[Slam Daniels]

Originally Posted by Carradona Here is Real Red's story: He'd not been the same since the incident involving beans and a fry-up. That morning started with him filing for divorce just 18 hours into marriage. Some things can't be resolved; no amount of talking or compromising will ever gloss over the hard facts. And she even deliberately mixed her yolk with the bean juice. Twenty years had passed and he'd not been with anyone since. Well, nobody real. But he'd got a flat above the best shop for blow-up dolls this side of Belfast. And he got discount, so he'd used a lot: every size, shape, colour and depth; but he had his favourite. He thought it had a look of Hattie Jacques, if he squinted. Feeling rather excited from an old edition of the "Sykes" TV show he was ready for a particularly rough session of what he called "Carry on up the Feltchbasket". He'd been saving himself for weeks, his sack was like a space hopper. "There's gonna be a Tsunami tonight!" he started to shout as he grabbed 'Hattie' from the cupboard. He'd stopped himself wanking by studying the antidisestablishmentarianism movement of a bygone age. He sat her down at the dining table and lit a candle. It had become a ritual. Two plates, each with four rashers of bacon, two eggs, a couple of mushrooms, black puddings, the works. And in a side-dish, half-a-tin of Heinz's finest baked beans. He placed the two plates on the table – one for him, one for Hattie. He poured her a glass of Pomade. He poured himself a glass of Lemonade (he didn't drink). To anyone watching this was a sad 47-year-old man talking to an inflatable – and replying. But to Bobby it was reality. She was the love of his life. But he still had to test her. "Ooh, lovely," he said, in a falsetto voice, taking a sip of the Pomagne. "Can I have some more," he said, again in that falsetto voice, and quaffed the rest. "Would you like some beans on your fry-up," he asked Hattie, this time in his own voice. "What?" said Bobby as Hatty. "B-beans? On a fry up?" The falsetto voice was high, but now came the pause – for effect. "Are you mad?" continued Bobby as Hatty. "Beans do not belong on a fry up," Bobby as Hatty went on, with well-practiced lines. "They are not fried, and when mixed with egg are like something that even the devil himself would avoid." "I love you," said Bobby, now as himself. She'd passed the test. (Again.) He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. "I need dessert," he said and threw her onto his four-poster (George Michael, Billy Connolly, Vera Lynn and Bobby Davro). Then he put her on his bed and ripped off her underwear. "Bastard!" He cried. He couldn't go on. She had a lump in her flange. It's a well-known problem with overused blow-ups. "Hattie, you've only gone and got a fucking cuntegg," he cried, limp again .

RR, get yourself an agent and get the rest of that book written.