Irene And The Space Corps : The Birth of a Legend

Here’s Irene. She’s a bit of a cunt, is Irene. Her allotted, and happily embraced, duty in life is to sit at the end of the bar being this bit of a cunt. The ends of her mouth have never really been asked to curl upwards, so she’s stuck with a soggy bit of gob-flap and chin that looks a bit hinged. Also, she can just about wipe her arse with her tits.
Here is how she got borned.

Irene Genesis

Don’t be sucked in by the gormless face. She’s alive in there, somewhere. Don’t give her sympathy because she looks, and in all likelihood is, utterly retarded. She isn’t one of the giggling, lovely dumbers that you don’t mind giving up a Saturday to play with.
My dealings with Irene started when I was running the family pub, so they could go on holiday. I was happily serving the regular punters, when this malevolent flesh-sac hauled her spongy bulk to the serving hatch.

“So why are you here then?” she asked.
“They’ve gone on holiday,” I replied, with a joyful smile and a slinky flick of my hips.
“Who, Liz and Jeff?”

There was a relish in her voice, and I knew what was happening. Allow me to explain. I’ll be as brief as possible.

My dad opened the pub with my brother. My mum and my sister-in-law help out, as do I when I’m in Nottingham. This means that a successful older gentleman is seen working with a rather beautiful woman much his junior; the only conclusion can be that they’re stinking up their gender-specifics every chance the dirty sex-rats get. So I’m suddenly, absolutely sure that Irene is going to tell me my father is fucking my sister-in-law.

“No, the whole family.”

A short pause – for effect. She knows exactly what she’s going to say next. It’s in her blood.

“Well, it’s your brother I feel sorry for.”

Oh, you stylish bitch. That lordly tactic of the experienced and shameless gossip; say nothing, say everything, just colour yourself as a concerned observer. I have to be very careful. I have to be as good as she is. I’m going to be sly, give nothing away. I am a panther, I wear slippers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Irene.”

Excellent. But Irene was expecting this; her cardigan bristled with static charge from her impending attack.

You know.” She was pressing down the fire button and holding in down, charging her main weapon. In the seconds it took me to think of any response, she audibly sucked the inside of her head, repositioned her arms, and slurped;

“Of course, it’s your brother as I feel sorry fer.”

My weapon flies from my hand. I have nothing to say in reply to this. I cycle through traditional Coronation Street replies; “you want to look closer to home, our Reeny”- “save your pity, it’s not welcome here” – etc. But I can see how it’d all pan out. She’d come back with “if you can’t see what’s under your nose, it’s no lookout of mine”, sling a tit over her shoulder and huff out.
Irene is one of those people who’re impenetrable with routine and a complete inability to suffer self-doubt. As a person, she’s so visibly hideous and transparently fuelled by spite that it must take an awesome amount of delusional self-justification simply to survive. So I decide to ignore her, and pretend there’s something in the kitchen that needs doing.
As it turns out, there is all the ingredients for a cheese and ham salad roll, so that cheers me up no end.
When I come out again, she doesn’t waste a second. She chooses her weapon – repetition;
“As I say, it’s your brother as I feel sorry for.”
But me, I’m the player of the game, I’m the dancer of the dance. I’ve got something up my sleeve.
Oh, fuck off, you nasty-minded bitch.

Irene In Action

She replies with something about seeing what’s under her nose, I went on to say something about looking closer to home and keeping her beak out of what doesn’t concern her. So much, I wanted to bend down, pick up one of her tits, and shout “HOW CAN SOMETHING SO EMPTY TAKE UP SO MUCH SPACE?”
Well, at least I’d drawn her attention away from my family – now she saw me as the enemy. As much dirt in the world as there is, it turned out that the only muck she had on me was… well, that there’s a TV show coming out this year based on the Law of the Playground.
“Well, at least I don’t need Channel 4,” she spat.
I felt quite put out that she didn’t know about my gayness. I would have hoped for “well, we all know about you”, with a snarling nod at my groin. But “I don’t need Channel 4” seemed like a bit of a confusing anti-climax. To be on the safe side, I carried on swearing at her.
And then she left.
> wait
I met her again, when I went back home for Christmas. And when she confronted me about the fact that she’d been barred from the pub, I faffed to get my voice recorder working – so we join the conversation half-way through.

Listen to her, listen to her voice… 300k. wma.

Having the voice recorder made me think we needed a punchline to the conversation, so that explains my final comment. Other than that…
“The others ain’t got the bottle to say it to his face”
Irene, you didn’t say it to his face. You waited until he went on holiday, then said it to me. I can’t think of anything less like saying it to his face, than saying it while he’s in another fucking country.
“I didn’t say nowt derogative I just said to him a certain thing, but he must have said sommat to his dad. So I’m barred.”
Why are you saying “him”, Irene? I’m here. You said it to me. I told my dad. I got you barred. Are you temporarily blaming this thing on a mystical third party, so you can bitch without causing direct friction with me? God, you’re good!
“Coloured Melvin”
I loved saying “Coloured Melvin” back to Irene, it felt so naughty in my mouth. Especially as there’s only one Melvin, coloured or otherwise, in the area.
So, it’s with this life-affirming exchange behind me, and a new love of saying “fuck” and “cunt” in the same sentence… I bring you the serialisation of YOUNG IRENE IN THE SPACE CORPS!


Irene : I want to be a space soldier. I want to fight the spider menace.
Officer : I’m sorry, our army is full at the moment. Could you come back tomorrow when a few have died?
Irene : Oh, aye. It’s not the only thing that’s full around here, is it?
Officer : Excuse me?
Irene : You know.
Officer : No, I don’t. It makes no sense. Even if something to do with me was full – and I presume you mean my testicles, because you looked at them when you said it – I still don’t know what you’re trying to say.
Irene : Of course, it’s your poor wife I feel sorry for. She so wanted children.
[The Recruitment Officer moves into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, and tries to remember if he’s cheating on his wife or is gay]
Irene : Well, it’s just so fucking childish. I didn’t even say nothing.
Phyllis : So fucking childish.
Irene : I didn’t say nothing. And it’s only because I said it to his face. People don’t like honesty, our Phyllis.
Phyllis : Well, if they can’t see as what’s under their noses, that’s their lookout.
Irene : Never a truer word, Phyllis. Of course you know the spider queen’s carrying his seed.
Phyllis : [tuts] It’s the fate of the human race I feel sorry for.
Irene : Nice place, this.
Queen : RARCK
Irene : Of course it was nicer before. Doesn’t feel like a home anymore, does it?
Irene : You know.
Irene : At the end of the day, you’re the Queen, you’ve got to expect people to talk. But you should just let it wash over your head, like a duck. But Melvin the Many-Coloured saw you coming out of the hospital. And the wig’s not fooling anyone.
Irene : Of course, it’s the billions of eggs in your sac I feel sorry for. They shouldn’t have to lose a mother so young.
[The Queen scuttles off to make a Quazlo and Xerxes sandwich. Some time later she returns. The two sit in silence for twenty minutes.]

25 thoughts on “Irene And The Space Corps : The Birth of a Legend”

  1. That is so funny.
    Coloured Melvin has such a fantastic mouthfeel that I’m sure that someone would have called him it even if he wasn’t recently tree descended. I used to work in a little ye Olde Cotswold Pube and still love some of the nicknames that were invented for the locals. We used to have Dave the Jag, named thusly because he had an ancient clapped out Jaguar ZX 48+ or something. Then there was Brian the Fish and Jean the Cheese who were a couple that used to sell Fish and Cheese on t’market respectively. Volvo Ray who used to run a Volvo dealership and was a fucking ridiculous letch who came onto my girlfriend whilst he was giving her a lift home after work one night. She keyed him in the face and ran for it, he also got his head panned in the day after by the landlord ‘Miserable Sean’ when he came in for his lunchtime pint. Sean was a failed priest. Then there was Carrot who was a stinking ginger tramp who used to drink halfs of cider all day, then try and start fights with everyone. Ahh, good times.

  2. I love her logic:
    ‘Well, other people said it before me. Coloured Melvin for instance. So that absolves me from the crime of upsetting you and and your family, doesn’t it?’
    Well, Irene. Log from the internet told me you are a fat cunt, and do you know what? I am inclined to agree with him. Of course, Internet Log said it before I did, I’m just repeating what he said, so I can skip happily down the street, safe in the knowledge that all crime is infinitely deferred into the past.
    Christ, what a bitch.

  3. According to the pub nomenclature used above, he should now be referred to as ‘Log the Internet’.
    I shall refer to him thusly from now on.
    What do you think of THAT, Log the Internet?

  4. Cheers Cheers Cheers. And do I spy the menu board that caused the whole etc etc discussion?
    Wow. You have an eagle-eye, squire. You win twenty pounds and a place in my Pooclear Bumker, should the worst happen.

  5. You are a wicked, wicked boy and I love it – my first hearty laugh of the New Year too. It’s been years since I was in England, but I remember the Irenes of the village I lived in – nice job of capturing her character in this piece.

  6. Love how the angled head in the second photo give rise to a visible swath of lady-mustache. Feasting your eyes on fugly old ladies with mustaches – the very definition of schadenfreude.

  7. “Well, at least I don’t need Channel 4”
    that has to be the comeback, by which all other comebacks are measured.
    that SO outclasses anything you could possibly dish back to her. she got you, boyo.

  8. please, please, please post irene’s gabbling on mp3.
    I NEED to sample it and i’m not techy enough to do that with an Wma.
    Pretty please?

  9. She doesn’t have a sanctimonious sister called Pat who works in Hammersmith, does she? If so, I work with her.
    I’d hate to think there were two sets of genes running amok through Britain dropping hateful lardcakes like her about the place.

  10. Right, I’m off to Nottingham with my wang and a camcorder. Couple of wangslaps to Irene’s head and a tape off to You’ve Been Framed and I reckon I could win 200 quid.

  11. Aaaaaah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
    Logic vs. Inbreeding. Amazing, amazing audio clip.
    What I love about this blog is just at the point where you wish there was an audio clip of the conversation… there it is.
    And here’s hoping she does well in the Space Corps.


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