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Monday, February 26, 2024
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HomeCulture WarsDon’t tamper with the tampons!

Don’t tamper with the tampons!

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IT’S Christmas Eve and the office party at Chortle Council is well under way. Ralph and Geoff, both heading for retirement, are sharing a pleasant exchange at the urinals . . .

Geoff: All right, Ralph?

Ralph [his party hat has slipped over one eye]: Aye, not bad. Having to visit this place more regularly than I used to, but hey, suppose it’s only to be expected.

Geoff: You been to get your prostate looked at? Supposed to, you know, when you get to your age.

Ralph: My age! Yer cheeky blighter, yer can’t be far behind me.

Geoff {chuckling]: Nah, I’m not. Was going to retire last year, and the year before that. Come to think of it, this is me fifth year since I was going to retire.

Ralph: So why haven’t yer?

Geoff: Muriel.

Ralph: As in Muriel, your loving other half of forty-five years Muriel?

Geoff: Hmmm. I swear she’s psychic. Every year, just when I’m about to tell her I’m going to retire, I get home to a candlelit dinner, the only one when I’m allowed to drink Guinness and put tomato sauce on me spuds, and she talks non-stop for at least ten minutes predicting imminent apocalypse, and any other reason she can think of why I should do at least another year . . .  what about you? You could’ve retired ages ago.

Ralph: Just picture your candlelit dinner, only at my house, and yer get the picture . . .

Geoff: ‘Ere, you seen that box on the wall over there? They put it up last week.

Ralph: Aye, not paid it any attention to it to be honest. What d’ya think it is?

Geoff [tapping his knuckles on the box]: Not sure, it doesn’t say but the picture on the front looks like finger bandages.

Ralph: Hey, hang on, isn’t that where the condom machine used ter be? Where’s that gone?

Geoff: They moved it into the ladies’ loos in the summer . . . Anyway, don’t you remember that first aid course we did last month at head office? They said we had to have ‘accessible first aid kits’. Yup, I reckon it’s a finger bandage dispenser.

Ralph: But why just finger bandages? Not much bloody use if yer cut yer arm, are they? And, why do we have to pay a pound? Why wouldn’t they be free? Yer can’t be faffing about fer a pound coin if yer bleeding ter death from yer pinky, can yer? Nah, I reckon they’re some sort of nose bung, yer know, ter stop nose bleeds.

Geoff: Look a bit big to stuff up your nostril, don’t you think?

Ralph: So, if they’re not finger bandages or nose bungs, what are they?

Geoff: ’Ere, just a tick – when I think back a bit – well, it’s a good while ago now, I seem to remember the wife having something similar to that in the bathroom cabinet . . . Aaah . . . I remember . . . oh, nah, they can’t be.

Ralph: I know – you got a pound coin on yer?

Geoff: You want to buy one?

Ralph: Well, at least we’d know.

Geoff: Yup, right here we go. [Puts a coin into the slot – nothing happens.] It’s not working. [Bangs the box firmly.] Nope, and I’m not wasting another quid.

Ralph: ’Ere, let me have a go. [Rattles the box with both hands – crash, bang).

Geoff: Bloody ’ell, Ralph, you didn’t need to rip it off the bloody wall. Look,  there’s boxes all over the place.

Ralph: Yeah, but at least it’s working now. Hmmm, now let me see [holding up a tampon]. Well, it ain’t no finger bandage, my friend; look, it’s solid. 

Geoff: Chuck one over . . . yup, you’re right, but it ain’t no nose bung either. See, it gets stuck at as soon as you shove it in. [Geoff has tampons protruding from both nostrils.]

Ralph: Wait, I know . . . ear plugs! [Ralph has a tampon sticking out of both ears.]

Well refreshed from the party, Geoff and Ralph, both seasoned dad dancers, begin to thrust and jerk their way around the boxes, complete with sound effects. The door opens and in walks the teetotal HR manager, Mr Jones.

Mr Jones: Ralph, Geoff.

Ralph/Geoff [Standing up straight and removing the tampons from nostrils and ears]: Mr Jones.

Geoff: We were just . . . erm . . .

Mr Jones: My office, ten minutes . . . and clean up this bloody mess.

Ralph/Geoff: Yes, Mr Jones.

Door slams shut behind Mr Jones.

Geoff: Bloody hell, Ralph, now what do we do?

Ralph: Cook Muriel a candlelit dinner, open a bottle of champers and tell her that yer don’t need ter retire anymore . . . cos you’ve been sacked.

THE END

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