More urban myths, gruesome hearsay and nuggets of terror, each one in turn spun to dissuade Rodge from veering too far into the darkness. His (slightly) older brother only wants what's best for him... (More episodes to follow).
Another broadcast from B.D.R., beginning with The Lang Sisters’ tragi-ballad “I Was So Fond Of Your Deep Blue Eyes I Cut Them Out With A Knife”. As beautiful as their other hit, “The Tractor Minced My Michael”, reckons Rodge. The top news item concerns the upcoming rock festival on the 19th of next month in Mulligan’s Field, in aid of the Sun Loungers For Lepers Charity. Already confirmed to perform after the 3pm dolphin barbeque are local metal group Skinned Kittens, followed by all-girl band Dale Winton’s Handbag, and Timmy Mallet impersonator Jimmy Mullet. (Podge - “Jaysus, the original’s shite, what’s this fella going to be like?”). Cork’s finest Two Pence None The Wiser will then take over, before the lesbian group The Donut Bangers warm the crowd’s cockles for headliners (again) The Rolling Stones. A request is then played for Jimmy Dargan, who is still missing his leg. He wants to hear Fester and Ailin’s “Your Cock Wakes Me Up In The Morning” - taken from their “Spank Me Then Thank Me” long-player, and number one in the Feelgood Records And Animal Feeds Shop charts for 16 weeks. Cue another appearance from the furry duo, and a tale about a farmer and his prize-winning cock, and his bride, who was having none of it. Literally. “My cock wakes her up every morning, and it keeps her awake half the night. I’d say leave it alone, it’s a mind of its own. Now come dear, turn off the light”. Said cock was to suffer considerably at the hands of the disinterested wife, who took a frying pan and eventually a knife to the proud and erect animal. However, the Bobbit-esque developments had a final twist as the farmer’s wife had the dismembered member stuffed, and held onto it for her own convenience. Hence while the farmer was no longer involved in waking her every morning, his cock was. Rodge then makes noises about getting tickets for the festival for both himself and Sadie. Podge sadly informs him that some “smart business fella” has snapped up all the £20 tickets, and is selling them at exorbitent prices. He can, however, furnish his dim brother with the businessman’s mobile phone number, and seconds later - naturally - his own phone sounds off. Rodge manages to “bargain” his way from paying £100 per ticket to a total of £280 for two - his “final offer”.
Rodge’s latest dilemna involves his finger, which is stuck firmly in the neck of a bottle of Chateau Le Merde. There is a brief argument over how best to proceed - smashing the glass or sawing the digit off. “Surely a splinter would be better than having your finger sawn off?” “Oh excuse me Dr.George Clooney MD”. His brother is not surprised by the situtation (“Jaysus, if it’s not stuck in a bottle it’s stuck up your nose, if it’s not stuck up your nose it’s stuck up your arse”), but is a little bamboozled by the quality of the plonk. It materialises that the bottle had been lying on the doorstep - “a love token from Sadie”, undoubtably, according to her beau. Podge is a little more sceptical, and preaches to his brother about the wrongs of handling unsolicited mail, and opening things that don’t belong to him. The “human corkboy” is then subjected to the tale of Ian Flate, a country boy who had moved to the big smoke. Ian got his hands on “Bedsit Weekly”, was taken in by one ad in particular (“…a breath of fresh air, single bedsit, all mod-cons, would suit a country boy…”). When he got there, the front door was open and there was a note on the table - “welcome to your new home, please pay £300 on the first of the month to this account”. “I surely will”, said Ian and he closed the door behind him. Soon after, when he attempted to stow his suitcase under the bed, he came across an obstruction. Not “the chamber pot, bet he was after sloshing the solids over the carpet”, as Rodge would have it, but rather a large box, housing “Femme Brulle - Your Inflatable Companion For Hot Nights”. At this, understandably, Rodge’s ears prick up. “A blow up woman? He’d struck gold! Is that the one with multi-orificed vibro action?” Not that he’d ever heard of such a thing, naturally. Ian, on the other hand, was of firmer moral stock, and was disgusted. He vowed to contact the landlord in the morning with a view to forwarding the plastic tottie to its rightful owner. However, he didn’t sleep well that night for all the tossing and turning. “Probably a lot more tossing than turning”. He gave in to the burning temptation, and inflated the doll in the darkness. Rodge muttered a thin assural - “I wouldn’t be on for dipping my spoon into somebody else’s porridge” - but Ian wasn’t shackled by any such quibbles. He “stuck his key in the ignition, took her around the block”, and “took the scenic route” in doing so. The next day at work, he could hardly wait to get back home to his latex lovely. And when he eventually bundled through his bedsit door, Femme Brulle was at the sink, doing the dishes. “For the love of St. Pubis, the patron saint of deploratory creams”. Indeed. The doll had taken on a life of her own, and though a lesser man may have shat himself, Ian was happy to let her prepare his dinner - what would be the best damn meal he had ever tasted. She allowed him to watch the football as she cleaned up, and just when he didn’t think it could get any better - “it’s time to burn some rubber, Ian”. It was even better than it had been the night before. Afterwards, they lay in bed, and Ian asked if it would always be that good. “As long as you don’t let me down”. Which was fine by him. Over the course of a month, their love flourished. And then inevitably soured. She began nagging him about ruined dinners, never meeting his friends, all that good shit. She would ring him at work every five minutes. It only took three days for him to give in, and pull the valve. She screamed as the air ran from her, and he stuffed her back into the box and under his bed. The next morning, he woke to her standing over him, and she yelled “You promised not to let me down, you’re just like all the others!” before plunging a knife deep and mortally into his chest. And one week later, another country bumpkin - Barty Valve - came to inspect the very same bedsit. Rodge lost all interest in the tale as he celebrated prematurely loosening his finger from the bottle. Podge directed him to look under the covers, and towards the genital redirection of the offending flask. “That is going to take some explaining down in casualty”.
The boys are watching TV, bored, flicking through cancerous “real-life” programmes. “When Dogs Catch Fire 3”. “Baseball Bloopers 5”. “When Chefs Go Mental 2”. Rodge voices his frustration, and his proposals for making his own “stupid little television show for stupid little people”, as Big Brother sees it. The disturbing tale of four final year students at The Tony Danza School Of Film then follows. The four - Monty Lang, his ex-girlfriend and flatmate Binty Sommers, and brothers Joel and Cyrano Jibalski - were big into fly-on-the-wall documentaries, and cinema veritae - convincing the audience that what they were seeing was real. Not necessarily “like in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang when you think the car is flying”. They planned to make a “pseudo-realistic murder movie” to be handed in as their final year project, and set off into the woods, setting up a mock kidnapping of Binty, and a gruesome demise for Monty at the hands of the brothers. During filming, they marvelled at just how realistic the whole thing looked. When they had finished shooting, they congratulated each other on what was undoubtably an A-plus project, and went home. “Fecking students - if they’re not stealing something, they’re filming something”. The next morning, the Jibalski brothers received a panicky phonecall from Binty. Monty was missing, and had not slept in his bed. The brothers rocked on over to her place to help her look for him, and ended up in front of the TV as Shouty Charlie Bird waxed lyrical about the most awful murder he had ever seen. The reporter was standing in the very woods the students had been filming in, and the body he was describing was Monty’s. As Binty broke down and wept, the shocked brothers left her to her own devices, unable to fathom what had happened. And then Monty stepped from a cupboard, a camera in his hand, enthusing about the look on the brothers’ faces as they had watched his “news” video tape. In an attempt to push “real-life” TV to the max, he and Binty had set their project partners up completely. Soon after, severe paranoia led the brothers to fear that Binty - the jealous ex - had killed Monty herself, and planned to use the project footage to frame the Jibalskis. So they returned to her place, and “took a tripod to her”. Monty walked in - double takes aplenty - and once he had explained his original plans, nervously wondering which scene needed Binty in a lifeless heap - the furious brothers took a clapperboard to his neck, and Monty bit the big one. And they probably would have gotten away with it had they spotted the hidden camera in the corner, set up by Monty to film more of his “real life deception” bullshit. Instead, the two brothers got themselves a “real life execution” each. “Twenty thousand volts up the hole”. Switching back to the TV in Ballydung, it was time for “When Freaks Get Naked 3”. And a clip of Rodge in the bath. “Ha, ha look at the state of him. Oh Holy God, it’s me. Who the hell was filming me in the bath?” “Ah, that’s terrible, an invasion of privacy, that is. Apparently they pay £150 a clip, apparently. Oh, the next bit's very funny”. “Oh no, that’s when I ran out of toilet paper”. “Yeah, Rodge, but the cat?”
As Rodge packs his suitcase for a weekend away with Sadie in the Shagwell Suite at The Long Horn Hotel, a disinterested Podge is flicking through his “Big Rats And The Like” hardback. Rodge asks if a fresh pair of Y’s will be necessary. “What’s the point? Once a month will do, or if a scrape out will do it, once every two months”. The holidayer mentions something about a jacuzzi. “Oh, high speed jets of water shooting up me arse, oh, that’s what I’d call fun. And you’d be walking around the rest of the day with a slow seep”. Ignoring the claims that he was jealous, Podge introduces "Antonio Banderas" to the woe of Minty and Dick Mingler, who had also planned a romantic weekend away. Unfortunately, just before leaving, Dick got a call from work, dragging him to an emergency meeting regarding the merge of Mingler Toilet Seats with Slip Not, the shower mat people. (Iowan goat-botherers in grey jumpsuits, no doubt, no doubt). He agreed to allow Minty away on her own, and vowed to join her just as soon as he could. So Minty made her way to the plush Three Seasons Hotel, checked into her gorgeous room, and laid her new lingerie out on the bed, intending to “save it for my Dick”. Rodge’s fading interest perks up. “Would it be one of them black and red crotchless teddies in easy wipe PVC, which you might peel her out of, and then get into yourself just to see what it’s like to be the woman, and then she spanks you senseless with the remote control and screams “you’ve been a naughty, naughty girl”. Podge does his best to diffuse the hormones - “calm down you feckless gimp - you’ll destroy the sheets”. There is another frenzied query about dirty films on hotel pay per view channels. “Lasoo your libido, you horny toad”. And then Minty’s phone rang, just as she was about to fall asleep. Not “reception, wondering why this story is going nowhere” (“I’ll ignore that on the grounds that you’re slow”), but her husband Dick, delayed until the next morning, and full of soppy sentiments. “I think I’m going to puke”. The next morning, the husband arrived, and asked the receptionist to direct him to his wife. The receptionist expressed surprise, stating that Mr. Mingler had arrived the previous night, sporting flowers and gifts. She rang the room, but there was no answer. They climbed the stairs in a panic, entered Minty’s room, and found her remains spread all over the walls, her neck bearing the trademark garotting gold necklace of the Breakfast Cereal Killer. The killer would operate by trawling the corridors of hotels at night, checking breakfast orders, and seeking out the information he would need to choose a victim. “Room Number - 569. Number of occupants - 1. Name - Mrs. Minty Mingler”. He would then make his way to reception, claiming to be the husband of his chosen prey, even going so far as to show the gullible receptionist a gold necklace every time, an intended “gift” for his wife. Rodge is more interested in determining what kind of breakfast the late Minty had ordered, and is interrupted by a phonecall from The Long Horn Hotel. Apparently, a “health inspector fella”, a Mr. P.O’Gee, had shut them down, citing an infestation of “big rats and the like”. A sympathetic Podge then states that he has also made a booking for the weekend, a room for two at the Infidelity Inn. Rodge is prematurely relieved - “good man, all is not lost then”. “Yeah, I booked meself and Sadie in since you were letting her down and all”. Podge then bowls out the door, leaving his brother to settle down for a read. “Big rats and the like…”
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