Wednesday, 1 January 2014

Masters of Sox

- or -
Sock Puppet's Christmas Thang

It being the season of good will, the crust on the yule logs as it were still deep & crisp & even, we decided to give old Sock Puppet the evening off. This was a sly move on our part, as we had the dirty old foot-fiend tailed to see where it would go and - more to the point - what it would do. In a cheap hotel behind Kings Cross Station, the randy object meets up with that notorious floozie, Xmas Stocking. They have a swiftie at the bar before retiring. There follows a transcript of their conjugation:

Xmas Stocking: Don't know about you, Squire, but I could murder a large Ugg!

Sock Puppet: Waiter! Large Ugg for the nice broad, and make mine a double DocMartens.

Waiter: Uggs and Docs, both in pairs. Will there be anything else?

XS: What's you got?

Waiter: Let me see now, there's pig's trotters, cheesy's sarnies and soles in batter on special. Or we could do you a nice mixed platter.

SP: I think the snifters will be enough for now. Can you bring us a platter up to our room later on?

Waiter: Why certainly!

XS: They is good in here, ain't they?

SP: You wouldn't think so if you had to foot the bill.

XS: So what you been up to since then?

SP: This and that.

XS: That's interesting. Come on, then, give my gusset a bit of a wring!

SP: There you are! Cor! You been hung out to dry or what?

XS: Well, business has been slack since Christmas.

SP: Cheer up, I've got a decent length of elastic tucked into my folds.

XS: I could certainly use a good twanging.

SP: Keeps the cold out. How's your father?

XS: Same as ever, the old fraudster. This is supposed to be his busy time of the year, of course. If you ask me, though, he's flogging a dead reindeer. There ain't much peace and love going these days. Bloody Yanks and Russians!

SP: I see you're careful not to mention any Arabs.

XS: Not by name, no. You gotta put your best punters first, even when you don't know who they is half of them.

SP: I blame the wise men and shepherds.

XS: Picked a wrong 'un, didn't they?

SP: How can you trust people who wash their socks round the fire at night? They're either thick as two shorts planks or too clever for their shirts.

XS: So you think they should do it all over again?

SP: Can't hurt to stage a rematch.

Waiter: Your order!

SP: What's the name, young fellah?

Waiter: Peter Gabriel.

XS: He's down on his luck, poor lamb!

Waiter: Enjoy!

SP: See where I'm getting to?

XS: What about turning the other cheek?

SP: Come here, let's be having you!

The remainder of this recording has been deemed unsuitable for viewers of a general disposition. However, in the interests of science, our photographer concealed himself in the wardrobe and we present his findings below:

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