They didn’t call him ‘Bonkers’ because he was mad, it was
due to his sexual promiscuity; and it wasn’t just the skirt either. Bonkers
would shag the coos in the field given half a glimpse of prime meaty buttock
and some suspected he already had. He didn’t call his dug ‘Wifey’ for nothing.
Poor thing eyed him more warily than wearily and kept his arse to the fire.
Many was the time his drunken master mistook his dug for an absent wife and
made the very act eponymous leaving poor Wifey with ought but the rictus grin
of forbearance.
And here he sat in an old paddle-pool in his back-yard
splashing at the water and singing ‘Fields of Athenry’ loud enough to infuriate
his Rangers-loving neighbour. The previous incumbent of the Bugs Bunny Baby
Pool had long been snatched away by its ill-abused mother and was now living
somewhere in the wilds of Niddrie, address unknown. At least, unknown to
Bonkers, not that he was that arsed to find out. Children were an unnecessary
expense unless you could claim on some fictitious childhood disability and get
yourself some pocket-money DLA.
Neighbours (especially the hun one) had complained about his
baby pool nudity but he continued the pursuit regardless. At least he wasn’t as
bad as that felly in Falkirk that had been caught on camera having a wank while
bouncing on his kiddies trampoline. He’d qualify almost anything in his own favour.
He’d have made a great advocate if the defendant was always himself.
Bonkers Johnson was one of those types that didn’t see
themselves as hideous individuals one
little bit, while everyone that knew him saw quite clearly that he most
definitely was. God’s gift to womankind
he thought himself and was oblivious to womankind making puking motions within
a ten-mile radius.
An uglier cratur you couldn’t imagine. Massive big globe of
a Scotsman’s belly, crammed tight with chips and lager. A big-moon face the
size of a monkey’s arse and jist aboot as rid, Johnson indulged in the F.A.T.
diet – Farmfood’s, Aldi’s and Tennant's. He had as much idea of nutrition as he
did about Quantum Physics. His philosophy, if he even had one, was ‘they widnae
sell it in the shoaps if it wis bad fur ye, wid they?’ This went for cigarettes
too, though he was currently trying to fiddle ‘wan ae they e-fags’ from the NHS
and was down at the local Advice Shop to get them to help with his newest
harassment.
