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Tom Riach
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Tom Riach   My Press Releases

Petrus and the Mid-Season Break

Published on 8/9/2014
For additional information  Click Here

PETRUS AND THE MID-SEASON BREAK


'Petrus and the Mid- Season Break' is the 2nd in my 'Petrus F1' series of original copyrighted satirical sketches written by Tom Riach (that's me above) from my home in the sunny south of Portugal.


Petrus F1

Tom Riach's Daily View Of The World!


PRELUDE

Petrus is an avid Formula One follower. So not surprisingly he is confused. And with a name like Petrus he obviously enjoys the odd glass or three of wine, consumed at the mythical Woolsack pub which is frequented by a motley crew of equally befuddled fellow Formula One addicts. Petrus attracts scrapes effortlessly, is shamelessly promiscuous and is known to consult an ample-bosomed psychotherapist with a uniquely intimate bedside manner. Read on ....

PETRUS AND THE MID- SEASON BREAK


Four tedious summer weeks without a Formula One dust up is just too much to endure. Serious cold turkey time. And the Woolsack is like a morgue. All my supposed buddies have taken themselves off to the seaside or some dreadful Costa villa with their wives and families. What's the fun in that? So fed up and friendless I decided to take my cherished Bugatti Veyron for a spin in the countryside. What could possibly go wrong?

Soon I passed a sports field where a man was launching himself over a high bar with the aid of a long stick. I pulled over and shouted above the roar of my 8 litre, 987 bhp, W16, "Hi there, are you a pole vaulter?" "No," retorted the athlete, "I'm German but how did you know my name was Walter?" Disappointed and puzzled that he failed to acknowledge my fastest-production-car-in-the-world super wheels, I drove on.

Coming upon a wayside inn I decided to stop for a refreshment. As soon as I entered the hostelry a local thrust a pint of John Smith's into my fist. “Such charming and endearingly friendly country people,” I mused, but barely had the first frith of froth brushed my lips than John lunged angrily up, smacked me in the eye and grabbed his pint back! I retired to the safety of the snug to order a snack. "I'll have the ploughman's lunch," I asked of mine host who grunted a gruff "Aye" and then proceeded to a table in the corner where a local farm-hand was tucking into a plateful of cheese and pickle. The barman cuffed the lad round the ear, grabbed his plate of tucker and brought it over to me. "There you go squire, the ploughman's lunch!" Just then a brawny yokel with huge biceps and a hairy chest came in. "Mornin' 'Arold, what'll it be?" inquired the host of the newcomer. "I'll 'av the ploughman's lunch." The barman smiled at 'Arold, nodded his head towards me and said, " 'Elp yourself!" I bolted.

Driving up the lane at speed, in my haste I ran down and killed the local farmer's prize bull. Riven with guilt I went to the farmer and confessed, "I've killed your prize bull but I'd like to replace it." The farmer took two steps back, eyed me slowly up and down, then said, "You're a scrawny weed lad but if you feel up to it we'll give it a go!" The farmer led me round the back to where a meadow full of friesians chewed cud. "You'll need this to stand on" (handing me a stool) "and start with Buttercup, she's always willing!" I fled again. This time, in my haste, I saw too late a crossroads. Slamming on my brakes I slewed into a wall beside which sat a row of village worthies. I smashed my face on the steering wheel and was dazed. One worthy immediately ran to the car, opened the door and gave me a thumping good punch on the nose. "What ye been goin' do that for?" queried another local of his buddy. "Too good a chance to miss!" came the reply.

Coming to, I asked one fellow, "Can you direct me to a local doctor?" "I'm not a doctor but the Dancing Ferret's just down the lane ... !" At this pub a gentleman sat outside beside a beautifully bred German shepherd. "Does your dog bite?" I inquired, admiring the animal. "No," said the gent so I reached to stroke it. The dog viciously savaged my arm. "You said your dog didn't bite!" I screamed. "It's not my dog!" "Good God man, that dog should be put away!" I yelled, "Do you know the Battersea Dogs' Home?" "I never knew it had been away!" "And look," I said, "It's foaming at the mouth." "I know," said the gent, "I'm actually on my way to the vet to have it put down." "Do you thinks it's mad then?" "Well it isn't exactly pleased!"

Thoroughly exasperated, I crossed the road to the butcher thinking to buy fresh country fayre to have for dinner on my return home. A leg of lamb was on display. "Is it Welsh?" I asked. "Why?" said the butcher, "Are you going to talk to it or eat it?" "In that case, have you got any wild duck?" "No," responded the butcher, "But I've got a couple I could aggravate for you!"

Bruised, battered and by now totally bewildered and needing somewhere to sleep I approached another farmhouse, now in darkness, and knocked on the door. No reply, but a light appeared in an upstairs window which was thrown open and an old hag appeared. "I'd like to stay here for the night," I shouted up to her. "Well stay there then!" and the window slammed shut. Totally disheartened I headed wearily for home.

Suddenly, I awoke. The whole ghastly adventure had been but a dream! But when I went to bathe my face in cold water, there were all the wounds and bruises from my experiences!? “Uh-uh,” I panicked breaking into a cold sweat, “Time to see my shrink - and quick!” I dived outside to find that the Veyron dream car was but my beat-up Renault 4 of norm. I chugged and shoogled through the traffic to the psychiatrist's consulting studio. But soon she welcomed me with her customary ample-bosomed squeeze. At moments like these my Formula One addictive tendencies miraculously evaporated as though they had never been! "Tell me a-a-a-ll about it Pet," she puurrrrrd. I lay back in the crook of her arm and the shadow of Sugar Loaf. "Mine was a deprived child-hood," I began, "My one pair of socks had so many holes in them that I could put them on sixty-nine different ways ..... "


End.


Tom Riach lives and works in the sunny south of Portugal. I carry out all types of Writing Assignments – Articles, Content, Copy, Business Plans, Website Scripts and Short Stories and Humourous, Satirical, Sporting and Topical Reference Pieces like the one above. I'll write anything, any style for anybody! Just contact me as below.


Petrus and a the Mid-Season Break

My Office In The Algarve


CONTACT ME ABOUT MY WRITING WORK AT :


Email : trbsns@hush.com



Tel. : (00 351) 914 021 159



Website : Tom Riach - Freelance Writer

PETRUS AND THE MID-SEASON BREAK

is an original copyrighted Tom Riach satirical sketch. I hope you enjoyed reading about 'Petrus and the Mid-Season Break' and found it entertaining. To learn more about my work, inquire re. commissions or just to get in touch with me please visit me on my website at TOM RIACH - FREELANCE WRITER

See you there! Regards, Tom.


© Copyright Joseph T.Riach 1998-2014. All rights reserved.


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