The Pratts Go To London (The Pratts Series Book 1) - Peter Loaf Wunderlich

The Pratts Go To London (The Pratts Series Book 1) by Peter Loaf Wunderlich

Book excerpt

The sun rose slowly, as it usually does, on another heatwave day. If it possessed a face, I am sure it would scowl and bob its tongue out at the world below. It popped its blazing head above the rooftops of the Chavington Council Estate and bathed the area in an eerie stillness, like the beginning of an apocalyptic movie… Well, that’s enough of that crap… Now for the actual story.

Postman Pat and his black and white cap bounced merrily and quickly down Snarling Lane, aptly named because of the number of unregistered banned breeds of vicious dogs that resided there.

He swayed from side to side to the music that played through the Bluetooth headphones that were imbedded in his ears and connected to his mobile phone. He constantly glanced around, like a small rodent on high alert for the potential attack of a predator, before disappearing down the path of number thirteen to drop off their mail.

The six foot four, bald headed, flat nosed, twenty stone plus, shell suited and Doc Martin wearing figure of Bronco and his American Bull Mastiff Brutus, were out for their early morning toilet dump on someone else’s property, that’s the dog not Bronco, but you never know. They were the top dogs of the estate and as usual Bronco surveyed his domain with satisfaction. He loved the place, with its mixture of high-rise flats and houses.

You could really tell the difference between the council owned dwellings and those that had been purchased; and boy did those who owned their properties make it obvious, as they walked around with their noses in the air, as though they were bloody royalty.

Bronco and Brutus also swayed to a musical beat, but neither of them were listening to anything and no music could be heard around them, except by them of course. Maybe it had something to do with the joint hanging precariously from the side of Bronco’s mouth, (and I am not talking about the meat variety. Wink wink) and the fact that the pungent smelling smoke was drifting down into the flared and welcoming nostrils of Brutus, who had a maniacal grin on his face.

Now Bert, the estates oldest and grumpiest resident, was zooming down the pavement on his Motability scooter, without a care for his or anyone else’s safety. His baseball cap was on backwards and as usual he wore his badge encrusted leather jacket, faded jeans and Converse trainers. He liked to think he was a cool, trendy dude, but actually he looked like a right plonker.

He passed the house of his sworn enemy the snooty gossiping Ms Parker, who was always peering from behind her curtains as Bert passed by. As usual he stopped his machine and turned his head in her direction and gave her his one fingered good morning salute. A mischievous grin across his wrinkled face. Then he wiggled his little finger at her. A gesture he used to mean ‘withered clit.’

She in turn stuck two fingers up at Bert and then pointed at him with her index finger before letting it fall limp. This counter attack meant ‘dead dick.’

And then Bert was off to get his early morning newspaper and boiled sweets and relished the same encounter the next day. This banter would continue until death do they part and basically what made getting up in the morning worthwhile for them both.

Around the corner in Blossom Street. (Yeah I know, how the hell do they get these names, there wasn’t a bloody tree in sight). The Mohammed family, refugees from an oppressive regime and owners of Mo’s Market, the only convenience store on the estate, were bringing out their produce to display in front of their shop. Huge smiles adorned their faces as they happily greeted another, good to be alive and free, day.

They seemed to dance in a procession like they were in a carnival parade, as one by one, grandad, grandma, father, mother and their four children of varying ages carried out fruit, veg and large sacks of potatoes, plonking them carefully in their designated places, before heading back into the shop to bring out more.

Across the road sitting on her step, legs wide apart and showing off her blue bloomers, was the crouched and weathered figure of Mrs Schmitt, known locally as Luftwaffe. She had a roll up sticking out of her toothless mouth and sucked at it like a baby suckling at its mother’s milk bloated breast.

She suddenly started to laugh and pointed to where a group of six ultra-slow joggers wobbled past. They called themselves ‘The Fat Busters’ and they were not a pretty sight.

Male and female joggers ran along the road like a herd of Hippo’s, their huge bellies swaying one way as their ample bums swayed the opposite way. The women’s boobs jostled for position under their tops and the jogging bottoms of both genders slid down to reveal their bum cracks. Grand Canyon sort of springs to mind. But hey, at least they were trying to lose some weight. (You could just imagine Sir David Attenborough doing the voice over narration for their epic migration… ‘And the dominant male leads his bloat to their favourite watering hole, Mart’s Cafe, for a full on English breakfast, washed down with a diet coke).

Meanwhile, Bronco and his dog were still on their dump run. Brutus suddenly ran down the path of a house, almost pulling Bronco’s arm out of its socket. Brutus then squatted down and unceremoniously delivered a steaming pile of crap and pee for the unsuspecting residents to wake up to. Bronco then dragged his befouling mutt away quickly and headed home.

Postman Pat was thankfully nearing the end of his round, which had been uneventful for a change. He strode nonchalantly down the path of number two and suddenly flew into the air as he slipped on the still fresh dog mess.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiii…t!” He yelled.

Letters, poo and Pat, soared together into the air and seemed to hang there for a split second before they all crashed to the floor with a loud splat.

Pat slowly got up onto his hands and knees and crawled like a baby to the front door and pushed the mail through the letter box. He climbed to his feet and adjusted his cap, which had miraculously stayed on his head. He looked down at his faeces covered clothes, mail bag and hands.

“Great! Just friggin’ perfect.” He yelled at the empty street around him, before turning away to deliver his remaining pungent letters. Then it was back to the depot to have the piss taken out of him.

The letters lay haphazardly in the hallway in anticipation of being opened. A spooky stillness seemed to hang over the scene, as though awaiting an impending disaster.

Suddenly, a green mist began to emanate from one of the envelopes, like a cartoon fart, and an elephant’s trunk slowly snaked its way out, like a turd from a constipated bum. The trunk was soon followed by a set of gleaming ivory tushes. Then its head, body, and legs. And so there, in the hallway of number two High Avenue, stood a fluffy pink Asian cow elephant, its trunk sniffing the air as it looked around the dimly lit hall, before entering the lounge.

It was a pretty standard sort of council house room. Brick surround fireplace with a gas fire at its centre. Magnolia paint on the walls, with the customary charity shop picture here and there. A fifty-inch television and Sky box stood in one corner and a three-piece well-worn leather suite opposite. A coffee table, with two clean empty ashtrays and a piggy bank, sat as a reminder that the residents of this fine abode, had given up smoking and could now afford a few luxuries. The table was also covered in magazines and newspapers, all waiting in front of the google box in anticipation of another day of viewing a multitude of crap.