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Tom Riach
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Tom Riach   My Press Releases

Petrus Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix

Published on 5/21/2015
For additional information  Click Here

'Petrus Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix' is the 3rd in my 'Petrus F1' series of original copyrighted comedy sketches written by Tom Riach (that's me above) from my home in the sunny south of Portugal.
Petrus Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix

Tom Riach's Daily View Of The World!


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 consulting style. Read on ....


There are three suns in my life - sunshine, sun flowers and sunsovbitshes. My Napoleon-hallucinating next bedfellow was one of the last mentioned and driving me insane (?!?). He was convinced that asylum orderlies were sabotaging his beloved Lady Hamilton's recovery, no matter that his Lady Hamilton was in reality the fat Geordie with the plumptious builders bottom in the next bed on - but thus is the power of deranged imagination. Fortunately respite for me was at hand.

My latest electroencephalograph showed encouragingly reduced frontal lobe activity so my notoriously ample-busted shrink agreed to my request to have the Monaco Grand Prix week-end 'out'. Blessed relief! Soon as I hit the street I phoned Alcoholics Anonymous. "Do you want to join?" enquired the receptionist. "No I want to resign!" Then I headed for the Woolsack. The race was just starting. Achilles immediately thrust a pint of John Smith's into my fist. The first frith of froth had barely brushed my lip when John smacked me round the ear 'ole and grabbed 'is pint back. I stamped on Achilles' heel as would've made John Terry proud and retreated seeking solace to the alcove where sat the provocatively hot-panted Ms.Padded End.

She quickly apologised for having sniggered at my wee Renault 4 when we last made out and assured me that size didn't matter but simultaneously confided to me that she was currently 'seeing' a tow truck driver with a Skania straight 8! I happened to know this guy as he had recently been admitted to my psychiatric ward having been found sobbing uncontrolably in his cab in a lay-by. The doctors concluded that he was heading for a breakdown!

Just then I saw Danimik at the far end of the bar. He was wearing a suicide vest packed with explosives and emblazoned with the motto, "Death to Ferrari." "Don't do it!" I yelled but too late. He pressed the ignition, no explosion but a cloud of black smoke billowed through the pub. Through the haze I saw Nico Rosberg throttling Lewis Hamilton!

Running into the toilet I found Bernie Ecclestone singing bawdy sea shanties and performing an outstanding impression of Seaman Staines. The melee tumbled in behind me. In the thick of the throng Mouse answered his not-so-smart phone, "Mouse squeaking, how can I help you?" His wife said,"Darling if you win the Monaco Grand Prix million dollar sweepstake will you still love me?" "Of course I will Janice, I'll miss you but I'll still love you!"

Meanwhile Flying Lobster had collapsed, red in the face after grappling with a grave digger, also an inmate of 'my' psychiatric hospital (this chap had been found confused and wandering aimlessly around the cemetary - analysts diagnosed him as having lost the plot)! Suspecting that Flying Lobster was suffering a heart attack, his wife who had always resented his passion for all things F1, wrote for an ambulance. Then Old Canuck skated into the fray swirling his hockey stick at all and sundry. In the mayhem he bonked barmaid Kate flush on the nose (she'd forever after be known as bonking Big Nosed Kate) and smashed the giant screen Grand Prix-showing telly. A deathly hush descended as the realisation of no race to watch sank in. Then just as quickly the mob charged as one to the door, "To the Dancing Ferret!" was the cry.

As I exited carrying a firkin of purloined Pomerol to see me through the race the truncheon caught me full on the neck .... 

Coming to I looked around the ward. Nothing had changed. 'Next bed' was ranting anew that Lady Hamilton's hopes had again been sabotaged. I cursed him quietly and wished that he'd shut up and go to Elba. My psychiatrist arrived and cradled my throbbing head to her buxom bosom. This was more like it. "Well how was Monaco Pet?" "Not bad at all. Really rather lively," I under stated. "Who won?" "Dunno. Best ask Captain Pugwash over there," as I thumbed towards le petit caporal, "Probably Black Pig Renault," I chortled. Then I lay back to savour the soft embrace enveloping me and turned my thoughts as to how I'd wangle my release for the next rumble on the F1 agenda at Silverstone? My most manic grin slid over my face as a cunning plan formulated in my mind. All that was required was to prove myself sane …....... ?!


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 Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix

My Office In The Algarve


Tom Riach - Freelance Writer


is an original copyrighted Tom Riach comic sketch. I hope you enjoyed reading about 'Petrus Goes To The Monaco Grand Prix' 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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