“Morning’, Whacker.”

“Ah, Mick. There you are. Long time no see.”

“I wish it could’ve been longer, Whack.”

“Same here, but the ladies seem to think it’s more than adequate.”

“They’re just being kind, Whacker, even a blind woman knows three inches when she feels it.”

“I can’t fold mine in three, Mick. Does it not hurt when you do that?”

“Hurt who? Me or her?”

“I’ll ask her the next time I see her, will I?”

“She wouldn’t know, Whacker. She has no concept of numerical length.”

“How do you mean, numerical length?”

“Look, Whacker, if you show something to most women, let’s say a three inch cock, for example, and you tell her that it’s six inches long, their frame of reference doesn’t process that properly.”

“That sounds like a lot of bollox, Mick. It’s still only three inches long.”

“Yeah, but if she thinks it’s six inches, she’ll tell her mates and they’ll be pissed off.”

“Not if her mates’ husbands told them that theirs were nine inches long.”

“I think most of us keep things a little more on this side of reality, Whacker. A nine inch cock? For fuck’s sake, you’d need to carry that around in a briefcase.”

“It wouldn’t be that brief, Mick.”

“You could apply for a job as a tripod.”

“Ha Ha. You got me there.”

“Anyway, my dear Whacker, enough of this airy banter. I’m looking for a bike for the missus.”

“You’ll have to throw in some money too, Mick. I can’t do a straight swap.”

“Prick! You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, sorry. I couldn’t resist that.”

“Try your best in future, Whack.”

“What kind of a bike does she want, Mick?”

“A woman’s bike, have you never worked in a bike shop before?”

“Fuck sake! Does she want a racer or a mountain bike? Does she want a pink one or a black one? Do you even know what she wants?”

“I know what she needs, Whack. I’d never presume to think I know what she wants.”

“Does she have any preferences?”

“She likes a bit of educated tongue of a Thursday morning with a bit of cock thrown into her before mass on Sunday.”

“I didn’t mean ….”

“Saturday nights are gentlemen’s choice, so I watch United getting fucked instead.”

“Ha Ha! Brilliant.”

“All I can think of is, having rode her twice last night, is to get her one with a big saddle. She’s getting very flappy down there.”

“The woman’s after having six kids, Mick, what do you expect?”

“Yeah, but if she was really interested, she would’ve done those exercises that they all do.”

“What exercises?”

“You know the ones to tighten it up?”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Maybe they were talking about something else. I wonder if I stuck her in the spin dryer would it shrink her up a bit. It worked on my new overalls.”

“Yeah, and it might tighten up her mouth a bit too.”

“Then I might not get my cock into it, Whacker. This isn’t a one-size-fits-all thing.”

“It might keep her quiet, though.”

“Maybe, but it's a bit of a cleft stick, isn't it? So what about the big saddle then? Have you got one or not?”

“I haven’t got an extraordinarily big one, Mick, but I could get one in for you.”

“In where?”

“In here, you prick, the shop!”

“It might need to be a horse’s saddle.”

“Hang on there. I might have just the thing for you.”

“What?”

“Hang on, will you? Frankie came up with this idea a few weeks ago. I think it’s going to fly out of the shop.”

“What? Is it a helicopter or something?”

“Close enough. Ah here it is.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a saddle that has this appendage sticking up in the air for the ladies to pleasure themselves on when they’re out riding.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Look, it’s adjustable so they can make it bigger or bigger again, and it leans either way at a forty-degree angle depending on the latitudinal plane of entry.”

“Ah, I see. It's articulated to facilitate those who like to lean forward like Lance Armstrong, or those with a preference to recline a little, like Mrs. Lance Armstrong. All this is short of is a bucket underneath to catch the come. Imagine the smell on the streets if it wasn’t monitored. It’d be like London during the plague.”

“Are you finished?”

“Imagine poor Mrs. Corcoran down the road there; the woman with the shakes. What have you got against the likes of her, Whacker?”

“It’s just an idea, Mick, that’s all.”

“What’s it called?”

“We haven’t got a name for it yet. The wife said to call it the ‘Get It Inta Ya, Cynthia’.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Paula.”

“How much are they?”

“Twenty quid.”

“Give me two, will you? And a tandem.”

“You’re a dirty little fucker, Mick.”

“Yeah. So am I.”

END