Plonk

A version of this story was 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 had, once upon a time, been one of Sidcup’s most-renowned polo players, a veritable celebrity in the small forty-five million person village. However, due to a slight operational mix-up during a routine dentist appointment, a particularly lethargic receptionist and a somewhat over-zealous surgeon, the ex-super athlete no longer had any of his limbs, and as such his polo-playing days were, largely, a thing of the past.

‘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. Hence, discovering the etymological genesis of his nickname was somewhat of a conundrum. It is possible he had chosen it himself, so that he would be matching with his best, and only friend. In truth, 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 Eighth 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. Polo - Keith - had won employee of the month ninety-seven months in a row.

‘Just a quick one.’

‘We mustn’t get too far gone.’

‘What, shedded? No, I quite agree.’

‘We shan’t get too sloshed.’

‘No, I’ve no inclination to get rat-arsed today.’

‘I won’t be getting tanked up tonight, I can tell you that.’

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

‘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. BC.’

‘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, not to mention root vegetable, 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 service. 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 plonk 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 perseverance 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 Dukesplonk.

‘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 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.’

https://www.littleoldladycomedy.com/all-works/sn2i5ytffol3nklekiby5ckesj5oh1

Plonk

Benedict Pignatelli

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