Discussion in 'London and the South East' started by Apryl, Sep 19, 2013.
fuck me, what a boring thread I can't believe I read it - fuck god for his sunday shopping hours.
The smoke drifted out of the Globe on Morning Lane as Dennis Jackson walked in. Inside the tables were filled with chattering couples while outside some leery-looking locals sipped cans of Tennants' Super at the bus stop. Jackson made his way to the bar, tapped a small hipster on the shoulder and - as he turned round, tidy beard neatly trimmed - caught the trendy wanker with an uppercut that nearly lifted the little waster over the bar. A glass dropped, and a women screamed as the young man's torse came to rest on the floor. Dennis slammed his size 10 Solovair into the side of the prone body before glaring round the room and growling 'Anyone else want any?' He walked out of the pub as sirens began wailing up Mare Street. He crossed the road, walking under the North London Line, heading up towards the Pembury where Apryl was waiting in bed for him.
--to be continued--
Animal wasp or human being WASP?
I'm still eagerly awaiting the rest of your debeut novel about the artisnal baker gangs of of North-East London:
"My god, this is disgusting! It's cut with biocarb!" April spat out, along with a soggy mouthful of the so-called 'sourdough' that the Guinness Estate Bun Dem were flooding the streets with...
Failure to use 100% wild-caught yeast as a sourdough starter was a henious offence that could only be dealt with by all the big Families together. The next morning, the offending baker would find a sawn-off Greggs sign on their doorstep, covered in red fondant icing...
Anyway, as per OP's question a few pages back, the Guinness Trust estate now largely contains artisnal bakers and BBC employees.
"My god, this is disgusting! It's cut with bicarb!" Apryl spat out, along with a soggy mouthful of the so-called 'sourdough' the Guinness Estate Bun Dem were flooding the streets with. Dennis Jackson looked on shamefaced as his girl slagged down his baking efforts. It was no wonder trade was going to the Dalston-based Dusty Knuckle Crew: with Freddy 'Firky' Fellows inside, the Bun Dem gang had lost their star baker. Jackson slipped into a reverie as he tried to recall how things had started going so badly wrong - in the summer of 2013 their cream-filled buns had been the toast of North London. But that was before Firky Fellows had started gambling the flour money away.
Apryl called him back to the here and now. "'ere!', she shouted, we have to do something about this before the Knucklers have all our clientele. Even the beigel shops on Brick Lane are thinking of leaving us for them'.
She looked set to go into one of her murderous rages when she was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. Jackson opened it to find an elderly, finely dressed woman outside the security gate. 'Who are you?' he demanded. 'My name's Mary Berry, and I have a proposition for you, Mr Jackson' she replied. Dumbfounded, Jackson let her into the flat.
I thought Mary berry was making poffertjes on tv last night, but they were bleeneys.
Coded gangsta message FTW!
'low it, fam.
I Think you should write some more Pickman's model
'i won't beat about the bush, mr jackson', mary berry said. 'your product is absolutely disgusting. it is devoid of merit. see, here' - she gestured to a pile of declining buns - 'the bake's bloody awful.'
she leaned closer. 'bloody awful to my taste', she winked. 'but hipsters know no better, and they will gobble up your, er, clapton buns with alacrity!'
'alacrity?' dennis gaped. 'what's that?'
'never you mind, mr jackson. just deliver all you can bake to my outlet, the world famous hipster clapton bun emporium - here's the address.'
Which one of you Billy Hunts resurrected this pie of two handled stunt kite?
But Pickman's model is writing the novel that should be written, you can't begrudge us that...
I'll be expecting a mention in the credits.
Separate names with a comma.