Wednesday lunchtime

[SteveH]

Picture the scene. It is a Wenesday, the pub has been open half an hour and the only sign of life in the public bar since the recent if happy demise of the last fly in the Stella Artois drip tray is the barman himself attempting the Daily Star crossword with only limited success.
Into this scene of torpor, then, walks a smiling customer. He is built along the lines of a successful prop forward, and is wearing (from the bottom up) Lime green patent leather over the knee boots with 10cm heels, fishnet tights, a matching lime green patent leather micro-mini skirt, a strappy top in the colour called (and never more aptly) Shocking Pink and a blonde wig. But what really makes him stand out is the enormous Alsatian dog on a lead by his side.
The barman takes in this scene slowly and it is clear he is struggling with himself. He opens his mouth to ask the customer what he would like to drink but just at that moment notices a patch of upper arm where depilatory cream has lost the unequal struggle and a kind of oasis of black hair stands out against the otherwise smooth skin. So instead of the intended polite, "What can I get you?", what comes out of the barman's mouth is a stifled but unmistakable guffaw.
The smile leaves the customer's face instantly. He looks at the dog and lisps, "Rocky, get him!" (I know...it is impossible to lisp a sentence in which there are no esses, but you get the idea).
Rocky, who on grounds of size alone would have been more at home at Badminton than Crufts clears the bar in a single bound, pins the unfortunate barman to the wall and barks, "Bowsy wowsy"