Mum and Dad only getting into bloody country & western

A COUPLE in their 50s are throwing themselves into the local country & western scene with sodding cowboy hats and everything, it has emerged.

Roy and Sandra Hobbs are causing distress to their children with their newfound devotion to line-dancing, Hank Williams, and wearing hand-tooled red leather cowboy boots in Asda.

Son Tim said: “I can’t get in Dad’s car without hearing something like On The Mountain Trail To Your Lonesome Heart. Some of them have got fucking yodelling in.

“Then last time they came downstairs dressed up for their line-dancing night. Mum was a gender-swapped Woody from Toy Story and Dad looked like Boss Hogg after he’d really let himself go.

“Even worse, they’ve started wearing this shit in everyday life. My mate Ben saw Dad in the post office and Dad said ‘Howdy, pardner.’ Ben didn’t think it was a joke.”

Daughter Suzanne agreed: “Mum’s started putting up country-themed pictures of wild mustangs and saloons. I think she thinks the Wild West was basically a cowboy Center Parcs.

“Last night she said how nice it would be to live in a cabin ‘on the prarie’. I remided her she won’t put the washing out if next door’s cocker spaniel’s in the garden. Fuck knows how she thinks she’d cope with a bear.”

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Why asking me to be your bridesmaid at the age of 38 will end our friendship

IT’S not my fault you’re getting married. I don’t see why I should be punished. 

But, nevertheless, you are not only going ahead with a full church wedding at an age when it is ridiculous to do so, you have demanded that I be your bridesmaid.

While you claim that you’re asking me to do you ‘this honour’ because I am ‘so special’, forcing a friend to spend a day looking like a hippo dressed up in her nan’s sofa cover can only be motivated by revenge.

What did I do to deserve this? Is it karma for a heinous deed in a past life, or have you been playing the long game and it’s retribution for when I set the school toilets on fire and blamed you for smoking?

I can’t say no without looking like an ungrateful cow, and you also know that I’ll get so pissed to cope with the discomfort that I’ll end up doing something doubly embarrassing like shagging your Uncle Alan again.

And while I can fuck with you a bit by organising a hideous Cardiff hen night involving a pole dancing class and enough Jägerbombs to kill a horse, the damage is done.

On what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, I will be wearing peach satin, struggling to breathe because I never lost that last stone, and seated at the top table well away from all the fun and right next to your fucking mother.

I’m already planning my next wedding, just to even the score.