I am acquainted with a gentleman who once wrote an episode of EastEnders. One thing led to another, and I ended up tossing off this little number in an attempt to cash in on one of the programme's longest-running anomalies: Why does nobody wash their own clothes?
"And now on BBC1, the last ever episode of EastEnders. Viewers are warned that tonight's programme contains scenes of an excessively manky nature."
ALBERT SQUARE EXT DAY.
A LARGE LORRY PULLS INTO THE SQUARE, THE CAMERA FOLLOWS IT AS IT PARKS OUTSIDE THE SLATER HOUSEHOLD. IT SAYS "CURRYS" ON THE SIDE.
CUT AWAY SHOTS OF PAULINE FOWLER LOOKING OUT OF HER WINDOW, HAVING A MILD PANIC ATTACK, AND DASHING OUT OF HER FRONT DOOR.
Delivery Man: Slater household?
Mo: That's us.
Delivery Man: Sign here then.
Pauline (muscling in on the conversation): What the fuck's going on here?
Mo: This, Pauline Fowler, is a washing machine.
Pauline: A what? Where'd you get the money for that?
Mo: Interest free credit. They'll give it to anybody these days.
Pauline: Just you wait until Mr Popodopulos finds out. He's going to break your fucking kneecaps.
DOT ARRIVES, GASPING, WEARING NOTHING BUT A PEEK-A-BOO BRA AND PANTY SET, CHAIN-SMOKING SIX CIGARETTES AT ONCE. SHE IS, HOWEVER, CARRYING HER HUGE HANDBAG OVER HER ARM
Dot: Eeeh, I came as quick as I could get away from the pole dancing club, Pauline. I...
DOT STOPS DEAD IN HER TRACKS
Dot: What the fuck is that?
Pauline: Fat cow Maureen here says it's a washing machine.
Dot: Fuck off!
Mo: It is so, and I'll fight anyone who says it isn't.
Dot: Do you realise the danger you're putting us in? These things are deadly in the hands of untrained fools such as yourselves. One wrong push of a button and you could have us all killed! Laundry should be left to trained professionals such as myself and my good friend Pauline here. Isn't that right, Pauline?
DOT LEANS ACROSS TO PAULINE AND KISSES HER. THERE IS THE MEREST TRACE OF A TONGUE.
Pauline: Mmm.... I'm wet.
Mo: Well, there's no way you're going to make us send it back. It's ours and we're keeping it.
PAULINE PULLS A BROWNING 9MM HANDGUN FROM HER HANDBAG, COCKS IT WITH DELIBERATE CARE AND PUSHES THE MUZZLE AGAINST MO'S FOREHEAD
DOT REACHES INTO HER HANDBAG, AND PULLS OUT A LARGE, RIBBED VIBRATOR, WHICH SHE TOO POINTS AT MO'S HEAD
Dot: Make my day.
Mo: Now girls, let's not do anything hasty. D'you want to come upstairs and talk about this?
Pauline: Um... OK then.
Delivery Man: Can I come?
Dot: (gesturing towards his groin) It looks like you already have.
My "Blarney" Scary Story savagely edited for b3ta readers:
On a trip to Ireland we ran into a coachload of American tourists at Blarney Castle.
"I hope you're not going to try kissing the Blarney Stone," we ventured.
It was, it turned out, going to be the highlight of their tour back to the "Old Country".
"They never wash it you know. Cold sores. Herpes. AIDS. The works."
"Oh my GODDDDDDD!" shouted one of the Wilburs.
"I'll sue!" screamed a wrinkled old woman in a sun visor.
We were nearly trampled in the rush to get back on the charabang, and they fled.
After kissing the stone ourselves, we subsequently learned that they DO wash the stone on a regular basis.
This is because local youths think it funny to break into the castle at night and piss on the thing. Lovely.