'ME SEXY PROLOGUE'

Books/True Crime Autobiography of The Month

[An Excerpt from 'WOOOOOERGH!' by 'Lightning' Pete Giffa

Published by Ringpiece Books.]

ME SEXY PROLOGUE

Triffids were throbbin like a stiffy and Boxer were at me elbow gabbin about the bird he’d shit-shagged one night previous when some ‘two second arsehole’ sent evils through optical post.

I put me teeth in.

‘Yor ‘Lightning’ Pete Giffa,’ he gabbed. I nodded. It made me taighters tingle when pilchards knew me God-given.

He pushed his man tits proud.

‘It true you’ve ‘ad three ‘undred thirty-four street fights?’

‘Yeah. It is.’

‘Well I ‘eard you’ve only ‘ad three ‘undred thirty-three.’

The chitty chat queue went wallflower immediate. Violence were everyone’s favourite leisure activity round here. It were something to gab about up the booze kettle – when they weren’t too busy fighting up it that is.

A Giffa Biff twitched at me hip.

He should’ve had more respect. Everyone knew I were Ard.

I spoke with authority.

‘It’s three hundred an’ thirty-four.’

Everyone knew I’d won three hundred and thirty-four street fights without never even looking like losing. In a town where violence were funny, tragic, violent AND funny, each ‘Triffids’ doorman’s tally were writ proud in nightclub neon on a scoreboard above the door. So far, the numbers read as follows:

PISSTAKE: 0

BOXER CLIVE: 157

FISHHOOK: 202

’LIGHTNING’ PETE: 334

FRITTER: 14,897

He give the scoreboard a good look then shrugged his delts.

‘If you fight me now I’ll be your three ‘undred thirty-fourth.’

‘Fifth.’

‘Fourth.’

Me whole body shook, ready to explode with violence. I couldn’t have no one thinking I weren’t Ard – [the last penguin what backed down from a ruck up Triffids become a social pariah and were gobbed at in the street ] - so I went into me pre-fight interview routine I’d adapted from the old westerns. Instead of saying ‘Do ya wanna dance?’ I’d say, ‘Do ya want ME to dance?’ Then pilchards knew if they went pitbull I’d be boppin round their limp bodies in three seconds max. The disrespectful pedant were tick barry.

I measured him for his stitch up suit.

‘Do ya want me to dance?’

‘Yeah I fuckin’ do!’

He set his feet to swing a right but they never called me ‘Lightning’ for nothing.

GIFFA BIFF!

Me famous right mitt crashed into his jaw so Ard, so fast you’d have had no time to get your knob out.

He hit the deck like a dropped trifle, flat on his back spark out. The dull boom of Del the DJ’s next groover throbbed into me bonce as I felt the warm embrace of Fritter and the lads. I stood proud as the whole queue started to chant: GIFFA BOP! GIFFA BOP! GIFFA BOP!

The ‘Giffa Bop’ were a dance routine I performed round unconscious opponents to celebrate winning a ruck. I felt the beat and went into a co-ordinated and entirely spontaneous wiggling of me arse with some fancy footwork thrown in.

As reward for facing danger, everyone slapped me back, bought me six drinks and promised tales of me valour would be repeated for the next two thousand year. ‘Crikey’ I thought. ‘I’m Jesus.’ ……..

Seeing as it weren’t me last ruck up Triffids, I’ve decided to writ this autobiography, about a time what’s largely gone now. A time when most rucks happened ‘off camera,’ when you could commit hundreds of violent assaults then writ a book confessing all! So, if you’re one of them blokes what fantasize about knocking someone unconscious outside a nightclub at two in the morning, I promise me tale of love, violence and people what love violence, will touch you in that special place.

On with the triumphant retelling of bloody battles complete with disparaging remarks about the pilchards what copped it!

I were Ard. And this is me real life true story.

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