Plonk

Originally Published by Little Old Lady Comedy (2026)

Somewhere in Kent. Sometime in the afternoon. A public house.

‘I suppose we should get ourselves a drink then?’ offered Marco.

Everybody called him Marco, although his real name was Philip Graff Von Höhenkirchen-FritzensiegertsBrunnung. This aforementioned gentleman, whom we shall refer to as Marco, had, once upon a time, been one of Sidcup’s finest Polo players. Although not confirmed, it was generally assumed his nickname had come about due to his expertise in the equestrian pastime. That was before a horrific freak accident involving a mayonnaise lorry and a truck full of rabid slugs.

The surgery that had saved Philip Graff Von Höhenkirchen-FritzensiegertsBrunnung, aka Marco, was a wildly experimental endeavor, and the first of its kind in the small forty-five million person village. Although only a minor operation involving a minute incision into the patient’s earlobe, due to a slight mix up on the administration front, a particularly lethargic receptionist and a somewhat over-zealous surgeon, the poor multi-named unfortunate was left with a scarcity of any of his four key extremities. Born a chinless wonder, he added an absence of arms and legs to the wonderment.

‘I’d say we should, yes,’ answered Polo. Polo was Marco’s best friend. Polo still had all of his limbs. Polo’s real name was Keith. As far as anyone was aware, Polo had never played Polo. In fact, nobody had ever seen him atop so much as a Shetland guinea fowl. Hence, discovering the etymological genesis of his nickname was even more of a conundrum. It is possible he had chosen it himself, so that he would be matching with his best, and only friend, but nobody had ever shown enough interest in the name-nicking business to enquire as to where his sobriquet came from.

‘What are we having then, a little tipple?’ asked Marco, whose father, incidentally, was the Eighth Duke of Earlsford.

‘Yes I should think so,’ replied Polo, who, coincidentally, had an uncle who was the Eighth Earl of Dukesford.

‘Splendid, a little tipple. Wine?’ Enquired the prospective Eighth Duke of Earlsford.

‘Wine,’ agreed the potential Eight Earl of Dukesford.

‘Nothing excessive, work in the morning and what not,’ said Marco. Marco worked a gruelling sixty-seven minutes a week as a stamp collector in the local abattoir, and needed to be up early for his morning ablutions. Stamp collecting was a difficult business at the best of times, especially when one worked without any arms.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ agreed Polo, who worked eighty-six hours a day at the local mine, sorting out left and right chop sticks and making sure there were no double-lefts or double-rights. It was an especially hard job, as the natural light in the mine was limited. If he had been more contrarian he might have asked his foreman why he was forced to carry his chop sticks down into the mine each day to sort, rather than working up in the naked light of day. Polo had never thought to ask. He was not a man of contrarian tendencies.

‘Just a quick one.’

‘We mustn’t get too far gone.’

‘Too shedded? No, I quite agree.’

‘We shan’t get too sloshed.’

‘Too loaded? No, I won’t be getting tanked up tonight, I can tell you that.’

‘Tanked up? I should think not. I shall be the Montgomery to the Rommel of inebriation this evening.’

‘The Nelson to Villeneuve, as it were.’

‘The Rahul Mandal to Paul Hollywood.’

‘Any preference in our steadfast defence against intoxication?’

‘You mean which poison are we to engage in battle with? Swords or pistols?’

‘Quite.’

‘Shouldn’t think so. A Chateau Morpeth, or a Grand Cru Pigdon? or perhaps a Swaffham Pomme de Terre? But only if they have the right year, I won’t drink a Pomme past 1118.’

‘Of course.’

It was a rule they had both learned at an early age, from a wizened old bard with the unfortunate name of Cockin DeEar, who was something of a wine, and potato, expert. Cockin DeEar had taught them which drink they should drink, which fork to use for which dish, how to walk properly, and how to introduce a lady to company. Cockin DeEar was serving a life sentence for testing out his trusty pocket fog horn while reposing in the quiet carriage of the Kent - Bangladesh commuter locomotive. Cockin DeEar’s rules vis-a-vis wine were peculiar, but the pair, knowing no other system, stuck to them with an oblivious and dogmatic confidence.

‘But let’s not be picky, we’ll get any old thing as long as it’s red and alcoholic and covered in honey and poured from the mouth of a taxidermied badger, eh?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gentlemen,’ enquired the stoic bartender who had, until then, been waiting with bated breath. He had in fact gone quite purple in the face from this attempt at stoicness. He took his stoic duties with the seriousness of a Disney lemming heading for the cliff.

‘Hullo, old fellow.’ A greeting.

‘Wine.’ A command.

‘Wine.’ An agreement.

‘Wine?’ A question.

‘Wine.’ An answer.

‘Any old bit of plonk will do,’ said Marco.

‘Just a bit of plonk, old chap,’ agreed Polo.

‘Plonk, is it?’ queried the bartender.

‘Plonk,’ said the Eighth Duke of Earlsford.

‘Plonk,’ agreed the Eighth Earl of Dukesford.

‘Plonk?’ proposed the bartender, holding up a potential victim, a glass bottle, just under a litre, of said plonk.

‘Plonk,’ nodded the protagonist.

‘Plonk,’ agreed the deuteragonist.

‘Plonk,’ repeated the tritagonist.

‘Plonk,’ said Marco, sampling the libation.

‘Plonk,’ agreed Polo, similarly sipping his sample.

‘Plonk!’ ejaculated the bartender, who, for reasons unknown, had also poured himself a glass and was now guzzling the plonk like a goat at the Great Lake of Mustard, if that goat happened to be particularly partial to mustard, and had somehow found the up-until-that-moment undiscovered Great Lake of Mustard.

‘Plonk?’ Said Marco, seemingly unable to say or even think of anything but plonk.

‘Plonk!’ Polo either confirmed or denied, so plonkety plonked he had turned into a large glass of plonk himself.

‘Plank?’ Said the barman, ever missing the point. He had morphed into a 2X4.

‘Plonk?’ queried the Duke of Earlsplonk.

‘Plonk?’ exasperated the Earl of Plonkplonk.

‘Plonk?!’ begged the Plonk of Plonkplonk.

Plonk.

Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.

Plonk

Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.Plonk. Plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk plonk.

PLONKY PLONKETY PLONK PLONK PLONK.

PLONK.

JUST A BIT OF PLONK MATE.

‘Oh, just a bit of the ole plonk, is it?’

‘Yes, I thought so, a bit of plonky plonky plonk plonk plonk.’

‘Plonk! Well, why didn’t you say so? Plonk it is.’

‘Plonk.’

‘Plonkety plonk plonk.’

‘Plonk.’

Plonk

Benedict Pignatelli

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