Stephen Hawking reads It's Mawdsley!
Listen to the legendary author of A Brief History of Time read extracts from the equally awe-inspiring It's Mawdsley.
Click the heading of each excerpt and allow Hawking's soothing voice-tones to wash all over you.
“YOU’RE COSTING ME MONEY, YOU PRICK.”
I looked over me shoulder and there was this sweaty fat fucker what looked like a fucking farmer, ready to kick 1 off on me.
“I CAN’T FIND ME FUCKING NUMBER,” I said, showing him this bit of paper what some Job Centre muppet gave me.
The dickhead grabbed a card out the rack and flapped it about in me fucking face. “HERE IT IS, YOU DICKHEAD,” he shouted. “333.”
Written along the top in ballpoint was the number 333, not 333 like I told the fucking prick me number was. So I told the nobhead, “THAT’S 333, YOU FUCKING NOBHEAD. MY NUMBER’S 333.”
“YEAH,” he said. “THIS IS 333.”
“NO,” I said, “LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY, YEAH? MY NUMBER IS 333. THAT’S 333, YOU ABSOLUTE DICK.”
He looked at me like I was a fucking prick or something. “IT’S RIGHT HERE, YOU FUCKING PRICK. 33-FUCKING-3.”
“What the fuck do you want, you disgusting piece of chav scum filth?”
“I want some FreeFuckingMoney,” I said. “You arselicking twat.”
He picked up a form and a pen and got ready to write. “And how much money are you after, sir?” he asked. “You penniless piece of fucking shit.”
“Fucking shitloads,” I said. “You slippery nob-gnawing Roladex ringpieced woofter.”
The dickhead wrote FUCKING SHITLOADS in the LOAN SUM box. “And for what purpose do you need this money, sir?” he asked. “You nightmare chav from Satan’s bellend.”
“I want to buy shitloads of drugs,” I said. “You splitarse fartlicker what uses dicks like kids use slides.”
He wrote DRUGS in the LOAN SUM PURPOSE box. “And under what terms will you be able to repay the loan?” he asked. “You laughably misguided little turd.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I said. “Err. You fucking nob.”
“When will you be able to pay us back?” he asked. “You rabid dick-hungry weasel fart.”
“I’m not going to pay you back,” I said. “You daft twat what travels to work by bouncing down the street with a pogo-stick absolutely jammed up your fucking arse.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got to pay us back, sir.”
“No I don’t. I don’t got to do fucking nothing. All I’m going to do is get absolutely tapped to fuck off me bollocks and when all the money’s gone I’m going to borrow more money off dickheads.”
“You’re a fucking prick you are,” he said.
I looked at him sitting between Noddy and Kojak, his flaming red
eyes were staring at me through his Trick Or Treat novelty tarmac face.
Everyone in the room sensed the entertainment shift away from the tele to actual real life in the actual fucking living room.
“You think you’re a SmartCunt, don’t you?” Twat continued. “With your top gear on and that. But really you’re just an absolute fucking prick. Look at this cunt, lads! He thinks he’s a SmartCunt. But actually he’s an absolute fucking prick.”
Tosser leaned forward to pass the weasel onto Fucking Ringpiece who was lying on the other side of the room, just to deny me the privilege to cement his affiliation with Twat vis-à-vis me being a fucking prick. I knew the fucking score, like.
“He thinks he’s not a fucking prick,” Twat persisted, “but he fucking is. He’s an absolute fucking prick when you think about it. All you’ve got to do is look at him to realise what I’m saying is correct. He’s an absolute fucking prick and no 1 could even doubt that for a fucking second. When you look right up close to a prick like what I’m fucking doing. Prrrrick.”
I was pure dismissive. I called him a dick and looked back at the tele.
“What was that?” said Twat.
“What was what?” I said.
Twat got up and walked towards me. “You just called me a dick, didn’t you?”
“No I fucking didn’t,” I said.
“Yeah you fucking did,” he said.
“No, I fucking didn’t,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “you fucking did. And I’m going to beat the absolute living shit out of you, yeah?”
I was in no mood for any of this showboating wank – not today – so I held up me hands and said to the wankstain, “Look, m8. Ffffuck off, yeah? The only reason I came round was to give you that money what I owed you and show you this shithot new stuff what Baxter gave me.”
“So tell me how gooood you think America is, muthafucka.”
I thought about it for a bit then told him I thought it was top because of Goodfellas and Maniac Cop 3 and all those shit-hot porn videos what I’d wanked over.
“Be more specific, muthafucka. I wanna feeeel how good you think this muthafucka is, biyatch.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You feeling dick.”
“If America was muthafucking puddy, tell me what you’d do with the muthafucka.”
“I’d stick me fucking nob up it. You sweaty arse bastard.”
“Yeeees,” he said, like a cunt what’s getting interested. “Would ya stick it in slow, like. Or really really fast like you were pounding that muthafucking shit.”
“Really really fast.”
“Till yo’ muthafucking dick was bleeding and shit?”
“Yeah.”
“And when yo’ white honky ass was ready to bust a nut in the muthafucka, would you spray that shit on the titties, or just unload that shit in the muthafucking puddy?”
“No. I’d fucking squirt it all over the cunt’s face.”
“Yeeeeesss. Yo’ honky ass just loooves America don’t it, muthafucka? With yo’ English ass.”
I said nothing. I just stared at him feeling a very strong urge to Eternally Headbutt the dickhead.
“And when you were through busting a nut on Uncle Sam’s muthafucking face, what would you do next, bitch? Would you be finished, muthafucka?”
“No. I’d fucking bend the slag over and pound her raw up the muthafucking dirtflaps.”
DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW? YOU BORING, BOOKREADING TIT
BUY NOW:
