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Wetherspoons Ted

Started by A Car With No Doors, August 04, 2016, 05:32:13 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

Dannyhood91

Wetherspoons Ted trys texting his son on the mobile phone he got him on his birthday.

It's an old Nokia 8250. His befuddled fingers, yellow with tobacco stains, try and smash their way into something that will result in a phone call. His weatherworn face is contorted in a leathery frustration. The phone makes an as yet unheard beeping noise.

"WELL YOU CAN SOD YER FUCKING PHONES"
Ted yells to no one in particular as he feebly launches the phone across the table.


Goes to the bar.



"You're a having a time of it aren't you Ted."



"Aye Darren. Exmoor Gold please."

alan nagsworth

Wetherspoons Ted thinks that the country's gone to pot. He's been to 43 Wetherspoons in his life and has been a patron of the establishment for twenty years, and he thought it'd be a cold day in hell before "Shanghai fuckin' Noodles" would sit side by wide with the Doombar steak and ale pie on the menu. He tells the Polish barmaid this as he sups the ale foam from his overgrown moustache and presses his grubby fingernails harshly against the sticky bar surface. She dares not speak lest she reveal her nationality and have him shout at her some more.

Wetherspoons Ted has got his own key for the disabled bogs.

Glebe

The last I heard, he was seen pissing all over his boots in a pub in county Donegal. The prat.

Vodka Margarine

Wetherspoons Ted's Facebook profile picture will always be a dog.

DangledTeeth

Wetherspoons Ted eyes up the French and English mustard packets in contrived fashion, an excuse to engage with a young chap who's gathering up sachets of vinegar for his Curry Tuesday or something.

Suddenly, Fullers Fred plods up to the bar with a couple of steak and ale pie flakes on his chin. He jokingly requests a pint of London Pride at the bar with a wry smile.

Wetherspoons Ted does a hunched-over walk of disgust past Fullers Fred and out on to the drab pavement.


Glebe

To be honest I've fucking had it with Wetherspoons Ted at this stage.


BlodwynPig

Wetherspoons Ted shoots himself in the foot...again.

On a visit to the US, a black man hollers "what's up WT?". An arrest warrant is issued several hours later.

Dannyhood91

Wetherspoons Ted wept when Cilla Black died. He demanded the entire pub show a minutes silence in respect.

They complied.

Glebe


An exclusive extract from Wetherspoons Ted: A Life, available in shops NOW! (Or wait a few months and pop a copy in a Christmas stocking!)

"Come on, Ted! It's nearly six-thirty!"

I was half asleep, but I'd know the blaring voice of my wife Ada anywhere. She once cut through the babble on a crowded ferry to France so clear, the captain had to ask me to put on muzzle on her! But back to the present... I'm lying in bed in our Shropshire home, loyal golden retriever Feizel snoring away at my feet. There's a familiar smell in the air and I hear a crackling, faint to my ears. Yep, she waiting expectantly for me to pop down for my regular Friday morning fry-up.

But I had other plans.

"Morning, love," I yawned, eyelids droopy as I scratched the back of my head. The fry looked quite tempting sitting on our solid oak kitchen table. But I knew where I was eating this morning!

"Your clothes are all laid out in the front room," said Ada. "I was up half the night ironing those jodhpurs!" Silly bint. "Alright love, thanks." She tutted and shook he head. "You'd hang around in that dressing gown all day if you had a mind!" she replied, sarkily.

I was going to have to think of a diversion. Our son George had just moved to Salzburg to study for his degree, and Feizel was still conked out. First things first. I would get dressed, then think of a suitable story to get her out of the way.

"Ada, love, come quick! Ada!" I had just popped on my cap as she came bolting down the hall. "What, what is it?" she gasped. "I don't know... some sort of a... fire or something down the road, there. Go and fetch the bucket... from the front garden."

"But the bucket is out the back!" she replied, immediately. "Well... I'll fetch the bloomin' thing, you go and have a look if there's a fire!" I snapped back. In a trice, she was out the garden gate, and I made my move.

There wasn't much time. If I was to make it out the back before she realized something was amiss, I would have to use all the power in my leg muscles. I raced into the kitchen, almost knocking over the kettle, tea cosy and all, and made a dash for the back door. Locked. Bugger.

WAIT! The key is hanging by the fridge! With a lot of fussing and fumbling, I finally had my gateway to freedom before me, and I belted through the lettuces quicker than you could cry, "Jack Robinson!" But the adventure was only getting started...

****

Huff. Puff. Thicket. Bush. I was out of breathe, but the thought of my 'Mine Enemy' ('er indoors) catching my scent was enough to quicken my pace yet more. There was no turning back now, and at the heel of the hunt, I would use any and all methods at my disposable - even extreme violence - to get away. Yet finally, I saw it. The town. It was within my reach. My lips curled in a smile of joy, despite my throbbing coronary-pipes.

I was strolling now, and though my face puffed and sweat poured down my gilet, my final goal - the Promised Land - was in sight. Just a few more steps now, Ted. Just a few more steps...

"You alright, sir?" asked a local. I could smell his pipe smoke, but I could not see his face. I was frozen to the spot. I was helpless, lost, confused. Annoyed.

"Y-yes," I replied. I think. But deep in my heart, I knew I was fucked. What a fool I'd been. In my haste, I had run into town without thinking of the opening times. It is presently 7:05AM. Wetherspoons will not be open for nearly another four hours.

There was nothing for it. I would have to trudge home in defeat, and apologize to my stupid bitch of a wife.

© Wetherspoons Ted, 2016.

Specially commissioned 'closing theme'.