Betty Boothby, the hotpot beer pourer at Lance a Duck, has
only gone and got the swimming bug. Not the tummy trot, thicko, she’s doing
widths and lengths like a duck in a summer pond. And she’s good! The girl’s got
stamina. So she’s going to lard up and swim over and plant her arse on some
Normandy rock or other. Her swimming mate, her personal trainer, gets under her
shit and is a nasty sort called Paddle Foot Steve. Says the North Atlantic
whalers are on the way every time she gets into the channel. And he guzzles her
Lucozade sport drink and eats her wotsits when she’s not looking: what a
fucker! Anyway, funny thing is, just as she spies the Tricolour on some French
nonce’s beachside garden, she’s harpooned by a Jap whaler. Don’t make him right
or nothing, he’s a fucker after all, but it is funny: funny in sad way that
makes you think. Poor bloody Betty, didn’t deserve that, did she?
