'Er 'Oo Sleeps With The Fishes

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

Chloe 'cock-lover' Coyne sleeps with the fishes,
or that's the rumour, you say.
I don't know, mate, she ain't my problem any more,
so no comment, I'm saying nowt.
If she's that way inclined that's up to 'er, ain't it?
I know nothing, copper, d'you hear me? Nothing.
The whereabouts of Chloe and 'er recent iniquities
(as opposed to the ones I was the butt of)
don't interest me, in the slightest any more,
'er comings and goings and tawdry dalliances
have been none of my business for a bloody long time now.

In the meantime I've slowly managed to purge myself
of my former common law spouse's poison.
I've started afresh, I've found greener pastures,
I'm a happily married man with a mortgage round me neck
and a couple of growing nippers to fret about.
My missus is better than 'er by far,
I'll tell you that for nowt;
there's more goodness in my wife's little finger
than there is in the cock lover's entire slutty carcass.
Got it? Comprende? Hmmm?

I ain't sayin' I haven't seen 'er, mind,
but I ain't laid my peepers on 'er for a while,
which is good news as far as I'm concerned.
Once upon a time she was drop dead gorgeous, mate,
but nowadays she's a sight for sore eyes.
Remember, seeing and touching are two different things.
I can't avoid seeing 'er now and then, can I,
'cos she only lives round the corner -
or 'lived,' if the rumours are true.

Sometimes we stop for a natter, I admit that,
but not if I see 'er before she sees me, if you get my drift.
You might think that's strange,
seeing as we were like two peas in a pod a while back,
but it's just being sensible in my book.
That's life, mate.....
Chloe's a bad 'un - I found that out the hard way,
so she's best avoided.
Look, you can dig my garden up if you like,
it could do with a makeover,
but you'd be wasting your sodding time.

What exactly are you getting at, anyway, copper?
I don't give a monkeys if Chloe does sleep with the fishes, OK?
She never took much notice of my goldfish when we were an item,
so I don't know where you get that idea from.
But that was ages ago, and 'oo knows what rings 'er bell now?
Look, I said I don't care what she gets up to.
Which part of that don't you understand?
Turbot, halibut, skates and rays -
they can all go through 'er, I don't give a toss.
Now I come to think of it
the bitch had a couple of Rays when she was supposedly mine,
but I don't want to dwell on that now, thanks very much,
'cos even after all these years it cuts too deep.

Yeah, seriously, that's the way I feel.
Callous? Me? The same to you with bells on, mate.

What? When you said “what do you know about the possibility
that Chloe sleeps with the fishes” you didn't mean it literally?
What the fuck did you mean, then?
Look, don't call me stupid, pal. Copper or no copper,
I'll knock your teeth down your throat if you say that again.
Right, I'm chilling. Message received.
And yeah, I'm listening as well.

Aah, I see. I think so, anyway.
Lemme get this straight –
we don't want no more misunderstandings, do we?
When you say that somebody sleeps with the fishes
it means, basically, that the said someone
has been slaughtered by a person or persons unknown
(at this stage in the investigation)
and their body has been dumped in a convenient stretch of open water,
eg a lake, a river, a canal or, especially, the sea.

What you looking at me like that for -
are you dippy, plod?
Look, if I'd killed Chloe, why the heck would I cart 'er worthless carcass
two, three hundred odd miles to dump it in the pissing sea?
The fat bitch weighs a ton - think of the petrol!
That, as Mr. Spock would say if he was here, is bleeding illogical,
and I might be a lot of things, but illogical ain't one of them.

If I'd killed Chloe, the one time apple of my eye,
('til she did the dirty on me, that is, more times that I could sodding well count),
I'd have a number of options.
We hardly miss an episode of Crime Scene Investigation in this house, mate -
I prefer the New York version, and frankly I think CSI Miami is crap -
so I know all about the numerous ways and means
of tackling the issue of body disposal.

If I had killed 'er, which I honestly ain't,
maybe I'd chop 'er up and dump each manageable portion
in a wheelie bin a bloody long way from home
to avoid suspicion and all that. And, it goes without saying,
I'd do the dastardly deed on a rubbish collection day
so that the parcels of trash on my hands would be whisked away
to some thrumming landfill site quicker than you could say
'The Milliband brothers are a pair of grinning turds.'
Then, I suppose, I'd obsessively wash my hands
like Pontius frigging Pilate.

More than likely you'd never find 'er if I did that,
but perhaps, I'd bury 'er in the woods instead.
Cannock Chase is just down the road, officer.
Twenty six square miles of heathland and woodland.
Lovely.....
In my humble opinion the pine plantations are a particularly good place
to conceal the corpse of a dirty old slag -
or any other corpse, come to think of it.
You'd never find 'er there in a month of Sundays.