasy Spoon - 14th March 2026

Bob and Joe plan a way to beat the queue and discuss Bob's piles

—Alright, mate? 

—Yeah, Joe. You? 

—Not really. 

—Why’s that? 

—Well, City lost. That didn’t help. 

—Ah yeah. Southampton. Two‑one. Bugger. 

—The rugger’s on right now. 

—I can’t watch it. 

—Nor me. Good job we’re ’ere, eh? 

—Yeah. Fucking cold today, innit? 

—Brass ones, mate. 

—We eating? 

—Nah, coffee’ll do for now. 

—Ah, fuck it. 

—S’up? Oh, yeah. 

—Lazy‑arse is on. We’ll ’ave to get ’em. 

—I ’ate queueing. I got us two each. 

—Up there fer thinking. 

—Down there fer dancing. 

—Fuck me, I can see why you never went to nightclubs. 

—Wha? I’ve got moves, me. 

—Oh aye. Like a constipated penguin. 

—Fuck off, ya cheeky bugger. 

—Sit down an’ drink yer brew. They’ll be going cold. 

—Blimey, mate, bit grim. Did ya see that wheelie bin story? 

—Oh aye, I did. In Cash’s Park, righ’? What the hell? 

—Hit‑and‑run. Then chuck the victim in the bin? What the fuck’s the world coming to? 

—Brutal. What kind o’ twat d’you ’av to be to even think o’ doing tha’? An’ the fucker used a green‑lid bin. An’ he was a young fella. Well, younger than us anyway. 

—Dunno, mate. Is yer brew still warm? 

—Just about. 

—I’ll ask for a couple o’ saucers. 

—Wha for? 

—Stick ’em on top o’ the spare brews. I do it at ’ome sometimes. 

—Does tha’ work? 

—Yeah. Sort of. ’Ay up. 

—Wha? 

—’Ere’s them old dears. Giving us the evil eye. 

—We’re sitting at their table. They can bugger off. 

—’Ere, Bob? D’yer think we’re about to get another story about ’er piles? 

—Bugger, I ’ope not. Mind you… 

—Wha? 

—Don’t say nothing. But I’ve got ’em. 

—Bloody ’ell, Bob. ’Av yer? 

—Yeah. Bunch o’ bloody grapes hanging out me arse. 

—Urgh. Mate. Go easy on the details. 

—Sorry, mate. I’m using them suppositories. Shaped like bullets, they are. Which is just as well, when you think about what you have— 

—NO. 

—Wha? 

—I don’t need a detailed fucking description, thanks. 

—Ah yeah. Sorry. Bit gross. Mind you, I’ve got one o’ them ring cushions. That makes life— 

—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, mate. 

—Wha? 

—“Ring cushion”. I know, childish, righ’? But fuck me, that caught me funny bone. 

—Haha. Yeah, I see why. 

—Fuck it. This brew’s gone cold. 

—Should ’ave got them saucers.