Story time here on Saturday as we had too much man flu on Wednesday to do one. But we still have man flu. Hurray!
All the same, we’ve cobbled together this gem of a tale about a fella who wants to show the world he’s got his fellaing in order.
An Exploration of Macho Bravado in The Gobber
Synopsis: A SUPER TOUGH man struts his stuff through a town centre gobbing (spitting) in the street as he ambles along. As he struts, he contemplates just how super tough he well and truly is. Oi oi!
Cast of characters:
- Jezza: One tough SOB man who’s super tough
- Jezza’s mates (fellow fellas)
- Unholy amounts of gob
- Numerous geezerisms
Shine a light, what a day it was to be a fella! A very good day, fella! The footie was on and Jezza (51-years-of-age) was on his way to the match with his mates. Whilst he walked, he gobbed.
He gobbed plenty much.
He gobbed indiscriminately!
He gobbed:
- For Blighty!
- For the men of the world!
- Because he was tough!
Whilst munching on a fish & chips pre-match dinner, Jezza and his mates cross over a main road and head on down the cobbled, terraced streets. Football fans all around them, there’s a murmur of excitement and expectation ahead of the big local game.
Jezza gobbed some more.
Then he turned to his best mate Bozzer (51-years-of-age) and said, “Can’t get no… fuckin’… good parkin’ spaces no more, mate, eh?” Bozzer agreed. He, too, then gobbed in the street. Next to him there was Dozzer (51-years-of-age) who was the caustic type of fella who loved to say it how it is. After gobbing on the road, Dozzer turned to Jeeza and Bozzer and said, “Fuckin’… can’t get no fuckin’… good gravy these days!” To prove his point, he swigged from his mini-gravy container from the chippy and then gobbed the gravy on to the floor. “Shite!” He announced.
The fellas murmured agreement and continued lumbering on down the road, gobbing as they went.
They attended the match. SHINE A LIGHT! Team lost 1-0 because of a penalty. Leaving the stadium, the fellas were free to express their bitter resentment through gobbing.
They gobbed everywhere and swore.
“Fuckin’… ref must be on drugs. Wanker!” Jezza fumed between gobs. The gobbing made him feel better. It made him feel LIKE A MAN.
However, by this point (due to the relentless gobbing everywhere) the fellas were starting to suffer from severe dehydration. They needed a pint or two! Thus, into the fine establishment The Dog and Handgun did they lumber, beer bellies swaying from left to right as they headed to the bar.
Hustling by some big fellas in the packed pub, they got up to the bar for their orders and eyed up the top totty pulling pints. “Oi, oi!” Quipped Dozzer with a cheeky wink. The top totty gave him a look that could be construed as either:
- Clear flirting and a desire for immediate marriage and baby making.
- Utter disdain for such idiotic behaviour from someone clearly 20+ years older then she was.
Dozzer took her glance as the latter. Of course, not being one for the feminists, he rolled up his sleeves to reveal his anchor tattoos and got ready to say it how it is. Before he could, though, he felt an uncontrollable urge to gob. Thus, he did so straight onto the pub’s bar.
The pub immediately descended into a stony silence.
In a moment of abject foolhardiness, Dozzer had committed the greatest sin of fella-based geezerisms—DO NOT GOB ON THE BAR.
To reiterate, for those uninitiated with what should be international law written in stone, the tactic rule of gobbing is to NEVER gob on the bar. A fella has to put his pint there, after all, so gobbing straight onto such a region is an:
- Insult to fellas across the land.
- Incitement to riot.
Dozzer and the fellas weren’t in the mood for some fisticuffs, but his lapse in fella-based concentration was an indication a barroom brawl was mere moments away.
There was a collective sigh amongst the pubgoers.
After the match, they weren’t really in the mood to throw fists at each other and yell stuff like, “Yer gonna get yer fuckin’ ‘ed kicked in, matey!” It was 8pm, it’d been a long day, and everyone was tired. For many in the pub, the beer had kicked in and they were enjoying the warm embrace of alcohol—they were jolly, rather than at the stage of drunkenness where aggression became an important thing. It was important to keep such moments for later in the night, when the hazy lack of memory meant the next day the fella didn’t need to dwell too seriously on his actions.
Jezza sighed. The previously jovial mood would be ruined by some geezer’s hairy knuckles slamming into his big blotchy red nose.
But… gobbing rules are gobbing rules, tacit or otherwise, and the fellas of the pub resigned themselves to their fate.
Yet things took a turn for the fella when the landlord stepped in to ensure his establishment wasn’t left in ruin. He anticipated the brawl, then blocked it by initiating the most fabled standoff in all of felladom—a Gob Off.
The Gob Off
A Gob Off is much like a Wild West styled fast draw. Those skilled gunslinger thugs of the 19th century were now replaced by beer belly sporting fellas ready and willing to prove their man bloke credentials by gobbing.
The landlord had laid down the Lord of the Land.
He challenged Dozzer to a Gob Off—there was a sharp intake of breath from all the assembled post-match geezers. Then one fella broke wind, chortled, and wheezed, “Better out than in!” A fine, upstanding hero who no doubts says it how it is.
Whilst that alleviated the tension of the moment, the fact was Dozzer had been challenged. Unless he wanted to look like a big girl’s blouse and/or a reader of The Guardian, he had to accept the Gob Off. Steeling himself, he downed the rest of his pint. He waited a moment for the belch. The belch arrived, he dispensed with it, then he gazed into the eyes of the landlord, “You’re on, fella!”
Outside they went into the street.
The assembled fellas followed, with Jezza and Bozzer looking on wondering whether to call the cops. But they didn’t want to go all nanny state on the moment, so decided to let Dozzer control his own fate.
Dozzer VS the Landlord.
There they stood in the dark of night, lamposts lighting the moment and making their beer bellies look round and true. They stood three feet apart, eyeing each other as the crowd went silent. The only sound was the bellowing drunken roars of a separate crowd of fellas somewhere off in the distance: “OO ARE YA!? OO ARE YA!? OO ARE YA!?”
Dozzer and the Landlord eyeballed each other hard, waiting for the first sign of who would gob first.
The tension was unbelievable!
Again, the bloke from before broke wind and muttered “Better out than in!” because he was determined to uphold his saying it how it is honour.
In a flash, the Gob Off commenced! There was the sound of two audible hacks, two spits, and then a cry of shock followed by the crumple of one fella hitting the ground with gob all over his anguished mug.
Dozzer lay there as the ashamed fella. The landlord had bested him.
The assembled geezers began a chant of “WHO ATE ALL THE PIES!?” whilst leering and jeering at Dozzer, who tried his best not to burst into tears but felt his lower lip trembling somewhat as he wiped the gob off his face and staggered to his feet.
The landlord jeered at Dozzer and grabbed at his crotch, revelling in the moment and relieved his pub was saved from another trashing—arms in the air, he roared over and over “I AM THE GOBBER!” As little did Jezza, Bozzer, or Dozzer know… that landlord was The Gobbing Champion of the North West, having won titles in ’74, ’75, ’84, and ’97. There was simply no chance Dozzer could ever have beaten him.
But Jezza and Bozzer wouldn’t have cared had they known one way or another. They shook their heads in disgust. They knew that was the end of their friendship with Dozzer. No chance could they be seen in public with that bellend ever again after that shambles.
And so the crowd of geezers lumbered off back home, a fresh new day awaiting them tomorrow with new possibilities to say it how it is and stick it to the libtards.
All except Dozzer. Pity the poor man.
Dejected, he went straight to the nearest newsagents and bought a pack of four. He sat on the edge of the pavement downing the beer whilst some scallies in hoodies, up late at night robbing parked cars, threw chips at him.
Dozzer let the chips bounce off him as he drank away his failures as a fella.
He never would be the same again. Within 12 months he was divorced, friendless, and moved from Blackburn to Burnley to try and escape the relentless taunts of his greatest ever night of shame.
