Marks & Spencer? I Shit 'Em


By Mervyn King, Governor of the Bank of England

SO there I am setting up the stall, right, early doors, when who should amble over all casual-like but my old pal, Mr Marks and Sparks himself, Sir Stuart knobbing Rose. The total cock-fucker. Still I was glad it was him. I thought at first it might have been the Excise. Tossing fuck-tits.

Anyway, he’s all hand made suit and silk tie. Very posh. None of that polyester shit like he knocks out himself up West. “Nice schmutter,” I says. “Autograph is it?” all coy like, and he nods, looking sheepish. “Autograph my arse,” says I. “You lying tit arse sock banger. What do you think I am? Some kind of swivel-eyed shitting jock felcher?”

“Look Merv,” he says. “Me and the boys, the Selfridges, Peter Jones, even that demented Arab fuck at Harrods well, we’ve been talking and well… well, we think that interest rates are too high and all and that, well, you know it’s not good for any of us, is it? You neither, on the stall here, not good for business at all.”

“No fucking problemo, mate,” I says. “I’ll get on the dog now, chew up Charlie Bean at the Bank and have a few points shaved off before you can fiddle. How low you want to go?” And he says, all trusting like, “oh I don’t know, I reckon fifty should do it for now.”

“Fifty,” I say, all slow and deliberate. “Fifty. You seen the latest inflation report, you fucking cock holer? I’m up to my piss flaps in petrol prices and gas bills and you want fifty basis off? I’ve got the mad jocko on the phone every 15 minutes telling me to fucking uncrunch some credits or he’s going to string me up by my knob from the Monument and you want me to open my arse and let you pump it just because no tart in Britain wants to be seen dead in a pair of your minge mufflers anymore? You fucking fuck-butter. Fuck right off.”

So then he’s givin’ it all, “Merv, Merv, it’s not just me, it’s the whole market that’s off, everyone’s suffering, even that mad kike Green at Bhs”. In fact the only ones coining any shilling at all, he says, is those ponces at Waitrose, and that’s only because they don’t mind selling to the gays.

“Pissing fuck,” I say. “Look around you Rosey, my stall is totally knobbed, and I don’t sell nothing to nonces, not even if I’m wearing gloves. Just while we’ve been talking I’ve knocked out ten copies of The Golden Compass on disc and four of a porn DVD my mate Barry made with some drunken slut he picked up in a titty bar. I’ve sold four boxes of stolen Mars Bars, a Japanese steel extending truncheon, a flick knife, two tasers and a Nazi helmet. Recession? You wanna get yourself down the fucking market. There’s no recession here.”

Any road up, better get myself spruced. Speaking to a load of bankers at the Mansion House tonight. Cock-mingers.

  • Share: