Creative Comedy Project

1989 By David Gilbert

The bell rings. That’s the end of maths. Great. But now it’s P.E. Shit. I grab my bag and I’m walking out when:



“Oi, Paki, I’m talking to you.”



This has been going on all morning. Please, God, strike down Gary Grundy with a lighting bolt – right in his arse crack. Surely no one will miss an aggressive midget with a skin head?



“There’s no black in the union jack, go back, go back, go back,” he chants.



“Oh, bore off will ya,” I tell him. “It’s the eighties, we’re meant to be culturally integrated by now.”



“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he says.



“You work it out.”



“Ooooh,” his goons say. Oops.



“You’re dead, you little rag head,” he snaps. “Just wait ‘till after P.E.”



I don’t know what’s worse, P.E. or getting a kick-in. Oh well, I’ve got both on the way. Thanks very much, God.



It stinks in here. We’re getting changed. Grundy and his goons are in the corner being loud, and its all fanny this, birds that, and football, rugby, tits, and blah blah blah, oh bore off. Then the whole room is up at the window because a dog has run in to the school grounds. Morons. I see a golden opportunity - Grundy’s kit bag. All I can think about is those saggy green spare shorts they make you wear if you forget your kit. I’m over there swift and I’ve grabbed his shorts out the bag and thrown them on top of the lockers, and the idiots are still watching the dog that’s barking and no doubt being chased by the overweight caretaker we call Igor on account of his hump back. If ever there was a man unfit for such a task.



“What do you mean you haven’t got any kit, Grundy?” Mr Facey says. And Grundy’s barking like the dog and yelling threats but it doesn’t change the fact. “Well, we haven’t got any spare, so you’ll have to do it in pants and vest.” Haha, Grundy in his undies. This doesn’t get any better.





He’s standing there in his purple Y-fronts and his mates are trying not to laugh and the girls can’t stop laughing and the ball comes to him and he’s off and no one can tackle him because he’s so naked and quick and the girls are roaring and I think I’m going to cry and then I see it - the dog. It comes charging on the pitch and makes a bee-line straight for the ball, so Grundy kicks the ball away but the dog’s still chasing him and Grundy turns whilst running and tells it to piss off but collides straight into the football post. Knockout! Igor hobbles on the pitch huffing and puffing and grabs the dog as it’s licking Grundy’s face while he slowly regains consciousness, and it’s off to the hospital for the pleb, no kick-in for me. Thank you, God, you’re not such a bastard after all.


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