THE BAKER
by Katy Coxall Edited 17th May 2007 First performed 2001
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Back Story: Fred the Baker is helping his girlfriend pack to move in with him. Their anti-social behaviour has ensured that most of their current neighbours are severely glad the pair are leaving. Have you new neighbours moving in soon? Please write to ComedyMoment with any neighbourly observations.
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FRED THE BAKER: “Wallop! I fell for her round at the club one night. She came third in the karaoke, danced a Cha Cha Char and went on to win the yard of ale competition. Glugged two and a half pints - sub eleven seconds. Class!
Sexy! Strong voice. Came from yelling at her kids. Gets them out of her house so we can do the business. I can go like a train! Choo choo, mmm, chew.
She sung In the Jungle. [SUGGESTIVELY MIMICING HIS GIRLFRIEND’S VOICE] “It were done by Tight Fit”, [SLOBBERING] mmmm sexy. . . were the first words she ever spoke to me.
I love to hear her talk dirty. Admit it, real men do. Half way through the song she fell into the band and I copped a load of her knickers. Encased her buttocks like a pork pie crust does its jelly.
She didn’t beat about the bush. Her table-danced me . . . Burt and Ernie. I tease Burt ‘n’ Ernie about it still. “Lads” I say “you got a Cha each but it was me, Fred the Baker, got the Chaarrr”. I could see right down her dress to the top of her belly. “Mmmm the lady’s sexy” I thought.
Told her she had special buns. Real sexy special big buns. Baked to perfection, mindful of their doughiness. I’m always saying things like that to women. They love it. “The woman protesteth too much” I say if they complain. “Son” my father said to me “they might look uncomfortable, a tad angry even, but they love it”, that’s what my Dad told me. [TALKING TO A SELECTED AUDIENCE MEMBER] You see mate, all women want my jam in their tart. I’m one of those lucky men.
[TAKES A PICTURE FROM HIS WALLET] Since I’ve been with her my life’s changed. I’ve got purpose. I do it for my girl. My bakery and adjoining shop are dedicated to her. I fill cream buns all day - thinking about her. Wanting her. Desperate for it. [TO A WOMAN IN THE AUDIENCE] Every sausage needs its roll, my lovely.
She knows how to keep a real man happy. Sends me off to work with a smile on my face. I do two hundred doughnuts – ram the jam as we say – in an hour. Yesterday, I felt so good, I filled five hundred, fried them, rolled them in sugar, hand packed them into sixes, an’ all, before 7:30. Had time to flay me coconuts ready for me specialty snowballs production line, before me dump. If you only knew what went in to them little beauties. It’s like selling part of me. Mmm Sexy.
She says to me “be home at twelve lover boy, I’ve got something special for you” and I’m there!
She’s upstairs waiting for me. Turf her kids out. There’s always some soppy git who’ll keep an eye on the little bastards for ten minutes. I’m on the job. Back at the bakery by twenty past. Spooning me porkpies. Mmmm sexy. Inserting liquid jelly through a funnel wedged into the pies’ raw crust holes. Each pie a jelly virgin. Mmm sexy. Massaging the pies’ sides; making sure they take their load. Doing pork pies reminds me of her. Sexy.
Of a morning, if I’ve finished “doing her” as I call it, by 5.30, I’ve got the deep fat fryer heated and I’m ready to plunge in me rings before six. I think about her as I knead me dough. She’s got lovely flabby buttocks. Just the way I like them. Sexy.
She’s got her ways mind – it’s not all plain sailing. Going onto me about the toilet seat. I always leave it up. I’m always in a hurry. She goes on about me splashing too. “Quit moaning woman, it’s just a dab of piss” I say, “I’ll replace your fluffy pedestal mat”. Bakers start early. It’s up, piss and off to the bakery. I’m sure the fact that the locals cop the waft of my baking buns of a morning keeps sales up. I laugh. The smell of my baking products work to mask the smell of me 7.30 dump. Still, even that doesn’t take so long since I met her. No need to take page three or Big and Bouncy to the crapper with me anymore. Of course when you’ve run out of bog roll it’s a nuisance . . .
Dough is sensuous stuff. A baker without a sex life is going to use it, you mark my words. Dough’s the next best thing. Sexy. Lumps of kneaded dough.
When she moves in she’ll start working at me bakery: serving. I want her to wear low cut tops and lean over me pastries. It’ll get the customers in. ‘Get them in lad” my Dad taught me. She’s introducing new lines. Dairy. Taste her homemade yogurt. Mmm sexy.
We ended up screwing behind the refrigerated, glass fronted display counter when I first showed her my shop. On our second date we did it on the preparation table in the back. Next morning, young Gilbert, my apprentice, thought the imprints of her buttocks on the floured surface, where we bang the shortbread, were like crop circles, “made by space-crafts from a miniature universe”. I reckon he’s a puff. I told him to “Shut it. Sprinkle some fresh flour over, and get on with the biscuit cutting”. Stupid little puff –pastry bastard wouldn’t shut up about it. In the end I had to tell him that last night I came in to stuff sausage. I said “pretty soon Gilbert you’ll be able to stuff sausage into your own puddings”. He hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. Silly boy. He’ll never be a real man nor a proper baker.
As usual, last Sunday, I came over here. I sunbathed on my lady’s front lawn. The neighbours get an excellent view: all the front gardens are open-plan. I’m like a pie ready to be taken out of the oven. The oven of their lust. Like I say, all women want me. I admit to a couple of grey hairs, but I use that comb in stuff to keep it all black and maintain my sexy tan. An hour a day on the sun bed after work. Saves having a shower. I wear a g-string to sunbathe. A man’s buttocks should be tanned. My buttocks are firm. I’m not ashamed to show them. I’m sexy. Mmm.
Mrs. Jarvis, the one who likes to garden, came out to complain first. She said she objected to my display, she was sick of starring up my bum, and could I go into the back garden where nobody else could see me. “Not very ladylike” I told her, as I rubbed some sensual oil over my basting bum. I asked her if she’d like to rub it in for me. She can’t take a joke. Then, of course, the toffy nosed one from number thirteen put her penny’s worth in. “There was no need to act like that, I shouldn’t threaten pensioners, please stop exposing yourself, it’s obscene – if I didn’t behave reasonably she’d call the police”
She fancied me. Wouldn’t say no to a slice. That’s how women react. “Do you want a closer look darling?” I stood up and started walking towards her rubbing my hands over my body. Sexy. I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t anywhere near her. But my girl got the wrong idea. She flung the front bedroom window open and screamed “Get your f’in hands off my man!” She’d been celebrating her kids moving out, drunk a bottle of gin and ate a plate of my fondant fancies, slightly past their sell by. She went to shout something else but gagged and brought up the whole lot. Vomited onto the front lawn from the bedroom window. The smell got rid of the interfering neighbours. It was the hottest day of the year but I had to shut the bedroom window the stench was so bad.
Nothing keeps a good boy down! I finished my “visit” despite her being unconscious, twice, and got in the van ready to go home just after midnight. It was quiet in the drive, I was peckish and nibbling on a cream horn from the glove compartment; always keep a few spares. Then I remembered the weed killer in the back of the van. All the lights in the drive were off as I crept up the path with the poison. Poured it all over Mrs. Jarvis’s lawn and hanging baskets. Left the can emptying into her window box. It was a joke. She deserved it.
It’s difficult to say what happened after I left. My girl came round and I was gone. She must have started drinking again. She was upset, thought I’d called our engagement off. Then she must have gone into the front gardens to let them have a piece of her mind. Give them a few home truths at half past four in the morning. You’ve got to admire her spirit. She was arrested for criminal damage, drunk and disorderly. Flatly refused to clean her sick up. It wern hers, she maintained. “That’s my girl”. They weren’t able to charge her with anything; it’s not an offence to be sick in your own front garden. Stands to reason.
I’ve never told her it was me with the weed killer. The police have dropped that charge. Well, it was only a joke. She’s moving in with me tonight anyway. [PICKS UP A BOX, EXITS] They’re a better class of person where I live”.
This page was last modified on Saturday, February 13, 2010 10:31:22 PM