Jimbob and Manny
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: When the bullshit becomes too much to take, the answer is simple.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: When the bullshit becomes too much to take, the answer is simple.
Manny had been a bullshitter for longer than I knew the term to exist. Manny knew everything and was never wrong – according to Manny, that was. I read a newspaper article to him once about a woman with different coloured eyes and he came right back at me with the for certain fact that his much older sister had been the same and had to join a convent because of it. Like the fool I was, I questioned his outrageous statement and he insisted I should let him finish. Turned out his sister also had one ear facing the wrong way and becoming a nun would mean that she could keep it covered up at all times. She had to change religion to become a nun, too. Oh! And she had to wear contacts because her glasses wouldn't sit right. He was almost convincing.
We, a few of us, put up with Manny for years, kept him around for humour more than anything else but he never ever seemed to notice we were taking the piss out of him. Instead, he'd come out with some bizarre story or other and have us crying with laughter. We all marvelled at how Shazza, Manny's long term girlfriend, managed to put up with him twenty-four seven and had to accept her reasoning that his heart was in the right place. Still and all, we tried our level best to out-bullshit Manny over the years and no matter what we said or did Manny could always go one better. If I, for example, claimed to have done something outlandish, Manny countered with the fact that he had done it twice, and twice as well; very often offering to prove it. It was getting to the point of frustration until I came across the answer.
My uncle Fraze got his head kicked in. He'd had a few pints, used what coin he had left at chucking out time to buy ten Woodbine, a fish supper and a bottle of Irn Bru. Two guys took the lot from him and kicked him up and down Kyleshill when he resisted. They were never caught and Fraze was never the same, suddenly afraid of his own shadow; sad to see when he'd been the life and soul of family get-togethers and such. Among other things, Fraze would produce a bottle of fortified wine on a freezing cold Saturday afternoon as we watched Saltcoats Victoria kick lumps out of whichever Junior League side was set against them. Fraze would send me from the stands at half-time to follow the tarpaulin muster and collect whatever coins missed the sheet, and to hand half of it back in since it was for a good cause.
Anyway, Fraze ended up in a nursing home because he stopped looking after himself and the whole family took turns to visit him, myself more than most. He settled into it quickly enough despite a lot of the spark leaving him, happy to have someone fetch his morning paper, bring him regular meals and run his bath to just the right temperature for him to step in comfortably. One or other of the staff would also place his bets at the bookie's and pick up any winnings.
Jimbob Tanner was admitted to the nursing home some years later. He became Fraze's mate in that place and very often I would interrupt a card game or a game of chess when visiting and they would resume whenever I left. One day Jimbob was at the hospital for a minor op and Fraze let me know he was a complete pain in the arse, a bullshitter of the highest order. He had that look of old in his eye when he told me he was going to fix Jimbob for good and that I should prepare myself to witness it on my next visit. I didn't give it much more thought.
I turned up a couple of days later. Jimbob made to excuse himself but Fraze asked him to stay. There was a roll of kitchen paper on the table and I thought maybe there had been a spill and someone had neglected to take it away; but that wasn't the case. Throwing me a sly wink, Fraze picked up the kitchen roll and ripped off sheet by sheet until he had two piles of six. Turning to Jimbob he told him there was indeed something he could do that Jimbob couldn't. He slid six sheets over in front of Jimbob, placed the other six in front of himself, told Jimbob there was a knack to tearing the sheets in half and that he would be unable to master it. By way of demonstration he picked up one sheet, gripped it centrally between forefingers and thumbs and in a flash ripped it evenly down the middle. Somewhat bemused, Jimbob mimicked what Fraze had done but the sheet tore at an odd angle, all skew-whiff. This happened six times in quick succession, by the end of which Jimbob stormed off to his room.
Fraze showed me how it was done and I knew in an instant I would be able to hoodwink Manny in the same manner.
The opportunity didn't arise until almost a fortnight later, or perhaps I saved it for then. Cup final day meant the great unwashed gathered, this time at Manny's house because he had the new, big screen plasma telly. It was an annual gathering where the men, wives, girlfriends and kids fetched up three hours before kick-off to eat, drink and play daft parlour games.
I quietly put the word out that I could do something Manny couldn't and it didn't take long to reach his ears, so much so that he was eager for me to demonstrate.
Since Tabby was already seated at the table I decided I could use her as a foil. Tabby is four years old, has a head full of wavy red curls, a face full of freckles and is the daughter of my best mate. She's also a wonderful mimic, which is why I was happy to include her.
I took the kitchen roll and stripped off eighteen sheets, setting them in three tidy piles of six. I slid one pile in front of Tabby, one in front of myself and the other in front of Manny, disguising the fact that I had turned it by forty five degrees. I demonstrated, holding my first sheet between forefingers and thumbs and ripping it clean in half with a flourish. Manny tried next and made a complete hash of it, the shocked look on his face a pure delight for all gathered. Tabby was up next and she ripped hers in half with as much ease as I had. Five more goes each and Manny couldn't believe what was happening, nor could anyone else. In the end he had to concede that a four year old child had proved to be more capable than he was.
Try it for yourself. Kitchen roll will tear in an almost straight line from serrated edge to serrated edge, but not the other way if rotated by forty five degrees.
Manny sussed it some three days later, or perhaps Tabby gave the game away. Either way, he bided his time and called me up at three thirty in the morning just to tell me.
We, a few of us, put up with Manny for years, kept him around for humour more than anything else but he never ever seemed to notice we were taking the piss out of him. Instead, he'd come out with some bizarre story or other and have us crying with laughter. We all marvelled at how Shazza, Manny's long term girlfriend, managed to put up with him twenty-four seven and had to accept her reasoning that his heart was in the right place. Still and all, we tried our level best to out-bullshit Manny over the years and no matter what we said or did Manny could always go one better. If I, for example, claimed to have done something outlandish, Manny countered with the fact that he had done it twice, and twice as well; very often offering to prove it. It was getting to the point of frustration until I came across the answer.
My uncle Fraze got his head kicked in. He'd had a few pints, used what coin he had left at chucking out time to buy ten Woodbine, a fish supper and a bottle of Irn Bru. Two guys took the lot from him and kicked him up and down Kyleshill when he resisted. They were never caught and Fraze was never the same, suddenly afraid of his own shadow; sad to see when he'd been the life and soul of family get-togethers and such. Among other things, Fraze would produce a bottle of fortified wine on a freezing cold Saturday afternoon as we watched Saltcoats Victoria kick lumps out of whichever Junior League side was set against them. Fraze would send me from the stands at half-time to follow the tarpaulin muster and collect whatever coins missed the sheet, and to hand half of it back in since it was for a good cause.
Anyway, Fraze ended up in a nursing home because he stopped looking after himself and the whole family took turns to visit him, myself more than most. He settled into it quickly enough despite a lot of the spark leaving him, happy to have someone fetch his morning paper, bring him regular meals and run his bath to just the right temperature for him to step in comfortably. One or other of the staff would also place his bets at the bookie's and pick up any winnings.
Jimbob Tanner was admitted to the nursing home some years later. He became Fraze's mate in that place and very often I would interrupt a card game or a game of chess when visiting and they would resume whenever I left. One day Jimbob was at the hospital for a minor op and Fraze let me know he was a complete pain in the arse, a bullshitter of the highest order. He had that look of old in his eye when he told me he was going to fix Jimbob for good and that I should prepare myself to witness it on my next visit. I didn't give it much more thought.
I turned up a couple of days later. Jimbob made to excuse himself but Fraze asked him to stay. There was a roll of kitchen paper on the table and I thought maybe there had been a spill and someone had neglected to take it away; but that wasn't the case. Throwing me a sly wink, Fraze picked up the kitchen roll and ripped off sheet by sheet until he had two piles of six. Turning to Jimbob he told him there was indeed something he could do that Jimbob couldn't. He slid six sheets over in front of Jimbob, placed the other six in front of himself, told Jimbob there was a knack to tearing the sheets in half and that he would be unable to master it. By way of demonstration he picked up one sheet, gripped it centrally between forefingers and thumbs and in a flash ripped it evenly down the middle. Somewhat bemused, Jimbob mimicked what Fraze had done but the sheet tore at an odd angle, all skew-whiff. This happened six times in quick succession, by the end of which Jimbob stormed off to his room.
Fraze showed me how it was done and I knew in an instant I would be able to hoodwink Manny in the same manner.
The opportunity didn't arise until almost a fortnight later, or perhaps I saved it for then. Cup final day meant the great unwashed gathered, this time at Manny's house because he had the new, big screen plasma telly. It was an annual gathering where the men, wives, girlfriends and kids fetched up three hours before kick-off to eat, drink and play daft parlour games.
I quietly put the word out that I could do something Manny couldn't and it didn't take long to reach his ears, so much so that he was eager for me to demonstrate.
Since Tabby was already seated at the table I decided I could use her as a foil. Tabby is four years old, has a head full of wavy red curls, a face full of freckles and is the daughter of my best mate. She's also a wonderful mimic, which is why I was happy to include her.
I took the kitchen roll and stripped off eighteen sheets, setting them in three tidy piles of six. I slid one pile in front of Tabby, one in front of myself and the other in front of Manny, disguising the fact that I had turned it by forty five degrees. I demonstrated, holding my first sheet between forefingers and thumbs and ripping it clean in half with a flourish. Manny tried next and made a complete hash of it, the shocked look on his face a pure delight for all gathered. Tabby was up next and she ripped hers in half with as much ease as I had. Five more goes each and Manny couldn't believe what was happening, nor could anyone else. In the end he had to concede that a four year old child had proved to be more capable than he was.
Try it for yourself. Kitchen roll will tear in an almost straight line from serrated edge to serrated edge, but not the other way if rotated by forty five degrees.
Manny sussed it some three days later, or perhaps Tabby gave the game away. Either way, he bided his time and called me up at three thirty in the morning just to tell me.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.