In response to a special request, this story was written in Cockney rhyming slang. A genuine Cockney is a Londoner born within sound of Bow Bells, so if you don't fit into that particular demographic you may have an occasional problem here. Not to worry, though, there's a guide at the bottom which will get you right out of the Von Trapp!
Harry Struggled - wheeler dealer goes opn vacation. He's gone to an island he's never been to before and its the third day there. In Harry`s words:
`I'm rubber gloving it down on the local beach because all the good looking bints are lying around with just their alan whickers on and giving every guy around a harry dash at their george bests. The only bummer is that Monica, my trouble and strife, she keeps coming along with me to make sure I don't apple core with any of the local twists and twirls. Only - I do!`
Read on ...
EXTRACT
Dionne's king death is nice and sweet and she's certainly kept her
shape:
whatever brixton riot she's on, it must be working well. She fits
against me
in all the right places and it would be great to be in the tin tack
with her
but I'll deal with her in the bushes, even if it is a bit brian
clough. For a
second or two I do a scene in the back of my head with me in a born
and
bred with Dionne and Monica, but knowing Monica, I've got buckleys.
`Who's paying your duke of kent in this manor?` I ask Dionne.
`Nobody, Harry, I'm on my todd sloane.`
I can't believe my king lears: what a pile of ben cartwright! One
time
lookers like Dionne are never happy unless they're taking piles of
dot and
dash off some mug. Whoever he is, if he knew what was going down
right
now he'd be doing a real wallace and gromit.
Not that I care, my old man is starting to strain at every nerve and
having
Monica clocking all the action is really putting me into the mood for
a
friar tuck.
I get down close to Dionne's fainting fits and give them a captain
cook: the
tips are sticking out like cigar butts.
I have to do something about that, so I'm in there like the artful
dodger.
When I look up it's a surprise to see her cheeks are snow and
slushed. I
wouldn't have reckoned I was doing anything yet to put her into a
how'syour-
father.
Maybe it was Monica and the camera which were making her shy. Which
would be a real turn up for the books, seeing as how Dionne has
always
been a genuine paraffin lamp to anything wearing lesley crowthers.
Anyhow, she's starting to pant and rubbing her hand against the back
of
my neck so it looks as if we'll soon be stroking like Oxford and
Cambridge
going past Mortlake brewery.
`Come on, gal, your turn to perform,` Monica says. `Get down on your
mother browns.`
I can't believe I'm going to get some blood red from Dionne with
Monica
watching, but it happens. Dionne gets down in the sand like she's got
a
bucket and spade but the only thing that gets played with is my
hampton
wick. She pops it out from underneath my chipmunks and gets her gob
around as though it were a McDonald giveaway and she's hank marvin.
Monica asks me if Dionne is doing a good job on me and I tell her
the
truth, the little tart is getting in some serious work sucking on me:
also,
her brigham young is slurping all around my cock like she's got a
little joe
blake inside her north and south. Basically, I'm as happy as a pig
in
clover, especially when Monica takes some holiday snapshots I'll
really
enjoy posting to my china plates. The problem is that I feel too
good, and
if the pace doesn't slow down soon Dionne is going to get a high
speed
injection of harry monk straight down her billy goat.
`OK,` Monica says. `Harry, you lie down on your cadbury snack and
Dionne can get on board your micky rourke.`
