From Small Beginnings...Mature

     I was the smallest of us all, so got the nickname Dwarf. Original, huh? To be honest, only Daft-Lad calls me this any more; partly because, in his case I don't think he remembers my real name, but in the main, because there is no "us" as we used to be. So, for a few short years, I was Dwarf. I didn't mind so much, after all, there are worse names out there; Harry Shit-Pot for example, or Bulbous Penk comes to mind, and it was to be many years later one drunken evening, that I was morphed (silently kicking and screaming) into Yoda. (Now that name boils my piss, if you'll pardon my French, but of course you can't let it be known that your urine content is dangerously close to steaming point, or they'll turn up the flame, just for jollies). Odd, really, I guess it's only blokes who give each other nicknames, names that tend to stick for any length of time. Not everybody got an alternative monicker, but in the immediate group of friends that we once were, we had a Mad Mick (pretty much self-explanatory); a Mick-The-Hat (from a Spanish picador's chapeau all the way through to a leather biker's baseball cap); two Mark's, one Water-Mark, the other Skid-Mark (well, you have to differentiate), the aforementioned Daft-Lad, who had several, ranging from Rob-The-Slob, a few in between that I can't honestly remember, (and one, disturbingly, as Rob-The-Knob at some point). And, of course, the point of this seemingly reminiscent ramble, Fat-Boy. My best friend.

The End

0 comments about this story Feed