The Truth about Goats
Mum was reading an election leaflet: ‘Fuck me. Mrs May says she will no longer be providing free school lunches.’
‘She’s not normally such a bitch,’ observed Chip.
‘Not that Mrs May,’ explained Biff, ‘It’s the Mrs May who lives in Downing Street.’
‘The one who looks like she has a magic key stuffed up her arse?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘She’s a fucking liability,’ remarked Mum.
‘No, corrected Biff, ‘That’s Boris Johnson.’
‘So no food, then?’ asked Chip, as Floppy gnawed on a bone he had stolen from Kipper.
Mum moved the growling Kipper to the other side of the kitchen: ‘It just means Dad will be making your packed lunches.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Biff.
‘Yeah, if you wanted us to get dysentery,’ said Chip, ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker just to lick Floppy’s balls’.
‘Three Ginsters’ pasties and a can of Red Bull coming right up,’ chirped Dad as he lurched up from his armchair and promptly put his foot through the partition door.
‘You’ll be getting a free breakfast instead,’ read Mum. ‘It’s the most important fuckin’ meal of the fuckin’ day according to Mrs May.’
‘Is that why you drink gin first thing?’ asked Chip innocently.
‘I refuse to be one of those Slummy Mummies that just feed their kids frozen fish fingers and crystal meth,’ said Mum, hurling another bone at Kipper. ‘Now, set your alarm clocks for 5 a.m. and don’t fuckin’ wake me up on your way out.’
The canteen was eerily quiet, with only the Creepy Caretaker, ladling out his suspiciously lumpy porridge.
‘Can I interest you in a burnt sausage?’ murmured the caretaker, scratching at his groin.
‘Stranger danger,’ whispered Biff.
‘What’s the veggie option?’ asked Chip.
‘Fruit Loops,’ said the caretaker, sniffing his fingers.
‘How’s that one of my fucking five a day?’
‘It has all the colours of the rainbow.’
‘So does a fuckin’ hemorrhoid, but I wouldn’t want to eat one,’ snapped Chip.
Biff reluctantly grabbed a cereal bar: ‘Thank you, Jamie Fuckin’ Oliver.’
Even Floopy didn’t fancy this dog’s breakfast.