I once had a sidekick whose name was not dissimilar to Prick. His party trick, once a suitable thimble of methylated spirits had been consumed, was to expose himself with a wild leer, a 'Hoo hooo' and a leprechaun's jig. As for the item that was revealed, it was rather insubstantial but still unmistakeably gonadic.
This facility of his was once used to shock the bride's grandmother at his cousin's wedding. But its most damning revelation took place on the night I accompanied him to a basement watering hole not far from St Paul's cathedral. It had a smug disco and a slimy dancefloor full of suitlings jiving to the jismic sounds of Billy Ocean.
I was just ordering another round of lighter fluid when I heard a disturbance behind me. No sooner had I revolved to admire this development than I spotted my sidekick gyrating wildly in the middle of the arena with his flies undone and a small gerbil poking out. It verily seemed to be nibbling the air, hungry for nuts or a dark hole in which to burrow.
Rather surprisingly the feeble-minded patrons of the establishment fled in stark terror as this corybantic midget whooped, swung his todger skywards and unleashed a gleaming arc of silver.
Alas the landlord was not as impressed as I and began chasing my sidekick around the circular bar at least three times. Naturally I applauded their feats of athleticism heartily.
Sadly my sidekick stumbled to the floor with his trousers tangled up in his boots and was captured. To our amazement we were then both swiftly ejaculated from the pub and barred for life.
To this day our pictures hang on the wall, a stern admonishment to anyone who might dare extricate his pinkie from his pants in a public place.
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